by C. N. Faust
The very sight of them sent shudders of revulsion rocketing down Sitharus’ spine. There were two faces that he prayed to Azrael he would never see haunt his dreams.
“Your majesty,” Amnas was the one who always spoke. Sitharus couldn’t remember the last time he heard Malachi put two words together. Amnas bowed decently, and regarded the king with his wise, owlish eyes. “A pleasure to serve you.”
“How have you been serving me?” Sitharus asked warily.
“We have located the assassin, as we were ordered, sir.” Amnas said solemnly. “We have sent him after Ivan. If everything goes according to plan-“
“Will Ivan die?” the vizier prodded, eager to show off his accomplishments. “Have you foreseen his death?”
Amnas sucked in a breath. “Ivan will die.”
“Who is the assassin?” Sitharus demanded. “Who could you possibly be using to get that close to Ivan and not fall under suspicion?”
“The perfect tool, your majesty,” Amnas said. “None other than Baron Nicholas Ercole’s own younger brother.”
Sitharus fell back a pace, shocked. “Nicholas has a brother? Why didn’t I know this?”
“They never spoke of him,” the vizier felt helpful enough to add. “The Ercoles live by a strict code that governs their entire lives. Charon’s father abandoned him when he was a child, leaving him in the care of another. And when a family member is sent into exile, for whatever reason, no matter for how long – they became dead to the family. The family is forbidden to even speak the name of the one they lost. In this case – even two brothers could not speak each other’s names without a heavy penalty.”
Amnas nodded his confirmation of the story. “Charon has much promise.”
Sitharus took a step closer to Amnas, suspicion in his eyes. “You can see things? Tell me, warlock, what is it you can see about the future?”
Amnas looked him straight in the eye and held his gaze. Sitharus tried to pulled away, but he couldn’t. He was drowning in those cinnamon depths.
“I have seen it all,” Amnas whispered, his voice the crackling of parchment. “I know how it ends.”
“How?” Sitharus demanded, eagerly. “How does this all end?”
“Never fear, your majesty,” Amnas replied sarcastically. “Have patience. You will live to see the end.”
Part III
122 B.T.T.
Chapter One
The very day the alliance was signed that linked the three barons together, Nicholas prepared for war.
He knew the first attack wouldn’t be long in coming, but it wasn’t just the army he was worried about. The army could take care of themselves. His own soldiers would have no trouble pulling men together. He had enough money to fuel troops with food and sufficient clothing. He could pull an army together in a matter of weeks and be ready to march on Sitharus a few weeks after that.
But that wasn’t the war he was concerned with.
For some reason, Nicholas knew that the war between him and his wife Arceia had only just begun. She hadn’t approved of the war from the beginning, but now she would be absolutely livid, and remind him that he was soon to be a father, and that she would not raise her child on her own as a widow. She would remind him that if he wanted an heir to inherit his position, he had better wait to die at a ripe old age instead of like his father did.
Of course, she was only a woman, and her opinion didn’t count for much. Nicholas knew that when he died, it would be on the battlefield. He wasn’t going to go down in bed, or commit suicide like his mother. He was going to go out like his father in a final blaze of bloody glory.
But then there was Arodi.
Arodi did not want Nicholas to leave. He had begged and he had wept and he had pleaded, but nothing had swayed Nicholas’ mind. It wasn’t fair, because Arodi knew Nicholas’ weaknesses, and exploited them with every opportunity. Arodi knew that Nicholas had a weakness for begging boys, but he also knew the greatest weakness of the baron – at the very center – where it would hurt him the most. Nicholas’ greatest weakness was Arodi himself.
“This is going to be terrible,” Arodi whispered, one night when they were alone. They lay in Nicholas’ bed, buried underneath a pile of velvet and satin blankets. Arodi had wormed his way on top of Nicholas, victoriously claiming his position, and was lying against his chest, sucking on the hollow of his throat. Nicholas stirred and moaned lustily, but Arodi kept him pinned down with his hips, refusing to let him get up.
“It is war, my beloved,” Nicholas said breathily. “It can’t help but be terrible.”
“But why does it have to be you?” Arodi muttered, his lips traveling down to take one of Nicholas’ pink nipples in his mouth and biting it playfully. “Why can’t it be some other poor sot?”
“You’re just afraid of being lonely,” Nicholas moaned, twisting in the sheets.
“Yes,” Arodi admitted freely. “I’m terrified of it. You know that by now.”
“But I won’t be gone all of the time,” Nicholas whispered. “Only when I have to fight.”
“But those will be the worst days,” Arodi sighed. “Because then I won’t know where you are, or when you’ll be back, if you’ll ever be back – and I’ll be all alone with Arceia. I didn’t think you hated me so much as to do that.”
Nicholas laughed and kissed his lover fondly. “I don’t hate you at all, my sweet; I love you more than anything in the world.”
“Like I’ll believe that,” Arodi said playfully, and his fingers stroked the baron’s hips. “I think you are too cruel to love anyone.”
“Cruel?” Nicholas seized Arodi by the arms, kissing him again, roughly. “I’ll show you just how cruel I can be!” he flipped Arodi over onto his back, bearing him down the covers and kissing him so fiercely that it was a wonder it left no bruise.
Arodi dissolved into laughter. “Oh, dear, you’ve gotten cocky again. I should have known better than to let all of this affection get to your head. Now you think you’re on top of the world and you can get away with anything.”
“Damn straight!” Nicholas laughed. “Anything I want!”
“Anything?” Arodi batted his full, thick eyelashes. “How presumptuous of you.”
“We’re using fine words today,” Nicholas teased. “Where did you pick them up, sweet? Been reading, again?”
“If I say yes,” Arodi walked his fingers up the length of Nicholas’ bare arm. “Will you burn my eyes out with a heated iron poker?”
“You know I wouldn’t,” Nicholas said, pinched Arodi’s side. “I would never even think of hurting your beautiful eyes.”
Arodi sighed happily, and kissed Nicholas again. Nicholas contented himself with kissing for a moment, and then buried his face in Arodi’s neck, sighing happily.
“I love you,” he muttered.
“So you keep telling me,” Arodi stroked his hair. “I don’t think I should believe you.” His hand migrated to the baron’s back, and he stroked the skin of his shoulders.
“You should,” Nicholas muttered, and kissed the servant boy’s neck. “Because I adore every breathing inch of you, and I will do everything in my power to prove it.”
“You’re doing a fantastic job so far,” Arodi breathed. “Keep going.”
Dawn came sluggishly the next morning, as if it wasn’t entirely ready to grace the world with its presence. Nicholas rolled over onto his side and wrapped his arms around Arodi’s waist, pulling the servant boy close and burying his face in his hair. Arodi’s hair smelled sweetly of perfume and cloves, both scents mingling together pleasantly to present an arousing aroma that Nicholas adored. He nuzzled the servant’s neck, and Arodi stirred, but only to move closer, a faint, sleepy smile on his lips.
Nicholas closed his eyes, avoiding the dawn as much as possible. He didn’t want to think about it, because dawn meant he would have to go down to breakfast and face is wife. Dawn meant he had to turn to his duties as a baron at war with his own empire. There was so much to be
done, to be planned… he planned to linger in bed as much as possible. In just a few short hours, maybe less than that, he would be the master again, and Arodi no more than his servant.
If Nicholas had had a choice, it would be Arodi sharing his name, and not Arceia. That, of course, was impossible. It was against Dragolothian code for Nicholas to marry a man, no matter how wealthy he was, and his place in society would be utterly devastated. Male lovers were more readily accepted than male couples. Arodi was only an accepted part of his life because he was already contributing to the future of Dragoloth. Arceia was having a baby. It wasn’t his, and he would more than likely never know whose it was, but the rest of the world didn’t know that. As far as the world was concerned, the baby was legitimate as they come. Maybe after the baby was born Arceia would leave him alone for just a little while. Maybe she would raise the child and then move away to end her days lonely and bitter on a prison island somewhere. There would be no tears shed on Nicholas’s side if she chose to do so.
Sighing, Nicholas pulled the covers aside, and stuck his foot out of bed. It was cold. He did not want to get up, but he had to, unfortunately. He reluctantly crawled out of bed, tucking the fur covers in tightly around Arodi so that he would stay warm for a few hours yet. Leaning over, he kissed his love sweetly on the lips. Arodi stirred but did not awake. Nicholas brushed a stray lock of hair away from the servant’s face before he left.
Chapter Two
Almost a month after war was declared, and Sitharus hadn’t said a word. Nicholas tried not to show how much it irked him, but he was doing a poor job of it. Almost everyone in the castle knew to steer clear of him, less his ill mood catch fire and lash out on the poor miscreant servants. The only two people who dared approach him were Arodi – whom he would never hurt – and Arceia, who took double pleasure in goading him when he was in such foul spirits.
But war would have to wait for just another day. Nicholas strained to hear the temple bells as they sang in the city square only a short carriage ride away – signifying the beginning of morning prayer. He had always loved the sounds, how the heavy, brass tolls rumbled like thunder and were accompanied by smaller peals like quick flashes of lightning. They sent a thrill down his spine each time he heard them. They reminded him that no matter what decisions he made or how many times he threw a vase at Ezbon’s head, there was still a greater being watching over him, aiding his cause along the way.
Ezbon had always had a distinct relationship with Azrael, speaking as if He were more of a friend than a god. That, more than anything else, had annoyed Nicholas to no end. He believed fully in worshipping his god as gods were intended to be worshipped – with form and respect. Gods were not meant to be talked down to as if they were anything less than divine, supreme beings. You didn’t address a king as an equal, Azrael was no different.
Nicholas glanced into the mirror across from him, and noticed Arodi behind him, tying off his sash. The servant usually didn’t say very much of anything, but for the last few days he had been uncharacteristically quiet. Nicholas was becoming increasingly worried. Arodi was becoming thinner, his face gaunt and paler than usual. His usually bright, vibrant eyes were dull and glassy half the time as if he had been drugged. Arodi finished tying off the sash and started on plaiting his lord’s hair, nimble fingers weaving the white ribbon through the thick red braid with uncanny skill.
“What ails you, my love?” Nicholas asked gently. Arodi lifted his eyes, for a moment catching his master’s gaze through the mirror.
“Nothing, my lord,” Arodi whispered. “What would make you think that?”
“You don’t look well-“
“I’ve been a little ill,” Arodi said before the baron could finish his thought. “Nothing to be concerned over.”
Nicholas reached back and caught Arodi’s tiny wrist in his big hand, pulling him around gently so that Arodi was standing in front of him. Arodi sighed, a bit of white silk ribbon still wound around his fingers. He looked down at Nicholas, lowering his lashes – a curtain of black lace over worshipful dark orbs.
“But I am worried,” Nicholas said, reaching up and touching Arodi’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb.
“Don’t be,” Arodi said, a slight edge on his words. He turned his head away, and Nicholas lowered his hand, hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Arodi amended, nearly immediately. He looked tired, more so than Nicholas had ever seen him. “I am tired, so very tired.” He allowed a small smile. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your war.”
Nicholas slid his hands away from his lap invitingly. Arodi slipped onto it, curling up comfortably, and leaning over to nuzzle the baron’s neck.
“Hmm,” the servant whispered. “You’re going to be late.”
“I don’t care,” Nicholas wrapped his arms around Arodi warmly, and cradled him protectively. “Do you know how precious you are to me, Arodi?”
Arodi laughed gently. “I have an inkling.” He occupied the baron’s lips temporarily, kissing them softly.
“More precious than all of the gold and silver in the kingdom,” Nicholas continued, finding it hard to be serious with Arodi wiggling around on his lap. “I wouldn’t trade you for any of it.”
“Nice to know I’m invaluable,” Arodi teased, cradling the baron’s face in his hands. “But you worry too much.”
“Even so-“
“No,” Arodi dropped a kiss onto Nicholas’ nose. “None of that, I forbid it. Now let me finish your hair, my great and powerful lord, or you’re never going to make it to prayer.”
“If you insist,” Nicholas said grouchily, grudgingly releasing his prisoner. Arodi giggled and slipped back behind him, winding thick red tresses through his delicate fingers.
“You act as if you won’t see me all day! But I’ll be there,” Arodi began finishing the braid. “You have gorgeous hair,” he mused. “I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Nicholas said. “Your hair is much prettier.”
Arodi thought about it, and then conceded with a nod. There was silence as he finished off the braid and let it drop against the baron’s back.
“There,” he said with a note of finality. “You’re finished.”
“All done?” Nicholas stood up. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“’Tis a pittance, sir,” Arodi waved his hand airily. Nicholas leaned over to kiss him, which he briefly allowed.
“I have to get dressed,” Arodi complained, placing his hand against Nicholas’ chest.
“Well hurry,” Nicholas teased. “You’ll be late for prayer.” He kissed him again.
“If I’m late,” Arodi said, pausing for yet another kiss. “It will be your fault.”
“Ah, yes, all my fault,” Nicholas agreed. “We’ll just blame me.”
“But I’m just the poor servant boy,” Arodi lamented, claiming one last kiss before breaking free. “I never get any sympathy.”
“Poor servant boy, what!” Nicholas snorted, at his most theatrical. “I will make you a lord one day, the richest man in the kingdom!”
“Sir!” Arodi fluttered a hand over his chest in a perfect imitation of Nicholas’ wife. “I declare that your advances are too strong! My maidenly virtue is compromised just from being in this same room!”
“Maidenly virtue, compromised? Azrael’s eyes, I am covered in shame at the very idea! Indeed,” Nicholas extended his chest. “I intend to make an honest man out of you!”
“Really, now?” Arodi laughed. There was a touch of sadness to it.
“Yes, I intend to marry you,” Nicholas said, sweeping him into another passionate kiss.
Arodi kissed him back intensely, but when they parted, he was no longer smiling.
“Oh, Nicholas,” he sighed, looking up at the baron. “Don’t tease.”
Nicholas’ smiled faded. “I’m sorry,” he said, chagrined. “You know I would-“
“I know, I know,” Arodi petted his chest. “I know.”
“If only the law permitted,”
Nicholas sighed.
“Well, maybe when you rule the world, you can change that,” Arodi kissed him chastely. “Now,” he whispered. “Let me go get dressed.”
Arceia paced. She flapped her fan angrily back and forth in front of her flushed face, creating the equivalent to a small windstorm. Her maidservant, Elise, was waiting primly nearby, her embroidery needle flashing in and out of a black square of silk that was slowly blossoming a golden chrysanthemum. Arceia had never seen chrysanthemums, but Elise – who was not native to Dragoloth, but its neighboring country of Avralaen – assured her that they were very beautiful, and grew all through the native fields. Arceia would have liked to go to Avralaen one day. Elise had told her that the men there would as handsome as they were masculine, and that they loved their wives and treated them as more than mere possessions.
Such fanciful tales, Arceia had often thought. If only they were true!
I’ll bet they’re never late for morning prayer, she thought furiously, glaring at the winding grand staircase. “Elise! What do you think he is doing up there?”
Elise looked up briefly from her embroidery. “I don’t know, my lady,” she said, sniffing. “I don’t think I want to.”
“He’s late, the prayer can’t start until he arrives,” Arceia ground her teeth together as she paced.
“Gentle, dear,” Elise said, smoothing her fingers over the gold thread pattern on the silk. “Think of the baby.”
“This baby isn’t coming for a while, but even if it were-“ Arceia shook her head to free it of any vindictive thoughts she would have to repent of later. “Where could he be? We only have an hour!”
Elise did not reply, this time she didn’t even look up from her work. She was used to her mistress’ tirades by now, and knew that they went just as quickly as they came. The two women, physically and mentally, could not have been more opposite. Elise was gentle, motherly, and quiet. Tall where Arceia was short and dark where Arceia was fair. Arceia had a flaring temper, romantic ideals, and the habit of speaking very loudly. Arceia had blond curls that fell almost to her shoulders, while Elise’s hair was stick straight and the color of burnished copper. It fell almost to her waist, but you would never know it. She always wore it pinned up onto her head in some elaborate style to keep it from falling in her face. Arceia had liquid blue eyes, a very common color that graced the Dragolothian race. Elise’s eyes were a soft dove gray, gentle and lovely and sad.
