by Sean Michael
He put Zujan down in the big chair and looked for something to light the fire. Light from the hall flickered in and he headed back that way -- he could use the torch on the fire, if he could get it off the wall. He heard something like a soft whoosh, the dim light from a fire stopping him in his tracks.
He turned back, watching the fire slowly build. "I wasn't sure you were going to be able to. You look pretty done."
He picked up a couple of blankets from the bed and brought them over to Zujan. The sorcerer looked tiny, young, curled in the chair, cheek resting on one arm. He wrapped the blankets around Zujan, shaking his head at how cold the pale skin was. Zujan needed to be warmed. Body heat was the best for that. Wintras bit his lip. Zujan needed food, too, if he went and got another tray, he could get a couple of boys from the harem at the same time and they could lie with Zujan.
Full-body shudders began wracking the thin body, Zujan's teeth chattering. He couldn't not help. He couldn't. Wintras pulled the blankets away and pulled off Zujan's clothing and then took off his own borrowed cloak. Zujan was almost blue he was so white and when Wintras sat, taking Zujan into his arms, Zujan was the coldest thing he'd ever held.
It wasn't natural and it couldn't be good.
He wrapped himself around Zujan and the blankets around both of them. "I don't understand how anyone could be so cold and not dead."
"The magics. It's the... Oh. Sweet Velus in the Heaven. You're warm."
"That's not hard, seeing how cold you are." He pulled Zujan closer, hands stroking over the freezing skin. He thought maybe Zujan was a little less cold now, though that might have just been the room getting warmer as the fire began to blaze.
Zujan chuckled, head lolling. "Wait until the bar'cha start gathering in the hall. They can't come here. No one can, without my permission."
He shivered. He'd just walked right in, he wasn't even sure if Zujan had been conscious at the time. "Why do you let them do this to you?" Zujan was this powerful, terrifying mage who ruled by terror and fire, it was hard to reconcile that image with the slight, freezing, vulnerable man in his arms.
"There are prices to pay for all things, Wintras. The more wonderful the gift, the more horrible the cost. Surely you know this."
He shrugged, Zujan's words making him feel young and inexperienced. "I know you have to work hard to get stuff done."
"Yes. I was born with this gift, born with a host of bar'cha hungering for someone’s body to..." Zujan shivered, pressed closer. "They require sustenance, life force. They are the curse that comes with the gift."
"Wow." He didn't know what else to say, so he just kept sliding his hands over Zujan's skin. The man was definitely beginning to warm up.
A soft moan sounded, Zujan's eyes closing. He bit back his words of concern, confused regarding his conflicted feelings. Pale and fine and delicate -- how could this man be the same one who ruled with a fist of iron?
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, just held and rubbed and shared his heat with Zujan. He could go back to being defiant and angry when Zujan was throwing his weight around again. Until then, they would rest.
***
Warm. Quiet. Easy. Home. Oh, he must be home.
His mother had built this place for him, imbuing it with the last of her spirit, his father's magics gone mad, the skin falling from her bones, offering him sanctuary. He had stayed in the room for years -- Cook leaving food in a box that he pulled to him on the rope, Father watching and raging, screaming threats. He had learned so much, read so much, learned control and distance. Learned that the world was vicious and waiting to destroy him.
His father was the first person who fell to his flames, the army come to destroy his home the next.
Zujan stretched, memories irritating him, waking him. Warm hands, warmer than any he could ever remember, slid along his arm, patting him.
Oh. Oh, sweet Velus. "So warm." He couldn't remember not being cold.
"Yeah, I think you're finally feeling normal. I didn't think your skin was ever going to warm."
He frowned, eyes blinking open to focus on his little Prince. Odd. He didn't remember inviting him in. "I don't blame you. I didn't either."
"Are you okay now? Hungry? I can go get food from the kitchen." Wintras shifted.
Zujan nodded, forcing himself to sit up, pull away from the warmth, draw the veil of control around him. There was something about this boy that ate away at his control. "You may go, Wintras."
Wintras got up out of the chair like it was on fire, face turning into the familiar mask of... disdain? dislike? "I'll ask Cook to send someone with food."
"Don't bother. No one can come here." He wrapped himself in a cloak, stomach aching.
"You know you just have to ask and I'll bring it back myself."
Zujan nodded, moving over to the books against the wall, fingers trailing along the spines. He hadn't needed to be in this room for so long.
"Are you... You'll be okay?" Wintras asked.
He closed his eyes, the scent of his mother's perfume somehow fresh, close. He wanted to be held again, to be touched and warm.
"Zujan?" His name was whispered, Wintras suddenly at his side, tall and warm, one hot hand on his arm.
He sobbed, leaning into the heat, trying to catch his breath.
"Oh." Wintras' arms went around him, his Prince holding him, patting his back awkwardly. He shivered, melting into those arms, refusing to think, to try and understand what this meant.
"You're cold again already." It sounded like an accusation.
"I can't help it." He shrugged. It was how he was.
"No wonder you're always in such a bad mood." Wintras froze as the words slipped from his mouth. "I mean..."
Zujan blinked, then started laughing, tickled down deep, amused that this stubborn, angry boy would say such a thing.
Wintras stayed stiff, though the Prince didn't try to move away. "I'm glad to find I am finally amusing you."
"You will never be a diplomat, Prince. Although, I must admit that my own skills do not live along that path either."
"I am simple like my people, Zujan. That is where my strength lies. In helping them, being one of them."
"We must all play to our strengths. Your challenge will be to hide your weaknesses."
The books caught his eye again, page after page teaching how to rule, how to control, tales of heroes and villains.
"You mean like you do? Hiding how small you really are?"
Zujan nodded, not really even paying attention, then the words hit him. Being in this room made him complacent. "I'm not that small."
"Sure. And I'm not your slave."
"You are here as a consequence of your own actions."
Wintras snorted and his arms dropped away, the long, warm body stepping back. "And you had nothing to do with it."
"You cannot control me; you can only control your own actions." He could feel the fury, the frustration again, threatening at the base of his spine.
"I would never dream of trying to control you, Zujan."
"Amazing. You do have a self-preservation instinct. Your father will be pleased."
Wintras snorted. "My father would have been pleased to have me return with him instead of my being held prisoner here. Why do you still pretend you've done this to help me?"
He turned, heat leeching from him, fire blazing anew. "Because one day, Prince, your mouth will find you beheaded and your lands lost, either to me or to another strong as I am."
"And if you and your ilk were not greedy warmongers, it wouldn't be an issue. My people have no wish for war or more land and jewels. They wish only to be happy, left in peace." Wintras was back to the stiff angry boy, glaring at him, dark blue eyes shooting a fire of his own.
"And the war that earned your father his crown? Are your histories so short you cannot remember even a generation ago?" He would not have this. Not here. Not in his home. Not in his rooms.
Zujan moved through the door, through the
barrier, the bar'cha flocking to him. They offered him forgiveness, strength, the illusion of size.
All they asked was his soul.
Wintras followed him out, a look of disgust on his face. "Our wars are in the past, there is peace now. I wish only to preserve it."
Soft voices hissed in his ear. *Send him away. He hurts us. Send him away, our love, and all the pain and fury will fade. We will play again. We will call for the harem and have them warm us.*
Wintras shook his head. "I don't understand how you could let them do that to you. I don't care how powerful it makes you, it's... " Wintras shrugged and turned his back.
He almost laughed. Let them? They were the first things he remembered, the lights surrounding his world.
*Send him away.*
"Go home, Wintras. Go home and tell your father if I see him or you on my lands again, it will be war and I will destroy every single human on your lands."
Wintras whirled back around, looking at him as if he expected to be struck down.
"Go? Just like that?" The Prince advanced on him. "What's the catch?"
"Go. If I ever see you again, I will bathe you in the fires of regret and let the bar'cha suck the marrow from your bones. You are not welcome here." The words made the stones vibrate, his heart calling to his mother and her need to defend him. "You are not welcome here."
"Your faeries don't scare me, but I will happily go and never darken your castle again." Wintras turned and walked away, the Prince not running, though he could see the tension in the muscles, fighting the desire to do so.
The last of his heat faded, turning his heart to ice, and he went to find his clothes.
He never looked back.
Chapter Six
"The castle is yours, Wintras. Have the treasures split three ways and send a share to Dumas and a share to me with our cut of the crops and our split of the servants."
Wintras nodded at his father, the old man looking fat and pleased with himself, though Blethin and Dumas had done no actual fighting, leaving that to Wintras and the men. "A king must survive to lead, son." Personally, Wintras thought it was a sign of weakness, that a king wouldn't lead his men though battle as well as into it. But then it seemed his ideas of ruling were far different than most. His time here at this castle two years earlier had taught him that if nothing else.
A small contingent of guards was left as Dumas and his father led the rest in a triumphant march back toward the northlands. They'd done it. They'd wrestled Zujan's lands from him. It had been surprisingly easy.
The fire resistance they had all expected had never materialized and it made Wintras wonder what had happened to Zujan. He told himself very firmly he wasn't worried, that if Zujan's slaves had turned on him and killed him, the man only had himself to blame.
He ordered the guards to set up camp in the guardhouse, refused a personal body guard and dismounted to inspect the staff. The castle was worse for wear, but the stones held. Most of the battle had taken place in front of the gates until the last hours. The North and West borders had not been guarded, both his father and Dumas were Zujan's pawns until Wintras had convinced them that bound together, they could overcome Zujan's forces.
He walked slowly along the line of Zujan's slaves, recognizing most of them -- by sight if not name. He stopped in the middle of them so they could all hear him. "If there's anyone here who wishes to return to their home, you may do so." He looked from one end to the other, waiting for a response.
The staff looked from one to the other, the scantily clad harem boys holding one another, sobbing softly. No one moved, no one spoke.
"Where's Zujan? Why didn't your master protect you?" Their beloved master, where was he now? Wintras spit in the snow.
"Wintras?" A tall, pale man leaned forward, blinking. "Is it really you?"
"Furn?" Could this tall lad be the boy he had shared pleasure and friendship with? He nodded and smiled at his old friend. "Look at you."
"Are you going to kill us all now, then? That's what they're saying."
"Who's saying that? Zujan? Where is he?" He looked into the scared eyes. "Come now, Furn. Is that the kind of man I was?"
"No. You were the same as we are and you're not, not now."
"You think I have changed so much in two years?" Perhaps Furn did. The boy himself certainly had, still slender, the man was now taller, face far more serious. "I always advocated that I was one of my people, that I did not take slaves, that my people were free." He raised his voice. "None of you is beholden to stay here. If you wish to work for me or for Dumas or Blethin in the northlands, you may. If you wish to return to your homes, you may. No one will hurt you for either choice."
Dozens of eyes stared at him, blank and lost, exhausted. Then slowly the crowd dispersed, the majority heading back into the rough-hewn stone of the castle, only the cook, the housekeeper and the butler remaining in the rapidly falling snow. They looked older, drawn. Surely two days of fighting would not have ravaged them so?
"Mata, Gella, Lavan." He inclined his head. "Are you choosing to leave?" Of all of them, he had hoped these three would stay and help run the household, but he would not go back on his word because it would be easier for him. He was not like that.
The women didn't answer, but the old man did, giving him a single shake of the head. "No, sir. We are simply awaiting your orders."
"Oh. Okay. Where's Zujan?" He'd convinced his father to let him have the castle itself and some of Zujan's lands so that he could repay the man in kind for how he was treated. Dumas and Blethin had both been easy to convince, content to take their share of lands and treasures and not have to worry about running a second household.
A long look was shared between the three of them then Lavan shrugged. "Dead. We buried him in the spring."
"What?" The word came out shocked. He was shocked. Angry that his plans had been forfeit and... upset. Of course he was upset, he wanted his revenge and he'd been thwarted. He wasn't sad that Zujan was dead. It was a good thing. The man had been a horrible beast.
He ignored the flash of a memory of a thin, almost skeletal blue hand reaching out for a berry.
"He died. We told no one, afraid the castle would be attacked." Lavan stepped away, "The Captain of the Guard acted as Lord and he died in the first volley against us."
"T...terrible luck, that. Terrible." Mata looked at the ground, hands shaking.
There was something not quite right here, though he couldn't put his finger on it. It seemed terribly fortuitous that the time they had chosen to band with Dumas and make their attack on Zujan's castle should be shortly after the man had passed on to the next realm.
He was tired, though, after three days riding and two of fighting, and dirty and these three were awaiting his orders. "I'd like the castle to run pretty much as it used to. I will take a bath in the bathing room and then choose a suite." He had one in the old wing in mind, with simple furnishings and lots of books.
"Yes, sir. Of course." Lavan led him into the castle. Inside the place was in shambles, evidence of struggle and melee all about. His own men rested where Zujan's guard had been before.
"This needs to be sorted out, fixed. Lavan, let everyone have the day and the night to eat, rest, find themselves again and then assemble them in the hall. We'll have the place back to glory in no time." He grinned at Lavan, reminded of the days after the fire. "Just like old times."
"Yes, sir. I'll alert the staff. Your private bathing chamber is through here, sir. Shall I send someone to bathe you?"
"I don't need a private bathing chamber, Lavan. And I don't need to be bathed." Still it would be nice to see Patin again, perhaps Furn and Patricio. He had missed their easy laughter. "Perhaps the baths in the harem will be used tonight? I don't want to put anyone out, tired and despondent as you all seem."
Lavan gave him a vaguely horrified look. "I will send the harem to you, my Lord. You need not bathe with them."
"Lavan. I am not the master you are used to dealing w
ith. I do not put myself above you or any of the people who work for me."
"But you are the Lordship, here. You must show your strength."
"By treating people as slaves?" He didn't understand this need for the person leading to be elevated above all others.
"By taking your due, my Lord."
He sighed, too tired to fight over it tonight. "Look, I just want to wipe the grime and blood of the day off me, have something refreshing to eat and drink and go to bed."
