by Megan Derr
Returning to her own bed roll, adding some wood to the fire, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking long pulls and breathing the smoke out slowly. The smell always made her think of Fidel, who rarely did not have a lit cigarette in his fingers. She had not been able to smoke them or stand the smell of them for a very long time.
But lately they kept her going, kept her motivated. Stupidly, they fed her hope that Fidel was alive. If he was not, she would kill them all in the most painful ways she knew.
Would his highness approve of killing for revenge? Probably. Their brief argument seemed to indicate that he approved of everything except killing for money.
Finishing her cigarette, she threw the stub in the fire and pulled her cloak up around her, settling in to sleep.
The sound of someone screaming jerked her awake some time later, and Cortez had her sword and dagger out before she realized that no one was attacking. Dropping her blades, she went around the fire and knelt to shake Culebra awake. He was sweating and trembling, choking back sobs as he jerked awake. "Are you all right, highness?"
"Fine," Culebra choked out. "I—I think recent events have brought back my nightmares. I am sorry to alarm you."
Cortez wondered what in the world gave a spoiled brat noble nightmares, especially someone as feared and nigh-on worshiped as the Basilisk Prince. "What nightmares?"
"What do you care?" Culebra asked.
A fair question, and Cortez was annoyed with herself for even asking. She didn't care—but Fidel had woken like that for many nights after having seen his parents brutally murdered.
Even in the dark, she could see Culebra was still tense, his hands shaking. Stifling a sigh, Cortez pulled out her cigarettes and lit one, pressed it into his hands. "Here, you look like you could stand to relax." She started to explain how to smoke, but to her astonishment he did it with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. "You smoke, highness?"
"Not—not for a long time and never that often. I had—had friends who liked to smoke and sometimes I smoked with them. But it's not something I can do alone, since I won't know until too late that a stray ember has caught something on fire and I would have no way to put it out."
Huh. Cortez had never thought of that. She wondered what else she had never thought of about being blind. Not that it mattered. Once she handed off Culebra and retrieved Fidel, her part in the matter was done. She would never see Culebra again.
If Fidel was dead ... well, no sense in worrying about that until she knew. Whatever the case, she did not care about a slip of a prince. It was the fate of royalty to be glorified pawns.
When Culebra finished the cigarette, Cortez took the stub from him and threw it in the fire. "Would you like some brandy, highness? I have a bit still."
"No, thank you," Culebra said. "You need not fuss over me, I'll be fine."
In Cortez's opinion, the phrase 'I'll be fine' was the most common lie in the world. She had never heard anyone mean it when they said it. "You should try to go back to sleep, though I know that is what people with nightmares like least to hear."
Culebra gave a dry laugh. "Indeed. I'm too awake to go back to sleep. But I promise I shall not run off if you want to get some more rest yourself."
"Somehow, I did not think you would," Cortez said dryly. "We are both awake, and to judge from the sky, sunrise is close. We may as well break camp and be on our way. I have some new clothes for you, highness, as well as some dye for your face and hair."
"The dyes won't hold," Culebra said. "Believe me, they have all been tried. Nobody would like for me to look normal more than my family. You will have to help me dress."
Cortez nodded and then rolled her eyes at herself. "Yes, highness. Remove your shoes and stand." He obeyed, and she went to fetch the bundle of clothes lying with her saddlebag.
The fancy clothes Culebra wore took some effort, but she finally got it all off and threw the clothes into the fire. Naked, he was even more beautiful, the black bandages around his eyes like some sort of brand or mark of evil. Cortez slowly, awkwardly, got him into new stocking and breeches, lacing up a black shirt and pulling on a cheap, black wool jacket with bone buttons. "There, highness. If not for your godly skin you would look like a merc who suffered an unfortunate accident in battle."
"Somehow, I don't think anyone would ever believe I'm a merc, skin or not," Culebra replied.
"Sit while I pack up camp," Cortez said, and she quickly set to work saddling her horse, packing the bags, and adjusting them slightly to settle the weight evenly before putting them in place. Next she took care of the fire, putting it out and burying it.
When all was done and no obvious signs of the camp remained, she took Culebra's hand and led him to the horse. "Do you ride, highness?"
"Only when I must and never alone," Culebra replied.
Cortez nodded—then sighed at herself in irritation. "Alright, come here and I'll help you mount. I'm sure I do not need to tell you not to try anything should we see others."
"I won't have to say anything," Culebra said. "I am, to the best of my knowledge, the only one who looks like me. If I did not have to cover my eyes, I might almost pass for a White Beast, but sadly my eyes must remain covered. If I can see even a little bit, then my gaze is strong enough to kill."
The words made Cortez shiver. She had always wondered why he did not simply wear a veil or some such so that he could see without being seen. "So even if I cannot see your eyes clearly, they can still kill me?"
"Yes," Culebra said. "If I can meet someone's gaze, even the slightest bit, then I can kill him. Experiments were done back in earlier centuries to test the limits of my eyes. Nothing can ease the power of my eyes, the same way no dye will take to my skin or hair. The priests and healers who recorded their tests theorized that it is because I am not a perfect incarnation—no human could be. Until I am a god again, whatever incarnation or century where that finally occurs, I am imperfect. So my skin and hair stay white and my eyes stay bound."
Somehow, that seemed unbearably sad to Cortez. It seemed unfair, like giving a man a broken sword and expecting him to fight with it against a world with good swords, bows and arrows, and armor.
"So my original point remains," Culebra said. "I won't need to cry out for help. Anyone who sees me will know me, and there is nothing I can do about that."
"The hood of your cloak and those gloves I gave you will take care of immediate problems; the weather is cool enough it will not be odd to see a slip of a lad like you bundled up against it. That aside, people know better than to anger me. If I tell them to back off, they will, and keep their mouths shut lest I hear about it."
Culebra said nothing, merely reached out cautiously to touch the horse. "Help me mount, then. The sooner you deliver me, the sooner I figure out who has me. You never did tell me about those three men you killed."
"They wanted to take you from me and learn more about the men who wanted me to kidnap you."
"Were they from the Order? The Brotherhood simply would have killed me, but the Order prefers to keep me alive. Makes me wonder all over again who is paying you to kidnap me."
Cortez sighed and got him into the saddle after some fumbling and grappling. She swung up behind him, and gave the campsite one last look over. Finally, she replied, "How do you know it's not the Order or the Brotherhood behind it?"
"Not their style," Culebra said. "The Roses are never shy about announcing themselves or their involvement. This is something different, which troubles me. Not that you care, because the price is worth it."
To that, Cortez could make no reply because it was very true. Culebra echoed her own concerns. So she said nothing and instead just wrapped one arm more firmly around Culebra's waist and signaled her horse to go, riding off into the Black Woods, bound for Belmonte.
Chapter Seven: Patience
There seemed to be seven men in total, which was a manageable number. Only three of them were mercenaries, or possibly ex-soldiers. Of the remaini
ng four, two were possibly priests, though he did not know if they were of the Brotherhood, the Order, or the government-sanctioned Church. The remaining two men were civilians, and he suspected they owned the house where Dario and Fidel were being held; whether they helped by choice or force, however, he could not determine. The mercs were too smart to let the civilians anywhere near the prisoners.
It was entirely possible there were more somewhere, but they weren't in the house. No doubt they would show when it was time to move again. They'd been in their current location, a dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, for three days. He was curious as to why they would stay so long in such an empty location, but asking anyone was obviously pointless, and he'd not been able to discern any clues.
But if he had to guess, their captors were waiting for something. Culebra? Possibly, though Dario did not think so. What little he had gleaned made him think they were meeting up with Culebra in Belmonte.
Dario sighed and flexed his fingers, tired of having one arm constantly attached to the wall and his feet chained together when they did not let him loose to piss. He had been tempted a time or two to use that as his chance to make a run for it, but he did not want to go anywhere until he saw Culebra. Fidel was not so patient, and his current battered state made Dario all the more grateful that patience was a lesson he had learned well.
A soldier walked in bearing two bowls of food, and he set one next to each of them. The man kicked him lightly in the thigh, clearly just hoping to provoke a reaction, and said, "Eat up. You'll be needing your strength soon."
"Oh? Why is that?" Dario asked.
"You'll find out, won't you?"
Dario rolled his eyes and picked up his food. Ignoring the harder kick that got him, he kept his head down and ate until the man finally left in a huff. Honestly, he'd been a royal bodyguard. They would have to try harder if they wanted to provoke a reaction.
He ate as quickly as having only one hand allowed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. Oh, what he would do for a bath, a shave, and clean clothes.
On the opposite side of the room, Fidel stirred and slowly sat up, grimacing in pain. His left eye was still swollen shut and he favored his right arm, fumbling awkwardly to pick up his bowl and eat. He'd barely spoken since his thwarted attempt at escape, though in his defense, his face had been too swollen for a couple of days for him to manage speaking.
Whatever their captors were about, they certainly meant business—though that had been obvious by the fact they were willing to accept the risks of kidnapping Culebra.
Had they succeeded? Was he going to see Culebra soon? Did he know yet that Dario had been kidnapped? Was that how they had managed the feat? He should have thought of that sooner, but he didn't think that was what they were doing. He still had the impression they were holding him to use for something else.
The thought of seeing Culebra again set his heart to pounding, and he was not certain if it was from excitement or dread. Likely both, because he hated Culebra for throwing him out, but by the gods he still loved Culebra with all his being.
What would Culebra say? What would he do? Would he care at all, or ignore him? Dario ached thinking about it, the way Culebra had said he should leave, the way he had refused to let Dario back into his rooms, the pain of losing Granito, the way that loss had cost him everything else in his life.
Had Culebra moved on? Did he love someone else? Had he obtained a new bodyguard? Just thinking about it made Dario want to punch the hypothetical bastard and throw him out and then take back the place that should have been his.
He hoped Culebra had sense enough to refuse to cooperate. But he feared Culebra would cooperate, just because he would not want Dario to come to harm. Dario dreaded finally learning what their captors were planning.
Fidel finished eating and dropped his bowl on the floor and then lay back down and closed his eyes. Dario asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Stupid and sore," Fidel replied.
"We'll stand a better chance of escape once we're in the mountains."
Fidel cracked one eye open, giving him a doubtful look. "The mountains? Do you really think that's what they're going to do?"
"I can't think why else they would drag all of us here to Belmonte—especially his highness. It cannot be coincidence that they are risking everything to bring the Basilisk Prince to the general vicinity of the Lost Temple, especially given that it was believed to be around this time of year that the Basilisk died."
"Killed himself," Fidel interjected.
"If that is what you want to believe," Dario said. "But I suggest you drop the matter because it will only make us enemies."
Fidel was silent a moment, and then said, "I did not picture you as siding with the Order. Then again, that makes sense since it's the Order that maintains he was murdered and his powers should be restored."
Dario shrugged his shoulders irritably. "I'm not siding with the Order. If you ask me, they're no better than the Brotherhood: both want power, just in different ways. I don't believe the Basilisk killed himself only because I know Culebra. He has been dangerously close to killing himself, but he's never done it. All he's ever wanted was a reason to live. If he is too strong to take his life, even at his lowest, I cannot believe he was anything but that strong in all his previous lives. Being the incarnation of Death makes him appreciate and long for life. That is what I believe."
"An interesting way to see it," Fidel said, "though I believe previous incarnations have taken their own lives. It's recorded in the history books."
"Having worked for royalty for most of my life, I can tell you that history books are as fictional as children's tales. If you honestly think that the Order and the Brotherhood only ever speak the truth, then you are remarkably naive for a criminal."
Fidel did not reply, and Dario stifled a sigh. He hated religion—it ruined everything. "So to judge by your beliefs, you are part of the Brotherhood. That means our kidnappers are not, though I hadn't thought so anyway. This is not how the Brotherhood of the Black Rose behaves."
"No, they're not Brothers," Fidel said. "But you're right in that I am—was, actually. I left the order shortly after Cortez."
That was interesting. "My impression of the Brotherhood was that they do not simply let people go."
"The circumstances were unique," Fidel said quietly, an unmistakable note of sadness in his voice. "Father Yago let her go, and when I could not live without her, he let me go as well. I'm sure he will call in the debt someday, but I'll pay any price if I can just get back to Cortez."
"That, I can understand," Dario said quietly.
Fidel shifted slightly to lie on his back, his tied arm stretched up and his injured arm cradled on his chest. "They are not of the Order either, I do not think. This is not how the Order behaves. They grabbed me at the border when I was returning from Verde after trying to find Cortez there. I thought they were Order at first, and I think they tried to pass for them, but they just do not do it well. I have no idea who they are; if they have a name, they've not mentioned it. I shudder to think what will happen if a new cult has formed. They've already managed to kidnap his highness, which is more than anyone has done in centuries."
Dario did not reply, lost in brooding. He wished, more than ever, that Granito was still alive. Thinking of his brother was still like thrusting a knife into his own chest. For as long as he could remember, they were all they had. Their father had been gone long before they were born, and their mother had died when Granito was fourteen, he twelve. They never should have been left alone, but they'd been self-sufficient long before that.
Their mother had kept them alive long enough for them to survive on their own, but barely. Once Granito was old enough to keep the household functioning, she had drowned herself in wine. Dario had resented her for it—until he found himself doing the same thing.
If that was the despair his mother had felt ... well, it was not enough to forgive her, because she'd had two sons who tri
ed so hard to love her, but he understood better.
No matter the years that passed, he still remembered the first time he'd kissed his older brother. Dario had been sixteen and furious when Granito returned home smelling as if he'd rolled in the hay with the village trollop.
Granito belonged to him, he remembered thinking that very clearly. He remembered feeling like his heart was going to pop. He remembered his hands trembling right before he balled them up and punched Granito in the face. He remembered the fight: every hit, kick, pull, tear, scratch, and bruise. And oh, how he remembered when he'd slammed Granito to the floor and kissed him. It had been a terrible kiss because he'd had no idea what he was doing and being angry and terrified hadn't helped.
But Granito had kissed him back, and after that the kisses—everything—had vastly improved.
Wrong or right, they'd never really been brothers. Family, yes. But the brotherly barrier that should have been there simply wasn't, and Dario hadn't been sorry. He knew better than to question when a good thing came along. It was the very same reason they'd had no hesitations about pursuing Culebra.
Gods, he wished he had Granito right then. He might have been the patient one, the ruthless one, but Granito had been the clever one. Better still, he wished Granito was with Culebra. But it had been Granito who had saved Culebra out at sea, Dario believed that with all his heart. He wished they'd both lived, but he was glad he had not lost them both—though, he sort of had, in the end.
"You look as though you swallowed sour wine," Fidel said.
"Huh? Oh," Dario said, and shrugged—or tried to, anyway. He could not wait until he was no longer tied up. Life was ever so much more pleasant when he was the one tying people up, whether to haul them off to the palace prison or to bind Culebra to his bed so he could be enjoyed at leisure.
