Bitter Moon Saga

by Amy Lane

  That bastard. That Goddess-forsaken-git-wanker-arse-buggering bastard. Aylan dragged a breath in through his chest, and it felt like dragging the inside of his bare skin over his own broken bones. Ah Goddess, how could Torrant do this to him?

  He was making little angry moaning sounds and rocking himself for comfort when Torrell let himself in through the window without ceremony. With a shuddering breath, Aylan was himself, and he willed Torrell to ignore him as he ran sweaty hands through his hair, trying not to shake.

  Torrell gave him a nod and looked away courteously, even as he made himself at home and squatted on Aylan’s food chest.

  “Bad night, brother?” Torrell asked as though he knew the answer.

  “It had its moments,” Aylan replied, swallowing hard.

  “I brought you something.” Torrell held out a wooden bowl filled with diced tomatoes, olive oil, and fresh bread.

  Aylan gave his best impression of a smile. “Thank you.”

  “It’s going to come at a hard price. The Alms were grateful that you brought their little girl back, but you left so early. They wanted to know if she said anything… if she suffered.”

  “She died coughing blood, Torrell. Of course she suffered,” Aylan answered shortly, shoving handfuls of breadcrumbs and tomatoes in his mouth for sustenance more than anything else.

  Torrell sighed. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything of comfort?”

  Just that quickly duty to his body was no longer a reason to eat. “He told her stories,” he said, wondering why he too, couldn’t just cough blood and die. It would be a hell of a lot less painful.

  “Triane’s Son?”

  “Torrant. You knew him as Torrant before you saw him change—”

  “But anyone who has ever seen your friend must know that he is not ordinary. Besides, given what you’ve told me about the new ‘Ellyot Moon,’ I’m thinking that it would be safer not to say that name too loud here.” Torrell’s eyes were a rich, deep brown, and Aylan met them, not realizing how his anger spit out of his own gaze.

  “And he needs me to remind him who he is. His name is Torrant, and he sang to that girl about his family, all of them, waiting to greet her when she played in the light of the stars.” That had hurt every bit as much as he thought it would, but not nearly as much as the thought of Torrant taking his wounds for him.

  Torrell grimaced and rubbed his eyes. “That is good. It’s good for the girl’s family; they will be comforted. But for your friend… it’s not such a good thing.”

  Aylan heard Torrant’s rough, growling voice speaking of his honored dead, and the anger flooded from him like an ebbing wave. “He wants to take away the pain, that’s all,” he said in complete understanding. He met Torrell’s eyes then, his own unspeakably sad. “He’s a healer. I think it’s just what he does.”

  Torrell nodded and took the bowl from Aylan’s nerveless fingers. “Lie down and sleep. I’m going to fix a covering for that window that will hinge up when you need to enter. I’ll have Arue bring a pallet in so she can sleep in the corner. She’ll help keep you safe.

  “Arue needs to be in her own home,” Aylan murmured dreamily. Aldam could send people into an instant sleep, he thought, and frowned at the bowl of tomatoes in Torrell’s hands, a sudden suspicion making him angry all over again.

  “I didn’t need to drug your food, Aylan.” Torrell laughed, reading his mind. “You’ve been up for two full days—sleep was bound to come pounding down your door. You make Arue feel safe. You always have. She’d be honored to do guard duty for you. Besides, you brought her new books.”

  With that last bit of information, Torrell disappeared through the window like a rabbit down a hole, leaving Aylan to flop over limply, asleep in his boots, breeches and all.

  YARRI LOOKED unhappily at Aylan, who could meet nobody’s eyes during this part of the song.

  Yarri knew her husband’s body. She had known it when they’d been children, swimming together in the summer or bathing in the big family tub in Moon Hold, when it had been flawless and perfect. He’d had a few scars by the time she’d known his body as a woman knows a man; she’d been able to count them on one hand, and had spent one lovely, perfect summer night doing just that, with the realization that his body would be different when he returned to her, if he returned at all.

  She had never again had the stomach to count the scars on his body, not after Aylan had worn that cloak.

  She loved Aylan like a brother, and like her beloved she would lay down her life for Aylan’s in a second, because there are some bonds you can’t break and some debts that can’t be repaid. None of the three of them had ever been able to fathom where that hideous cloak sat moldering on those scales.

  In the end, they had all finally learned that there were some bonds that couldn’t be defined, changed, or broken, and the cloak hadn’t been the beginning of their bond by a long shot.

  The miracle had been, of course, that it hadn’t been the end of it, either.

  Part XII—The Moon at Day

  Ellyot Moon

  RIGHT AFTER he vaulted the wall to the little apartment patio, Torrant shoved a wad of his cloak in his mouth and changed form completely.

  Godsdammit, but it always hurt worse when he did that!

  He looked up at the clock tower that loomed over his apartment and grimaced. Three hours. Sleep would be thin and dire, after a hard night, but it couldn’t be helped.

  The shower was mandatory. He wasn’t sure who was going to change the thick cotton sheets on his bed, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to. He didn’t think dried blood or kerosene and soot would go unremarked upon. He didn’t know what to do with his clothes. He settled for wadding them up in the hamper and hoping the staff was as discreet as the concierge intimated. He certainly couldn’t run downstairs and wash them himself.

  When he fell into bed, praying for his internal clock to wake him up, he was clean, naked, and willfully closing off his mind to the horrors of the night before.

  The knock on his door came scarcely an hour later.

  “I’m coming, Aldam,” Torrant mumbled. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the sitting room before his tired mind even registered that this wasn’t their surgery and Aldam had been left, distraught and despondent, back in Eiran.

  When he got to the front room, the door burst open, and a crowd of his fellow regents tumbled in, laughing cheerfully and talking as though they had known him and his burgundy/mahogany/sateen apartment for years.

  “Dueant’s strong arm, Ellyot—take it easy there!” said the young man in the lead. He was not much taller than Torrant and angular, with almond-shaped eyes, a narrow chin, and ears that peeked cheekily out from where his hair was tucked behind them. He smiled sunnily at Torrant and gestured at the knife in Torrant’s sword hand and the sheet wrapped around his naked hips.

  Torrant blinked hard at them, but four years of healing in the mountains helped him wake up quickly. As he widened his eyes, trying to get rid of the bleariness, he managed a semi-intelligent question. “Who are all of you, and what are you doing here?”

  “We’re your fellow prisoners of the Regents’ Hall, that’s who we are!” replied the first young man. He flashed that gods-gorgeous, naïve, sunny smile again and extended his hand. “I’m Aerk, for the house of Farell, and this here is—”

  “Dark, from the house of Sarcasm,” broke in the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man at Aerk’s side. His hair was short but erratically cut over dark brows, his lips had a sardonic twist, and when Torrant’s eyebrows went up at the introduction, he angled his head, the twist reforming itself into a sheepish smile. “Right. I’m Keon, the house of Olive.” Another handshake and another young man stepped forward.

  Dimitri from the house of Troy, Jino from the house of Blue, Marv from the house of Win, Eljean from the house of Grace, and Djali from the house of Rath all introduced themselves in short order. The name of the last young man—a somewhat shortish, plumpish young
man a little younger than Torrant—brought another expression of raised eyebrows, this time without the amusement.

  “I don’t talk to my father at all, if that helps,” shrugged Djali diffidently with a miserable smile. Perhaps it was the early hour without any sleep, or the seeming sincerity of this impromptu welcome, but Torrant’s mouth quirked up gently, and he winked at the boy—for boy was what he seemed. He felt marginally better when Djali flushed and smiled shyly back.

  “It does indeed,” grunted Torrant bemusedly. He stepped back a bit and got a better handle on the sheet wrapped around his waist. “Um, not that I don’t appreciate the visit and all….” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. He was telling the truth; he had planned to befriend the youngest members of the Regents’ Hall, the ones he still believed could wreak change. He had not, however, planned on them all barging in on him when he was sleeping, naked, and unaware.

  “What are we doing here?” Aerk asked, grinning that infectious smile again.

  “Right.” Torrant nodded toward his sheet. “I wasn’t exactly expecting you.”

  “We came to tell you that the convocation has been moved up an hour,” said Eljean, stepping forward. He was very tall, taller even than Aylan, with curly black hair down to his shoulders and eyes that were meadow green. His mouth was red and soft like a girl’s, and his face was a narrow oval, made masculine by pointed cheekbones, a bold nose, and a sharp chin. He didn’t smile, but his eyes held a veiled appraisal. Torrant blinked at him, wide awake now but playing sleepy and disoriented to take stock of his new friends. He knew that look in a man’s eyes, he thought with faint shock. After eight years of fending off Aylan’s advances and one glorious night of giving in to them, he could recognize that veiled desire in the brilliant green eyes of the tall and plain-featured Eljean.

  “Moved up an hour?” he asked, returning Eljean’s stare neutrally.

  “We sent someone to tell you last night,” said Jino, looking very responsible under a perfect coif of curly hair. Torrant got the feeling it was a demeanor he used to get out of a lot of work and into a lot of beds, even as Jino gave a practiced, winning shrug. “You weren’t here last night, so here we are now.”

  Marv elbowed his way good-naturedly in front of Jino to get in his bit. He had dusky skin, slightly crooked front teeth, and hair cut short in tight ringlets. Together he and Jino often unknowingly vied for the “who’s the prettiest” award in their circle of friends, and neither had ever pursued a girl who hadn’t fallen for him. (Marv was the first to admit that Jino did more of the pursuing, since he had a special girl back at his family’s estate in the country.)

  “So we thought we’d get here early,” Marv was saying winningly, “warn you, and take you to the marketplace for breakfast. The bakery there is the best, especially in the early morning.”

  “And we were damned curious about you,” interjected Keon dryly.

  Torrant had to laugh at that, and he found his heart in his throat a little as he looked at their eager, friendly faces. A welcome to the city. Allies. Things he hadn’t dared to dream of, but he seemed to have found anyway. He knew there was a price—there was always a price—and very likely one of these eager faces had the ear of Consort Rath, but there was sincerity there as well.

  “Excellent,” he said, nodding at them with quiet eyes. “Let me go find clothes.”

  “Um,” Djali mumbled from his seemingly preferred place in the back of the pack.

  “What is it?” Dimitri demanded, rolling his eyes.

  “There were clothes in the hallway….”

  “That package?” Marv took the brown, paper-wrapped armload courteously from Djali and handed it to Torrant. “How do you know it’s clothes?”

  “My father sends the same man to me,” Djali returned. “He’s not a bad guy, really. He… he talked to me.” He smiled again, almost as a reflex, and Torrant wondered painfully what his home life must have measured to be doling out those terrible smiles.

  “Well, whoever they are, they need to work harder,” Eljean said practically, breaking open the seal and sorting through Torrant’s new things with arrogant ease. “These aren’t enough to last you through summer.” Even Torrant could see that Eljean’s impeccably cut huntsman’s vest, breeches, and summer cloak were the first water of fashion—and all of them were green and blue, the better to set off Eljean’s eyes.

  “I just ordered them yesterday.” Torrant took a proffered set of green breeches, a brown tunic, and an elegantly embroidered huntsman in green and gold from Eljean’s hands while keeping a firm anchor on the sheet around his waist. Curiously he looked at the rest of the things in the package, now spread about his brocade couch.

  “Here, Eljean, what’s that?” he asked, indicating a swath of green-and-gold fabric that looked familiar for all its newness. “It’s got a note on it.”

  “Here,” said Dimitri, shooting an evil look at Eljean that Torrant couldn’t interpret. “Let me read it. ‘Sir, since you cannot wear the old one in public or the other during the day, perhaps you will consider this one for public use. I will accept any payment you consider.’ And it’s signed ‘Coryal.’”

  “Really?” Torrant’s voice softened, and he looked at the cloak with new eyes. It had been a kind gesture, and he recalled the slight man with the fluttery movements and the black goatee. “That’s wonderful. I shall have to pay him for it this morning, if we pass by.” He looked up at his new friends, his face wreathed in a smile, and awkwardly scooped up his purchases. He was holding both the knife and the sheet in one hand by now as he moved toward the bedroom. “You can show me his shop, right?” he asked Djali expectantly, and the young man flushed again.

  “Absolutely. It’s on the way to the bakery.”

  Torrant’s smile deepened, his lip curled up, and the dimple on one cheek deepened. “Excellent. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  The door closed behind him, and, Torrant knew well, the conversation opened.

  “Holy gods,” Aerk said into the sudden silence. “Did you see his…?” The rest of the men filled in the blank at the exact same moment.

  “Knife?” from Keon, with a raised eyebrow. Keon was not an able fencer, but he read a lot and was fascinated by the art of violence.

  “Income!” said Dimitri, impressed.

  “Scars!” exclaimed Marv and Jino in jealous tandem. They fenced a lot and were proud of the breadth of their chests but had yet to see real combat.

  “Smile,” said Eljean, in a dreamy shock the others chose to ignore.

  “Lute!” breathed Djali, because the instrument was still out of its case in the corner of the room.

  All the young men looked at each other in surprise. Aerk finished his original sentence in a voice that was positively arid. “I was going to say ‘knife’ just like Keon, but really, what you all said was good.” He grimaced. “With the exception of ‘smile.’” He rolled his eyes at Eljean.

  Keon shrugged. “Well, I’m no Goddess boy, but even I had to admit it was pretty spectacular.”

  “Who says I’m a Goddess boy?” Eljean asked defensively. They all knew the penalty for that particular deviation was death, in spite of what the heart might need.

  “No one,” Aerk soothed, “and we were talking about Ellyot Moon. So, anyone want to guess about the scars and the knife?”

  “I don’t know about the scars,” mused Keon, although there had been a few of them: straight, crescent-shaped, wedged, and torn, ranging across his chest, shoulders, and back. “But I would think that, if his past is what he says it is…. Well, I’d want to sleep with a knife under my pillow too.”

  “Especially in this town,” muttered “Ellyot,” emerging from his room with water-combed hair and still lacing his huntsman.

  “Ye gods, you were fast!” Keon exclaimed back—partly to cover his embarrassment at being caught gossiping like a girl, and partly because Ellyot really had scarcely left the room.

  “Four years as a healer in the Old Man Hills,” To
rrant replied with a yawn that was only partly feigned. “It makes a man learn to get ready to ride out in a moment.” He finished the lace and buckled his sword and scabbard about his waist with quick, efficient movements that spoke of easy use, then looked around the room at his new “friends.” “So, shall we go?”

  “OUEANT’S PRICK,” Dimitri sneered crudely. “Djali, you wouldn’t be so fat if you didn’t eat three times as much as the rest of us!”

  Marv frowned. “Leave him alone, Dimitri. One of those pastries is for me.”

  Djali shrank into his own shoulders and looked longingly at the pastry Marv had just split in half for him with a wink. It was obvious he had been planning to eat it, and he wasn’t really fat, Torrant thought critically. He was broad. Stocky. Square. The food had probably been fuel, not dessert.

  But Dimitri’s bullying and Marv’s defense were par for the course among the regents. Dimitri’s most hapless targets were Djali and Eljean.

  “Are you done staring at my arse, Eljean? It’s starting to sweat, and you know how I hate that—or you’d like to,” Dimitri sneered now that Djali apparently had a champion.

  Eljean, who had actually been looking over the red-clay-shingled tops of the buildings surrounding the marketplace as though searching for an escape, flushed.

  “If you’d like me to stare at your arse, just ask me,” he said simply, and it was obvious to Torrant from Dimitri’s disgusted sneer that he could take the facetious comment at face value if he chose to—and all the young men knew it. Torrant’s heart went abruptly out to Eljean; what a horrible thing to have a crush and to have it twisted in such a way that any reference to it was laced with razor-wire pain.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dimitri just had to twist that razor in a little farther, and Torrant scowled at him.