Bitter Moon Saga

by Amy Lane

  Aylan pinched the bridge of his nose and cringed. “Of course we did.” He laughed bitterly at himself. “Of course we lock the one wank with an open mouth—and a blazing crush—in a storeroom while we’re perpetrating bloody miracles. How about we bugger each other on top of the Regents’ Hall while we’re at it? I mean, crucifixion can’t hurt that much, can it?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Eljean interjected with dignity. “I’m not looking forward to crucifixion at all!”

  To Eljean’s everlasting surprise, Aylan laughed for real. “Right, then. He vouched for you, and you have your own arse to save. I might not have to kill you after all.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Eljean said with a surprising certainty. “He said you were Oueant incarnate. You wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Aylan’s face hardened, and his lovely blue eyes became as cold as a snowcat’s gaze in December. “Don’t you believe that! Honor’s heart is in Joy’s hands. Remember that, princeling. There is not much I wouldn’t do to keep that boy safe, even from himself. Do you hear me? You know a few secrets; you’ll do your lame-arsed best to keep them. All of that I believe. That your life is important enough to save, even though it’s a risk to his? You’d need to do some fast talking to convince me, and I’m not in the mood for conversation. Now go out with your friends and work and do some good, but don’t think you have an elbow into his life because you know a secret, you hear me?”

  Eljean nodded, swallowing painfully because he’d been hoping just that. “I hear you,” he said, feeling as alien as he ever had. “I’ll dream about your song.”

  Aylan shook his head and watched the other young man disappear through the curtain. No, odds were good that it wouldn’t be Aylan’s song Eljean would dream of that night.

  “News from Home”

  STANNY ARRIVED just at suppertime, coming in through the back door of the tavern by the alleyway, and only the sound of his voice roused Torrant from his sleep in the storeroom. He was pale and fever-eyed as he stumbled out, and Aylan’s growl of “Nice going, genius,” was offset with a casual arm to the elbow to steady his almost shambling steps.

  “Stanny!” Torrant cried, throwing grateful arms around his gigantic, red-headed, big-hearted cousin. “Triane’s white smile, cousin, it’s good to see you.”

  “It’s not good to see you T—Ellyot!” Stanny said broadly, his eyebrows puckered unhappily. “I mean, I’m glad to see you, but I haven’t seen you look this bad since you were sick in the barracks, back at home.”

  “He’s been doing too much,” Aylan said quietly, with meaning, and Torrant glared at him in impotent frustration. Stanny was not quick; he did not take hints easily, but once he took a hint, the meaning would be locked in his slowly churning mind like a giant fallen tree in a rolling river. Eventually that giant, water-sodden tree trunk would hit something or somebody smack in the face, usually the next time Stanny opened his mouth.

  “Thanks, Aylan, you git-riding wank,” Torrant replied with rolled eyes and a weak elbow in his friend’s side. “And as for you, Stanny, I’ll forgive you for greeting me with that shite if you tell me you can, uhm, deliver that package that Aylan told you about?”

  But Stanny’s mind would not be turned. “Yes, of course I can,” he replied genially. “It will take a while to deliver. You know that, right?”

  Aylan sighed and smacked his head with the flat of the hand not holding Torrant upright. “You’ve got my route, don’t you?”

  Stanny’s smile dropped a few degrees, and the sun grew a little less bright. “Evya hates it when I’m gone now. I don’t know if we can do the long route much longer. If I can make the snows, pretty soon it will just be deliveries here.”

  Torrant and Aylan exchanged glances, and for the moment they were in perfect accord. “Stanny,” Torrant said after a charged moment, “you may be able to stop making deliveries here.” He looked up at the other regents, who had gathered in the back room out of nothing else but sheer, stinking curiosity. “The gentlemen here, they’ve been giving their time and finances to the ghettoes. They think they can start bringing the wool in on their own. They’re regents; they don’t need passes or clearance to enter the city.” There was a silence, as both Torrant and Aylan prayed that Stanny wouldn’t be hurt. “It would be safer for you.”

  Stanny’s expression was a surprise—it was both knowing and sly, and Torrant mentally reminded himself never to underestimate Yarri’s cousin. “You mean it would be safer for you,” he said in a way that was both very mild and so much like his father that it made Torrant’s chest hurt. “No. Don’t worry, cousin—I have things to keep me busy here, and the family would rather lose the income of the entire route than leave the two of you without a lifeline.”

  “Things…,” Torrant began, only to be cut off by Stanny’s bland smile. “Never mind. You won’t tell, and I won’t ask. But Goddess, it’s good to see you!”

  “I only wish I could stay longer,” Stanny replied mournfully. Visitors to the city were allowed one day, two at the most, inside the gates before they were called before the consort and asked their affiliation. Of course, lying would be prudent, but since the punishment for lying was to be thrown in the hidden dungeons and tortured, no one wanted to risk Stanny’s safety.

  “We’ll be able to visit all night, right?” Stanny asked then, and Torrant and Aylan met stricken eyes. The two guardsmen—who knew where they had gone to die? Torrant was certain that the one whose memory he’d wiped would not last long; he’d had to put a formidable push on the man’s mind. That didn’t come without a price.

  “Part of it,” Aylan replied quietly, glowering at the young regents who were patiently waiting for their turn to meet the Moon cousin. Aylan could see their group infatuation with Torrant; it didn’t surprise him, although Torrant was, of course, oblivious. Aylan could foresee all sorts of evils that might befall them because of Torrant’s appeal and his obvious affection for his friends. “We have some….”

  “Night work,” Torrant supplied blandly, feeling as green as he ever had. “We have some night work we may need to attend to when everyone else retires for the evening.”

  “Night work?” Aerk said curiously. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s work, and they do it at night,” Jino enunciated, keeping a precious expression on his pointed features.

  Marv smacked him upside the head, and Torrant took that moment to laughingly introduce the regents to his cousin. “We can’t run the clinic without them,” he praised when he was done, and Stanny obliged him with his own laugh.

  “Of course, you didn’t tell Da about the clinic at all,” he prodded with another one of those looks that was disconcertingly like Lane. “You must be exhausted.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Aylan muttered, and Torrant tried for another elbow to Aylan’s ribs. He almost fell over, and Aylan’s sigh practically rattled the floorboards.

  “Stanny,” Torrant said with a desperate change of subject, “tell us about home. How are your mum and da? We….” He swallowed and felt Aylan go dangerously still next to him. Oh yes, Aylan was as hungry for news as he was; their spirits were starveled and shriveling for any word of the people they loved.

  Stanny’s expression was unusually perceptive. “Let’s unload first, then let me sit down. If you feed me, I will gossip just like Mum.” His smile was as sweet and broad as it had ever been.

  “We’ll help you unload,” Aerk offered, “as long as we get an ear to the gossip.”

  There was no polite way to refuse, but Torrant’s chest burned, and his heart inside it, for a moment of Yarri, a scrap of her, a story from Stanny that would tell him that their night, that wonderful, sadness-wrought night, had meant the same thing to her that it had to him. He knew it did; he knew her heart better than he knew his own name, especially here, where he had more than one, but oh gods, he was like any other lover. He needed to see her, know of her, touch
some part of her, so he could believe she was real. He was painfully aware that a discussion with Stanny was as close as he would get.

  Unloading took no time at all with the lot of them. Torrell showed up with a passel of boys to help distribute the wool and the goods that Stanny had brought. Soon enough they were done and venturing back inside the Amber Goose. To Eljean’s surprise, it was now a tavern again. It was, if possible, even more crowded than it had been during the day.

  “Who’s that for?” Eljean asked, looking at the little space toward the back. There was a stool there, with a battered lute case at the foot of it and a glass of water at the ready.

  “No!” Aylan barked, glaring at Torrant. He was all but supporting Torrant’s weight, although he was doing it so deftly that Stanny hadn’t noticed.

  “I have new songs I want him to bring her…,” Torrant began.

  “No!”

  “And how will he know the melody if I don’t….”

  “No!”

  “Sing them!” They both shouted together at the end. They stood toe-to-toe, heating the room with their glowers.

  Torrant stepped back, purposefully taking his full weight on knees that, he was prepared to believe, supported him on prayer alone. “Please, Aylan,” he begged quietly. “It gives the people such hope.”

  Aylan shook his head bitterly. “Why did I come here if you were just going to kill yourself by degrees anyway?”

  Torrant took a deep breath and leaned forward, standing a little on his tiptoes and looking wryly up at his brother. Aylan sighed and leaned forward, touching foreheads for a moment; a thing they could not have done on the streets of Dueance but were very comfortable doing in this little tavern.

  “Tomorrow is second rest day,” Torrant reminded him. “If you like, you can sneak in through the patio and watch me sleep,” he mocked gently, but Aylan wasn’t smiling.

  “I will live up to that,” he said after a quiet moment. “Now go play, and then come talk to Stanny and rest up. There will be—”

  “Night work. I know.” Torrant smiled gamely at the regents and Stanny, who were watching the conversation with unabashed interest. “Have we put on enough of a show?” he asked with a grim twinkle, and the regents laughed, but Stanny didn’t.

  “I will have to tell Da exactly how it played,” he said, and Torrant cringed.

  “Serves you right, you git wank.” Aylan gave a sour smile. “Now go.”

  Torrant smiled so brightly that Triana, who was walking by, dropped her drink tray, and Eljean fell bonelessly into a chair, which was fortunately right behind him. Djali bent solicitously to help the little barmaid with her burden, and when the glasses were all put away there was a sudden silence in the tavern.

  Torrant had been writing songs for her this last month. They had made love for one night—one night, after a lifetime of waiting—and then he’d left. It was imperative, as necessary as blinking and breathing, that she know he was thinking of her while he was gone.

  His fingers played with the strings of the borrowed lute, tuning, refining, and then, when the pitch was just right, he poured out the melody and his heart with it.

  The wind that touched your face this morning

  Graces me tonight.

  I can smell your hair upon the wind

  That says good-bye to light.

  Your laughter rings in every bell,

  Your sobs in every toll.

  The moons weep stars when we’re apart.

  I miss you more than you can know.

  I loved you since I held you:

  A baby in my arms.

  I watched your steps amazedly.

  I kept you safe from harm.

  And now we two are grown, it seems

  The world is upside down.

  You keep my heart safe in your hands

  As long as I’m your own.

  Oh keep my heart safe in your hands

  And know that I’m your own.

  Eljean listened to Ellyot’s song with eyes that grew too bright. Oh yes, he had a beloved; there could be no doubt at all. The song ended, and there was a suspension of heartbreak and quiet before applause shook the little tavern with joy.

  “You’re not alone,” said a voice nearby. “Most of us have been in love with him in one way or another since he and Aylan first visited.”

  Eljean came to himself in a moment and realized that he was sitting alone at a tiny table toward the middle of the tavern. He also realized the man who was speaking to him was not one of the regents, but he did know him. A suffocating heat washed his body in the terror-sweat of discovery. He hadn’t lied to Aylan: he hated pain. He feared crucifixion with every fiber in his being. He stared at his companion like a light-struck deer at night.

  The dark-haired, pale-skinned young man twisted his mouth in a sardonic smile, and he bent to the table so he could speak softly. “Don’t worry, Eljean, I won’t tell your regent friends how you know me.”

  Now the flush of fear was replaced by a flush of shame. Eljean summoned his most gracious smile; he did not know it, but he had his own glamour when he was being genuine. The flat and pointed features of his narrow face assumed a plain and fragile beauty when he smiled. “Good evening, Zhane,” he said softly. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I almost believe you mean that!” Zhane was surprised into saying, and Eljean fought to not duck his head.

  “I do.” It was true. Zhane had been for sale, and Eljean had purchased, but the young man had shown a sense of humor in bed and a certain tenderness toward Eljean’s chronic embarrassment and his crushing fear of revealing himself to the others from the Hall of Regents. “Would you like to sit with me?”

  Zhane’s smile went from sardonic to flattered. His eyes were brown and fringed thickly with lashes. Until Ellyot had arrived in Dueance with his eyes of clear hazel and his chest-breaking magnetism, Eljean had secretly thought Zhane was the most attractive young man he’d ever seen. “I would, Eljean. Thank you.”

  “Oi, Eljean, who’s your friend?” Marv asked from a nearby table and then looked surprised when Jino elbowed him sharply in the side.

  “This is Zhane,” Eljean replied, keeping his dignity on like a cloak. “We spent a night drinking together at a tavern down the way.”

  “Drinking?” Aerk was surprised enough to say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk, Eljean.”

  “You’re missing out on a sight, then,” said Zhane dryly. “You pour enough wine into him and his mouth will start running like a startled horse. I hope nobody trusts life-or-death secrets to this boy, because they will be out before he can give his first belch.”

  Eljean wondered if the embarrassment sweat soaking his borrowed shirt was actually toxic. He hoped so—it would be pleasant to just go toes-up and not have to endure this moment of his life spilled out in front of the friends he had been oh-so-careful not to alienate with his terrible shame.

  Aerk caught Eljean’s eyes with a gentle, twinkling smile. “Well, the moons forbid that we know any more of Eljean than he chooses to tell us. Water only, Eljean? Or could you manage to hold your tongue with cider?”

  Eljean smiled gratefully. “Cider would be wonderful,” he said gratefully. Ellyot began to play again, and the table fell silent with the rest of the tavern.

  When Eljean later remembered that night, watching Ellyot Moon perform, he would remember Ellyot’s own words, overheard through a plain wooden door.

  “They’ve grown up just void of anyone teaching them right and wrong. And they’re hungry for it.”

  His songs were teachings—there was no other word for it. They were treatises on peace, descriptions of bravery, and textbooks of human behavior, all wrapped up in simple lyrics of a boy and a girl and the forces that drew them apart. There was even a song about parents, waiting up for children, giving them love and advice over a breakfast of berries and sunshine. Eljean was aware that he and the other regents were all staring at the makeshift stage with wide eyes and slightly p
arted mouths. Here they were, the honor of this angry, corrosive country, and their shining joy was that of little boys being told a story by a campfire.

  They could have listened for hours, but there was a slight faltering at a string, a drop in a tone that should have risen, and then Aylan was half out of his seat. Ellyot finished up the song and bowed his head as a concession. Yes. It was time for all good boys to stop and rest.

  The applause and whistles of gratitude as Ellyot quit the stage were deafening, and when they were done, Eljean found that he had to very carefully and discretely wipe the corners of his eyes.

  Zhane leaned in, keeping his distance impersonal, and said softly, “All of us, Eljean. You are not alone.”

  Eljean tried a smile then, while the other regents were surreptitiously trying to gain back their own composure. Zhane smiled back, gently, and teased a whisper of a touch upon Eljean’s thigh.

  “Will there be more performers, then?” Eljean asked, trying to cover his reaction, and his arousal, with an inane question.

  “Yes,” Zhane nodded, “and I am fortunate tonight in that I don’t work. I may do what I like with my time.”

  “What you like?” Eljean repeated dumbly, and he flushed even deeper when Zhane nodded, looking like a stalking tiger.

  “And what I like, young regent, is to spend my time with you.”

  Eljean took a hasty sip of cider and looked around to see if any of the others had heard, but they were all talking about the next performers, whom they apparently were familiar with. No one had heard. No one need know.

  “I’m honored,” Eljean said, accepting the proposition with a very gracious incline of his head. Better a stolen night in the arms of a willing lover than an empty one, pining away for what he could not have.

  “BETWEEN THE two of you, you’ve dropped three stone in weight, and neither of you had any to spare.” Stanny took a sip of his ale and watched as “Cousin Ellyot” tuned up for what would be his last song. Stanny had no subterfuge in him; he was well aware of that, and not all his news from home was good. He knew now—had known, actually, from his first glimpse of Torrant with his pale, gaunt features and his feverish eyes—that very little of his news on the return trip would be much better.