Poison
Chapter Three: The White Eagle
Chapter Four: The Duke of Vaklov
Chapter Thirteen: Heart of Shadow
Chapter Sixteen: The White Panther
Chapter Seventeen: The Faerie Queen
Chapter Eighteen: The Tragedy of the Oak
The Lost Gods will conclude in Chaos
The Lost Gods
Megan Derr
Nine gods ruled the world, until the ultimate betrayal resulted in their destruction. Now, the world is dying and only by restoring the Lost Gods can it be saved.
Verde is ruled by the mortal reincarnations of their Lost Gods: the Faerie Queen, the Pegasus, and the Unicorn, slain nine centuries ago at the base of their Sacred Oak. Every one hundred years, the tragedy repeats itself, plunging Verde ever deeper into despair.
Now, the Tragedy of the Oak draws near and Gael, the Unicorn, grows increasingly afraid because of a dark secret kept by the Three: If he cannot find a way to break the tragic cycle, the Twelve White Beasts and his secret lover are cursed to die right alongside him.
Poison, the Lost Gods 4
By Megan Derr
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Samantha M. Derr
Cover designed by London Burden
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
Second Edition July 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Megan Derr
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 9781620041048
Ailill covered his mouth with a kerchief as he supervised the servants who were removing the dust cloths from all the furniture. It would take weeks to put his townhouse in order.
His townhouse. It did not matter the number of years that passed—that he was past thirty and had been a Duke for a very long time—he would never grow used to being nobility. To having his townhouse, his country house, or whatever else he felt like acquiring.
The servants ... and how had he acquired so many, anyway? The servants finished removing all the cloths from the library and began to fold them all up to carry them out. Ailill stared at the empty shelves, dull with dust and neglect. No doubt his cook, one of the only servants he did recognize, would have some poor maid in the library for days dusting and scrubbing and oiling the shelves. Thinking of his cook reminded him that he still lacked a housekeeper.
His real sympathy went to the footmen who would have to haul in the crates of books and his assistant and the clerks who would have to catalog and shelve them. He didn't sympathize enough to help with such a tedious chore, but he did feel bad enough he would probably overpay them.
"Your grace ..."
Ailill turned around and quirked one brow at the young man who had been following him around ever since he had returned to his estates. Well, that might have been an exaggeration. But he had definitely been about whenever Ailill needed him—even before Ailill realized it. When Andre only remained silent, Ailill removed the handkerchief from his mouth and said, "Yes, Andre?"
"Your assistance is required in the kitchens."
Kitchens? Plural? Why would a house need more than one kitchen? Ailill did not voice the question, however, because he was relatively certain his servants already regarded him as damaged in the head. He nodded and followed Andre from the library, through the halls of the house, and into the back rooms.
Upon entering the kitchen—it looked like just one, so why the plural?—he immediately saw the problem. "What happened?" he asked, looking around at the debris littered about everywhere: leaves, sticks, animal carcasses, and animal bones. The cooking tools were beyond repair, and he was relatively certain some sort of critter had made a nest of the stove. The other stove looked unfit even for rodents.
"It looks like someone broke in once," said a tall, slender, muscular woman. A tiger, he would bet. Most of his staff seemed to be feline, but that was not unusual. Cats of all sorts would be drawn to him and feel most comfortable working for him. "After that, it became ... well, you can see the results, your grace. I'm only grateful the main door there was sealed up proper, or the whole house …" She bowed low. "I apologize, your grace. I accept full punishment, as it was my mother who would have seen to the closing up of the kitchens and I have assumed her place."
Ailill scoffed at that. "No house is absolutely sealed against robbers; they are known for their persistence, after all. I would say that it is thanks to your mother that the rest of the house was not breached. Please do not worry further upon it. Make a list of necessary repairs and replacements and give the list to my secretary so he can draw the funds. Keep him apprised of the kitchen repairs. I will leave you to make suitable arrangements for meals until the kitchen is set to rights."
The cook smiled at him, eyes wide and startled. The rest of the servants assembled in the kitchen just gawked. Ailill smiled hesitantly, then nodded and walked out again. Andre was close on his heels. "Do I actually have a secretary?" he asked.
"You have a number of interviews arranged this week so you might select one," Andre said.
Ailill sighed. "I suppose that is not a decision I can tell someone else to make. Very well. When is the first of these?"
"Not for two days hence, your grace. Today the tailor is coming to take final measurements for your new wardrobe. Tomorrow you have errands about the city, mostly for goods for the house."
"Thank you, Andre. I appreciate your taking my secretary's role until I can obtain one. I am certain you would like to go back to doing ... whatever is your proper post? And where did you come from?"
Andre drew himself up, looking slightly affronted, but also faintly amused. "I was informed by a friend who has connections to the household that you required a valet and inquired with the cook. She was satisfied with my references, and I did put them with your other papers—"
"Why is she only the cook if she is doing all of this? Has there been any luck locating a housekeeper?"
Frowning, Andre pulled out a small notebook in which he seemed to jot down everything and regarded a list with only two measly items crossed out. "No, your grace. Several people were interviewed before your arrival in the city, but so far no one has suited."
"Promote my cook, then, and find a new cook. I would imagine finding someone who knows how to turn out decent pasta without burning down my kitchen would be easier to find than someone who can run a household."
"Yes, your grace," Andre murmured and slipped away in his spooky fashion.
Ailill sighed and decided it was time for a strategic retreat. If he had to do anything else Duke-like that day he was going to lose his mind. Eschewing hat and coat and gloves, he slipped out the unmanned front door and bolted down the steps and down the street, weaving his way through the city throngs, hoping he went largely unnoticed.
Unlikely, given he was so pale against a backdrop of people who had plenty of color to them. He glanced at his fair skin, remembering when it had been red from too much sun, or tanned gold by it.
He wondered what his family was doing, far away on the farm where he had grown up. He wondered if they still considered him family. They had stopped replying to his letters years ago, but he still sent someone now and again to discretely check on them and see they were doing well.
Ignoring the streets that would lead to the shops and parks and other proper parts of the city, Ailill turned east and headed toward the seedier parts that would end in the harbors.
The smell of the sea called to him, made him ache. He longed to be free again, to sail on the white-sailed ships of Kundou and explore the islands, the thousands of delights they contained. Swim in waters so much warmer and clearer than those of his homeland.
He wanted to go south to Piedre and indulge in the wine and food, the dancing, the dark, beautiful landscape and the fervent appreciation for life held by a people who worshipped death.
Most of all, he wanted Pozhar, the land of fire covered in snow, the Heart packed with people while the Cathedral of Ashes looked down over them. The beer, the vodka, the food. And the nights spent tangled in the sheets with a mercenary he could not get out of his head. Two years later and not even a single letter had been exchanged between them, but he could not forget Vanya.
Had the mercenary life gotten him killed? What would he do if Ailill just showed up one day? The way they had parted ... it felt like Vanya would remember him and welcome seeing him again.
Ailill wished he could see Vanya one last time in case the ceremony did not go well. He had hoped the tragedy would at last end because of all the rumors he'd heard of the other countries. Pozhar was doing quite well under the unexpected return of their Holy Firebird, Kundou had been thriving for the past three, and even Piedre had apparently restored their Basilisk …
It gave him real hope for Verde, though he tried not to let those hopes rise. But if the tragic cycle did finally break, his time would be his own again. It was a selfish motivation when his only concerns should have been for his gods and the people of Verde, but lofty goals were only so motivating.
He hoped he was not fooling himself in thinking Vanya would remember him. A mercenary had little use for a noble, especially when that noble was a White Beast of Verde, no matter how reluctantly. He sighed again and flicked back the braid that had fallen over his shoulder.
He paused at a street vendor's cart and bought a small sack of roasted nuts. Eating them as he walked, he continued on toward the harbors. He wasn't quite certain what he would do when he got there, but it would hardly be the first time in his life that he improvised.
Sometimes he felt as if he had been doing nothing but improvising ever since he had shifted and been revealed as the White Panther. It should not have been so easy to go from 'farm boy Ai' to Lord Ailill le Blanc, Duke of Durant, but it had been. A matter of hours, in fact. Less than a day.
The smells of the harbor hit him first: rot and refuse, piss and cheap alcohol, the sea and the ships. It was not a pleasant combination of smells, but there were too many fond memories attached to harbors for him to hate it entirely. Ailill finished the last of his nuts and crumpled the paper sack that had held them, tossing it in a rubbish barrel as he ventured further in.