by C. N. Faust
“What happened between you two?” Ivan asked, leaning forward. “I thought I was doing myself a favor when I enlisted the aid of the two most powerful lovers in Dragoloth.”
“We weren’t lovers then,” Nicholas said, looking away. “We hadn’t been for a while.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Nicholas said, abruptly. “It just – stopped.”
Ivan let it drop. “How many men should we send? Twenty thousand?” a ridiculous number, he knew, but it made Nicholas smile.
“A little showy,” he said. “Maybe ten thousand?”
“Gaudy,” Ivan replied. “And unrealistic.”
“Of all the provinces in Dragoloth, we had to pick this one.” Nicholas snorted.
“Smack in the middle of the empire,” Ivan observed.
“Like cutting a hole right out of the middle,” Nicholas nodded.
At that moment, the doors to the study opened. The servant stepped in, bowing deeply.
“My lord,” he said, addressing Nicholas. “Lord Orchiello has arrived.”
“Gods, has he really?” Nicholas made a face. He ignored the look Ivan shot him. “If you must – send him in.”
The servant bowed and backed out of the room. Minutes later, Remphan made his entrance, looking as bedraggled as a beggar. His clothes were wet and muddy. They clung to his frame in every place possible, dripping and heavy. His hair was plastered to his face and neck, and his pale skin was even paler. He looked indignant and annoyed. Ivan straightened in his chair on impulse.
“I feel,” Remphan said, “like a wet cat.”
“You resemble one. My gods, you look terrible. Come sit by the fire,” Nicholas gestured. “Is it raining?”
“It just started,” Remphan said, peeling off his coat. “And I had an unfortunate mishap with a snowdrift.”
“Very unfortunate,” Nicholas sniffed, unsympathetically. “Sit down. You haven’t missed much.”
“Where is Ezbon? I assumed he would be here,” Remphan ran his hand through his hair, flicking little droplets of water off the ends of his fingers.
“He isn’t,” Nicholas said coldly.
“How is Muriel?” Ivan asked, glossing over Nicholas’ unpleasant tone.
“Alive,” Remphan plopped down on a couch. “She wasn’t happy when I left. She told me I better have a damned good reason for leaving her ‘alone and defenseless’ with two children.”
“It is a good reason,” Ivan reassured him. “I – we – were wondering if you would be interested in a position from us.”
“I’m interested in any position you give me,” Remphan laced his fingers together and hook his hands over his knee. “Tell me more.”
“I contacted you about it, already,” Ivan said, ignoring Nicholas’ smirk. “We wish to appoint you as Lord of State.”
Remphan raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have to have a state, before you can do that?”
“We already consider ourselves to be a separate government,” Ivan said.
“I guess that is what’s gotten Sitharus’ dander up,” Remphan observed.
“We need someone to keep communication flowing between the three of us,” Ivan said. “And to make certain that-“
“Ezbon does as we need him to,” Nicholas interjected.
Remphan nodded, and scratched the area above his eye covering. “You want me to spy on Ezbon.”
“No-“ Ivan said at the same time as Nicholas said, “Yes,”.
“I don’t get much news on my side,” Remphan admitted. “And even I know that he had his second thoughts about this war in the beginning. You two,” he glanced particularly at Nicholas. “Don’t seem to like that idea. Afraid he’ll betray you?”
“We just want to make sure he is truly with us, and not Sitharus.” Ivan said.
“I get that. But why don’t you use your influence?” Remphan looked again at Nicholas. “You’re his lover.”
Nicholas’ knuckles turned white, he was gripping the arm of the chair so tightly.
“Former lovers,” Nicholas said, tightly. “We are no longer.”
Remphan paused. “I see,” he looked at Ivan. “Have you got a plan?”
“We think so,” Ivan leaned back, and placed his fingertips together. “This is what we have so far...”
Chapter Five
Elise stood outside Nicholas Ercole’s door. Her master was still engaged downstairs, deep in conversation. Tray balanced precariously on the palm of her left hand while she undid the latch with her right. The door opened, and she stepped in, glancing cautiously around the darkened room. As predicted, Arodi was curled up, miserably, on the baron’s bed. Elise shut the door quietly with her heel and set the tray down. Reaching into her bosom, she withdrew a little glass vial. The contents of the vial were dark, thick amber – like honey.
“Arodi?” she asked, uncorking the vial of deadly menyio poison.
“Elise?” his small, whispery voice replied.
“I brought you some brandywine,” she put a drop of poison into the wine. Not enough to kill him immediately, but slowly.
“I don’t want it,” he said, miserably. “I can’t drink it.”
“You need to,” Elise cooed. “Just take a little. It will make you feel all better.
Arodi sighed, and sat up. Elise brought the cup over to him, and smiled.
“I hate this,” Arodi said, taking a tiny sip. Elise ruffled his hair fondly.
“I know,” she said, conversationally. “But you will be better soon.”
“I hope so,” Arodi muttered, and coughed. Flecks of blood appeared on his lips, and Elise gently dabbed them away with the corner of her handkerchief.
“Nicholas takes good care of you,” she said.
“You take good care of me,” he sighed and fell into her lap, burying his face in her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Elise smiled again and kissed his hair. “You’re welcome, lamb. It wouldn’t do to have you die on us, now would it?”
* * *
Arceia looked up when Elise entered the room. Elise curtsied to her mistress, and then seated herself by the fire to pick up her sewing. There was a momentary pause as the servant rummaged through her basket, choosing a square of cloth. Then Arceia spoke.
“How is he?” she asked, referring to Arodi.
“Ill,” Elise’s needle poked through the square of ivory silk. She tugged on the taunt gold thread and then continued. “Poor baby.”
“Baby!” Arceia scoffed. “There isn’t a stroke of innocent about that vicious, evil-“
“Arodi has done nothing to you; there isn’t anything wrong with him.” Elise snapped, sparing Arceia a brief glance. “The only thing he ever did was get in between you and your husband.” Her eyes dropped back down to her sewing. “The poor fool is in love, do you think death will change that?” the thread snapped. She sighed in frustration and started over.
A hand lighted gently to her shoulder. Elise hesitated, and then pressed her own hand to it. She took Arceia’s hand by the wrist, dragging it over her shoulder and kisses the delicate white fingers.
“This has been hard on you,” Arceia said, caressing Elise’s shoulders, her neck. Elise closed her eyes.
“I like Arodi,” Elise said, tartly. “But I can manage.”
“Of course you can,” Arceia said. In a whisper of velvet skirts, she knelt before Elise. She placed cold fingers on the back of the maid’s neck and showered her slender throat with gentle kisses. “Of course.”
Elise made a noncommittal sound in her throat and tilted her head back.
“You do so many wonderful things for me,” Arceia’s breath was hot against satin skin. “I really ought to thank you properly.” She reached the swell of Elise’s bosom, her breasts like generous fruits being offered up to a goddess. Her nimble fingers worked with the laces of the bodice.
“Stop,” Elisa said, pressing her hands against Arceia’s shoulders and shoving her back. “Just stop.”
> “Why?” Arceia demanded. “You’ve always wanted it before.”
“What if we’re caught?” Elise demanded, forcing a change of subject.
“How?” Arceia snorted disdainfully. “Nicholas couldn’t figure it out. The only way he could find out would be if you told him. And you have no gain for doing that. He’ll kill you before you can even choke out a plea for mercy.”
Elise lifted dove gray orbs to glare at her mistress. Her gaze was as cold as steel.
“I wouldn’t underestimate me,” she hissed. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“Oh, for the love of Azrael!” Arceia cried in exasperation. She reached up and grabbed a lock of Elise’s copper hair, tugging on it angrily. “It’s this hair of yours! It heralds a spitfire temper. I wish I had seen that in the slave market before it was too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Elise’s gaze did not waver. “You can do to me as you please.”
Arceia was the first to look away. Her cheeks flushed angrily as she set back on her heels. Her velvet skirts were an elegant pool around here feet.
Elise picked the little square of embroidery up again. Arceia spoke not a word. When it was evident that her mistress intended to sulk, Elise relocated her needle, and began again.
Chapter Six
“Is there any word from Sitharus?”
Ivan glanced up, his egg paused halfway to his open mouth.
“No,” he said cautiously, lowering it back to his plate. “Should there be?”
Nicholas snorted in exasperation and yanked his chair away from the table.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, dropping down heavily. “I thought he would have responded by now. Just something – anything- to tell us that he acknowledges us as a real threat and that we’re not just chomping futilely at the bit.”
“He can’t help but acknowledge us,” Ivan reassured his friend, pushing a wooden bread plate his way. “I promise you.”
“Why aren’t you angry?” Nicholas demanded, snatching a hunk of bread. “You are the one who wanted this damned war to begin with! You should be furious.”
“I am,” Ivan said, placing his fingertips together and leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “But I know Sitharus.”
“So you claim, but I am beginning to doubt your judgment.” Nicholas plunged his bread straight down into the puddle of egg on his plate. “We have to make a move, and soon. Else Sitharus will continue to ignore us as if we were nothing!”
“And what do you propose?” Ivan’s thinly veiled impatience was evident. “Do you want to just charge in to a full-on attack against the king’s army? We’ve barely been at this a month, Nicholas! We hardly have enough fighting men to fill the barracks! Patience, will you? These things take time.”
“It’s a fine thing - you lecturing me on patience!” Nicholas laughed dryly. “You are the one who brought us in to this war, Ivan. You should have told me beforehand that you had no intention of seeing it through.”
Ivan stared at his friend through eyes that were still glazed over with remnants of sleep. Nicholas didn’t meet his gaze. He concentrated instead on his breakfast.
“Nicholas,” Ivan reached across the table, and touched the baron’s hand. Nicholas twitched but did not recoil.
“What?” the youngest baron did not look up.
“What is wrong with you?” Ivan gave him a quizzical look. “You’re not quite yourself today.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Nicholas waved his hand as if batting away troublesome flies. “I just haven’t slept much. Have you heard from Remphan, at least?”
“He sent word that he has arrived at Ezbon’s castle and plans to stay and see the draft through. Or at least until we tell him otherwise.” Ivan shook his head. “Either than that, nothing.”
“Well, at least it’s something.” Nicholas set down his partially eaten bread and rubbed his face with his hands. “I am telling you, Ivan, if this keeps up we are making the first move. And I don’t give a damn whether Sitharus likes it or not!”
Ivan nodded thoughtfully. “You are right in some respect, my dear. Something will have to be done. But not now,” he amended quickly. “We wait. See how the draft is received on Ezbon’s side. That will dictate our next move.”
Nicholas fell back into his chair and dug his fingers into his temples. He sighed dramatically.
“I hate waiting.”
Arodi was so cold. He sat in front of the fireplace on the fur rug, another fur blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and yet he still shivered. He wanted to get up and stir the coals, but he doubted he could move. Besides, he was shaking too badly to do much of anything. Every time he blinked it felt like sandpaper was scraping over his eyes. Bloody tears ran freely down his cheeks, staining his sickly pallor with brown trails. He was being worn down to nothing. He had always been a tiny creature, but now he ran serious risk of vanishing altogether.
There was a gentle knock on the door. Arodi looked up blearily, reaching up with one trembling hand to shove his greasy hair away from his eyes.
“Come in,” he rasped. His throat felt so raw.
Nicholas stepped in, still in his dressing gown. He stopped when he saw Arodi and stared as if it was worse than he supposed. Arodi dropped his gaze, ashamed, and struggled to stand. The baron was by his side before he could even move.
“No,” Nicholas said, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. “What the hells are you doing awake? You should be in bed.”
“I felt better,” Arodi lied pitifully, looking up at him. “I wanted to sit by the fire.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No, we can’t have you getting worse. You need all the rest you can get. Come on, back to bed.”
“N-No!” Arodi protested weakly. “There is so much to be done-“
“Let the others handle it. At least until you’re well.” Nicholas reached down and scooped up his lover in his arms before there could be anymore argument. Arodi squawked in surprise and clung to Nicholas, his tiny fingers clenching the front of the baron’s dressing gown. Nicholas crossed the room in a few short steps, marveling at how much weight Arodi had lost. He would be surprised if the boy topped even ninety pounds.
“I can do it,” Arodi muttered into the baron’s chest. His words were entirely lost in the velvet. Nicholas ignored them and set his lover down on the bed, pausing only to pull back the layers of coverlets.
“I’m sorry,” Arodi said quietly as Nicholas pulled the covers up to his chin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” A red tinged tear rolled down his cheek.
“Shh,” Nicholas leaned in and kissed Arodi’s burning forehead. “I know, my love. You didn’t mean to get sick. I know.”
“I will feel better soon,” Arodi said, holding out his hand. “I promise.” His words had faded to almost a whisper.
Nicholas fought to swallow past the lump in his throat. He reached out and took Arodi’s hand in his. His hand was big enough to swallow the servant boy’s. He pulled Arodi’s hand up and kissed his wrist, nuzzling the delicate skin.
“You are so precious to me,” Nicholas told him. “You know this.”
Arodi granted him a small smile.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know this.”
“I never want to lose you,” Nicholas leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. “Tell me I never will.”
Arodi reciprocated eagerly. His kisses were surprisingly strong and passionate – as if all of his will and his love for the baron was the only strength he had left.
“Never,” Arodi whispered against his master’s lips. “Never, ever.”
Nicholas smiled at him, forcing back tears of his own. He would not let his lover see him cry. Not when he was trying to give him hope.
“I have to get back to Ivan,” Nicholas said, pulling away gently. “I’ll send Elise in to-“
“No,” Arodi caught his hand in his own trembling fingers. “No, please. Not yet. Just … stay with me a while?�
��
Nicholas’ heart melted. He didn’t hesitate. Pulling back the covers just enough, he crawled into the bed and curled around Arodi. He wrapped his arms around the frail servant and pulled him close to his chest.
“There,” he said, kissing Arodi’s ear. “Now I will never let you go.”
Arodi sighed in contentment. He turned around to face the baron and buried his face in Nicholas’ chest, his arms wrapped tightly around the baron’s waist. Nicholas felt that knot form again, but he forced it down this time.
He would not lose his Arodi, he would not.
Days went by. Sitharus still did not send word.
Part IV
122 B.T.T.
Chapter One
It all happened in a matter of seconds.
Charon could have sworn he heard the voices. He could have sworn that Amnas himself leaned forward and whispered in his ear with that honey sweet voice, “Kill him”.
He could just picture Amnas in his head, those strange eyes boring straight through him. Was it possible that the mage was there in the room, watching him? The all-too vivid imagery was accompanied by the sickly smell of death, so rotting sweet and so very, very real. It galled him, and Charon choked.
That single sound was all the alert Ivan needed. He yanked the pearl-handled stiletto out from under his pillow. At the same time, Charon’s knife whistled through the air as it made its sure and swift descent. Ivan rolled towards his attacker and the knife buried itself inches away from him, hilt-deep in the mattress. Using his new position, Ivan punched Charon in the stomach, sending him reeling back. Ivan then lashed out with his stiletto. He was aiming for his attacker’s chest, but he missed his arm. The slender knife sliced through the air, just grazing Charon’s shoulder with the tearing of cloth.
Charon took another step back, clutching his shoulder as blood flowed through his white fingers. Ivan gathered himself up into a crouch and sprang off the bed, ramming into Charon’s chest and sending him sprawling. The boy went flying back, suspended in air alone for a few seconds. Then he hit the ground with an audible thud, landing on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him. When he found the strength to look up, Ivan was looming over him. The baron dropped to the ground, his knees pinning Charon’s shoulders to the floor. The thin blade of his stiletto was pressed to that white neck, against the thudding pulse.