Stone Rose (17 page)

If the man thought he was that easy to taunt, then he was a fool. That worked fine for Dario, however; fools were easy problems to fix. It was only the smart ones who were trouble.

Scowling, clearly annoyed his crude remarks had garnered nothing but laughter, the man said, "So what is the hardest skill to learn as a bodyguard, if fucking your charge is apparently harmless."

"Patience," Dario replied. "Guarding royalty requires a very high level of patience." He smiled at the man in a way that had sent more than a few people running.

The man just stared back at him, unmoved by the smile, but clearly understanding Dario's message. "I see."

Maybe not entirely a fool, then. Unfortunate.

He really wished the bastard would go away again, but he only continued to stay crouched beside Dario, staring and pondering only the gods knew what. Finally he said, "So what is it like to love a god?"

The question almost made Dario roll his eyes. What was it like to love a god. To fuck a god. To protect a god. To work with a god. He had been asked some variation of that question for all the years he had protected Culebra.

Why did everybody who asked it believe he was the first one to think of it? "I don't know," he replied. "I don't love a god."

"If you don't think he's a god then what would you call him?"

"A man," Dario replied, remembering how warm and soft Culebra was in his arms, the sweet, pliant way he surrendered to their every desire. The way he smelled of silk and honeyed wine at the start of the evening and like sex and them by the time they were done. How his nails had dug so hard into Dario's shoulders they drew blood, the way sweat had glistened on his perfect skin while he rode Granito's cock. His lips stretched and swollen and red around Dario's cock, white skin flushed pink, the bandages around his eyes soaked through with sweat. The way he fit so perfectly between them. His real smiles, bright and warm when he offered them.

Whatever anyone said or thought, Culebra was as human as anyone. "Is your next question going to be about how he is a reincarnation and so on and so forth? Don't bother. I've had this conversation more times than I care to count and it never ceases to be boring. Culebra is only a man, whatever the color of his skin or power of his eyes."

"Don't you fear that he might someday become a god? It is ultimately his destiny, however many lives it takes to fulfill it."

"What do I care?" Dario asked. "What does it matter? Culebra is Culebra, and nothing anyone says or does will change that. I love him whatever he is, whatever he may or may not become. Stop playing your tiresome games because I promise men better than you at them have failed to get a rise out of me. You cannot say anything that has not already been said somewhere in four countries. Stop boring me and come to your point."

The man smiled. "No point, only curiosity."

Dario ignored him, letting his head fall back against the wall he was up against and closing his eyes. He listened as the man finally stood and walked back to the door. He spoke to the guards, but the words were unfortunately too low for Dario to catch them. Then they left, and Dario could not figure out what the bastard had hoped to accomplish with all his irritating questions—and if he had accomplished it.

"So you get questions like that, too?" Fidel asked, sounding amused.

Dario opened his eyes and raised his brows in silent question. Fidel's mouth quirked. "No one asked me what it's like to love a god, but I get variations on it with Cortez. What's it like to be her friend. Her lover, though we never were lovers. What it's like to work with her. They call her the Black Princesa."

"The Black Princesa," Dario repeated. "I've heard that name before. She's an assassin who works for the Brotherhood. Every time I hear someone say it, the tone is fearful. They say she's never failed to kill her target."

Fidel's smile faded. "No small skill, indeed. I have seen her work and understand why people say she has a talent for it. But talent is not the right word for it. It's much more like an instinct, a natural element of her. She kills the way fish swim and birds fly. It's beautiful in a terrible way. She is always very selective of the jobs she takes, which always angers people. She told me once she only takes jobs that feel right. I occasionally hear about the jobs she refuses, that others took; they never end well."

"Intriguing," Dario said, not certain what else to say. She sounded terrifying. He did not like the idea that she had been sent to kidnap Culebra—that right that very moment, he was her captive. "So why did you both leave the Brotherhood? Given she is the Black Princesa, I am more surprised than ever that they let her leave."

"She killed someone she did not want to kill. As I said, she was particular. She does not kill idly. But she lost her temper, lost control, and killed a man. It was brutal because she was angry enough he did not die quickly. Afterward, when her rage eased, the grief broke her. She has never forgiven herself for succumbing to what she calls her evil side. Father Yago let her leave, which really came as a surprise to nobody. He has always appeared to have a soft spot for her."

"Appeared?" Dario asked.

Fidel shrugged. "She and I fought about it often. Yago took her in when she was nothing but a whore, maybe all of sixteen? Seventeen? She had already killed people by that point, but quietly she told me. Nobody knew she was the one who had done it. But Yago took her in, taught her to read, write, all of that. Helped her develop her skills, especially her killing skills. Always treated her fondly. She is normally so smart, but has a blind side when it comes to him. Gratitude is all well and good, but too much of anything is a poison."

"Yes," Dario said quietly.

"I wish I had gone with her then," Fidel said with a sigh. "But I was too much a coward to leave the Brotherhood and risk the unknown. It was all I knew before I met Cortez. For a very long time, I believed the doctrine. I suppose I still do, somewhat, but not with that fervor that made me think it was okay to flay people. We argued when she left. I refused to leave the Brotherhood though. Funny, that she was the one closet to our leader, but I the most devout. If I had just gotten over myself and left with her ... "

"It's likely you would be in this position anyway, since they clearly want her to do their bidding without fuss, and you're the only leverage they possess," Dario said. "Though, at that, I am surprised they did not use this Father Yago she was apparently so close to."

Fidel frowned at that. "That is strange, but then again, he is the head of the Brotherhood. They would not want to risk angering the Brotherhood to that degree. Nobody will pick a fight over me, except for Cortez. I just wish I had listened to her!"

Shaking his head, Dario said, "I can tell you from experience that those 'what ifs' will turn you into a drunkard if you let them get to you. If not for this kidnapping, I would still be trying to drown them in cheap wine."

Fidel smiled wryly. "I was nearly reaching that point myself when they grabbed me. I suppose this stupid situation has been good for something. But if we get out of it alive, I feel we are entitled to a few bottles of wine."

"I agree completely," Dario replied. "Have you seen him before, that man who was just bothering me?"

"No. I've heard them talk about him, but that's it. They call him Jorge."

"His eyes were violet."

Fidel's eyes popped open wide. "That—that is not possible. Schatten is sealed. Most believe there is nobody left alive in Schatten, that the Shadow of Licht destroyed them all centuries ago. How could a shadow child be all the way here in Piedre?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it. No shadow child should have an interest in Culebra, and the fact that he does ... " Dario shook his head, not certain what to make of the situation, but truly afraid for the first time.

"What do you think they're going to do?" Fidel asked quietly, sounding exactly the way Dario felt. "I thought this all to be typical cult feuding, and while that is troublesome, I am accustomed to it. But this—shadow children, Belmonte, the Lost Temple. I do not like the idea of a shadow child mucking about with the Basilisk. Whether he is good or evil, the Basilisk is our god. He does not belong to Schatten. He has no right to come here and interfere in our holy matters."

"I agree," Dario said. "But I think for now we must stick with the original plan:  hold tight and wait until Cortez and Culebra arrive, or we know for certain they will not be coming. No more impulse escapes, all right?"

Fidel grimaced. "I have behaved since the one and only time I tried, have I not? I admit that being idle is getting to me, but I could not run now even if I wanted. Do you really think they'll find the Lost Temple? The Brotherhood and the Order have explored every rock and leaf on the Azul Mountains. If we cannot locate it after nine hundred years, why should some shadow child be able to manage it? If the temple is still there at all, surely it's nothing but barely recognizable ruins at best?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure if he is going to this much trouble that he must think he knows something special, something important. I hope to the gods that it's not as useful as he thinks because the only thing more foolish that restoring a god is for an ignorant foreigner to attempt to restore the God of Death—especially since no one has ever figured out if the Basilisk was murdered or committed suicide."

His stomach churned to think of Culebra being subjected to that, being forced to assume powers that were best left dormant. So far as he was concerned, the gods could stay Lost.

"There are rumors going around," Fidel said quietly. "I first started to hear them in Verde in the port towns. I dismissed them at the time because such rumors always come and go, but now I wonder. It seems to incredible to believe, but ... "

"But what?" Dario asked.

"They say the Dragons of the Three Storms and the Holy Firebird have returned. That they are no longer lost. They say that ancient prophecies are beginning to come true."

Dario sighed and hoped the rumors were wrong, and he did not care that all of his reasons for not wanting to see Culebra become a god were entirely selfish. He wanted Culebra to take him back, knew that despite everything that a stupid, niggling hope was growing that the whole stupid situation would give him a chance to win Culebra back.

If Culebra became a god, what possible use would he have for Dario?

No doubt it was better for the world to have the God of Death back—dark and grim as he may be, Death served a purpose and had a place. But Dario didn't care what was best for the world. All he wanted was Culebra.

Midori sighed in exasperation. "I won't be gone long! I need more supplies. Not all of us can survive by catching rodents."

Ruisenor hissed at him. Until he had started traveling with her, Midori would have laughed himself sick if anyone had told him a snake could be petulant. If anyone ever laughed at him for saying it, he would punch them.

He rolled his eyes when she hissed again. "I really do need supplies. I will slip into town, purchase what I need, and be back to you in the morning, all right? It is not as though we can travel far in the dark, anyway. Not as cloudy as it has been. Unlike you, I need my eyes to see. Also, it does not help that you're black, and a black snake is remarkably hard to see in the dark."

She hissed again, rearing up to butt against his chest. Midori laughed and obediently petted her. "I promise I will be back at first light. Go do whatever giant snakes do when they take a break."

With a last soft hiss and rub against his chest, Ruisenor withdrew and slithered off into the dark of the forest. Midori waited until she was gone before he mounted his horse and rode toward the small town he could see. It looked big enough to have a half-way decent room to rent. He hoped it did.

The town was quiet as he entered, and he dismounted again to lead his horse through the streets, keeping it close. Midori ignored the looks people gave him, though he did smile at a couple of gawking children. So far inland, he doubted they saw many foreign visitors. It was saddening to him, always had been, that travel was such a rarity. He knew back in the old days, before the gods had been Lost, people had traveled much more frequently. Once, it would not have been so strange to see someone with green hair wandering around.

Though, if he were to walk around most of Kundou he would get far more stares:  the disgraced captain of the Royal Navy had been quite the source of gossip for some time, especially since he had been so well known beforehand. Just thinking about those days made his stomach churn.

He was not happy to have more or less been thrown out because he did deserve it for failing Nankyokukai, but it had been a relief, too. It was hard to feel at home in his homeland when he was constantly reminded of the ways he had failed, the way nobody had stood by him when he fell.

At least in Piedre they only looked at him for his green hair.

Finding his way proved easy enough, and when he reached the large public square, picking out a tavern that offered rooms was just as easy. Someone came out to attend his horse, and Midori stepped inside the tavern itself. The warm dark was nice after being outside in the chill and hard sun, and it seemed to be a clean, respectable place.

He paid for a room and bath and ordered a meal while he waited for everything else to be ready. Leaving his bags for someone to take upstairs to his room, he walked into the dining room. He picked a table close to the fire, but not too close, and sat down with a long sigh.

It was definitely nice not to be outside, or sitting on the ground, or in a saddle. Storms, he would be glad for a proper night's rest before once more resuming Ruisenor's punishing pace.

The food when it came almost made him groan it smelled so good:  red peppers stuffed with cheese, some sort of fish, no doubt from the small river he'd crossed earlier, and other things he did not recognize but which made him want to eat ten more helpings, and everything washed down with dark beer—a nice change from all the wine he'd been drinking since arriving.