Stone Rose (11 page)

He ate as quickly as having only one hand allowed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he was done. Oh, what he would do for a bath, a shave, and clean clothes.

On the opposite side of the room, Fidel stirred and slowly sat up, grimacing in pain. His left eye was still swollen shut and he favored his right arm, fumbling awkwardly to pick up his bowl and eat. He'd barely spoken since his thwarted attempt at escape, though in his defense, his face had been too swollen for a couple of days for him to manage speaking.

Whatever their captors were about, they certainly meant business—though that had been obvious by the fact they were willing to accept the risks of kidnapping Culebra.

Had they succeeded? Was he going to see Culebra soon? Did he know yet that Dario had been kidnapped? Was that how they had managed the feat? He should have thought of that sooner, but he didn't think that was what they were doing. He still had the impression they were holding him to use for something else.

The thought of seeing Culebra again set his heart to pounding, and he was not certain if it was from excitement or dread. Likely both, because he hated Culebra for throwing him out, but by the gods he still loved Culebra with all his being.

What would Culebra say? What would he do? Would he care at all, or ignore him? Dario ached thinking about it, the way Culebra had said he should leave, the way he had refused to let Dario back into his rooms, the pain of losing Granito, the way that loss had cost him everything else in his life.

Had Culebra moved on? Did he love someone else? Had he obtained a new bodyguard? Just thinking about it made Dario want to punch the hypothetical bastard and throw him out and then take back the place that should have been his.

He hoped Culebra had sense enough to refuse to cooperate.  But he feared Culebra
would
cooperate, just because he would not want Dario to come to harm. Dario dreaded finally learning what their captors were planning.

Fidel finished eating and dropped his bowl on the floor and then lay back down and closed his eyes. Dario asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Stupid and sore," Fidel replied.

"We'll stand a better chance of escape once we're in the mountains."

Fidel cracked one eye open, giving him a doubtful look. "The mountains? Do you really think that's what they're going to do?"

"I can't think why else they would drag all of us here to Belmonte—especially his highness. It cannot be coincidence that they are risking everything to bring the Basilisk Prince to the general vicinity of the Lost Temple, especially given that it was believed to be around this time of year that the Basilisk died."

"Killed himself," Fidel interjected.

"If that is what you want to believe," Dario said. "But I suggest you drop the matter because it will only make us enemies."

Fidel was silent a moment, and then said, "I did not picture you as siding with the Order. Then again, that makes sense since it's the Order that maintains he was murdered and his powers should be restored."

Dario shrugged his shoulders irritably. "I'm not siding with the Order. If you ask me, they're no better than the Brotherhood:  both want power, just in different ways. I don't believe the Basilisk killed himself only because I know Culebra. He has been dangerously close to killing himself, but he's never done it. All he's ever wanted was a reason to live. If he is too strong to take his life, even at his lowest, I cannot believe he was anything but that strong in all his previous lives. Being the incarnation of Death makes him appreciate and long for life. That is what I believe."

"An interesting way to see it," Fidel said, "though I believe previous incarnations have taken their own lives. It's recorded in the history books."

"Having worked for royalty for most of my life, I can tell you that history books are as fictional as children's tales. If you honestly think that the Order and the Brotherhood only ever speak the truth, then you are remarkably naive for a criminal."

Fidel did not reply, and Dario stifled a sigh. He hated religion—it ruined everything. "So to judge by your beliefs, you are part of the Brotherhood. That means our kidnappers are not, though I hadn't thought so anyway. This is not how the Brotherhood of the Black Rose behaves."

"No, they're not Brothers," Fidel said. "But you're right in that I am—was, actually. I left the order shortly after Cortez."

That was interesting. "My impression of the Brotherhood was that they do not simply let people go."

"The circumstances were unique," Fidel said quietly, an unmistakable note of sadness in his voice. "Father Yago let her go, and when I could not live without her, he let me go as well. I'm sure he will call in the debt someday, but I'll pay any price if I can just get back to Cortez."

"That, I can understand," Dario said quietly.

Fidel shifted slightly to lie on his back, his tied arm stretched up and his injured arm cradled on his chest. "They are not of the Order either, I do not think. This is not how the Order behaves. They grabbed me at the border when I was returning from Verde after trying to find Cortez there. I thought they were Order at first, and I think they tried to pass for them, but they just do not do it well. I have no idea who they are; if they have a name, they've not mentioned it. I shudder to think what will happen if a new cult has formed. They've already managed to kidnap his highness, which is more than anyone has done in centuries."

Dario did not reply, lost in brooding. He wished, more than ever, that Granito was still alive. Thinking of his brother was still like thrusting a knife into his own chest. For as long as he could remember, they were all they had. Their father had been gone long before they were born, and their mother had died when Granito was fourteen, he twelve. They never should have been left alone, but they'd been self-sufficient long before that.

Their mother had kept them alive long enough for them to survive on their own, but barely. Once Granito was old enough to keep the household functioning, she had drowned herself in wine. Dario had resented her for it—until he found himself doing the same thing.

If that was the despair his mother had felt ... well, it was not enough to forgive her, because she'd had two sons who tried so hard to love her, but he understood better.

No matter the years that passed, he still remembered the first time he'd kissed his older brother. Dario had been sixteen and furious when Granito returned home smelling as if he'd rolled in the hay with the village trollop.

Granito belonged to him, he remembered thinking that very clearly. He remembered feeling like his heart was going to pop. He remembered his hands trembling right before he balled them up and punched Granito in the face. He remembered the fight:  every hit, kick, pull, tear, scratch, and bruise. And oh, how he remembered when he'd slammed Granito to the floor and kissed him. It had been a terrible kiss because he'd had no idea what he was doing and being angry and terrified hadn't helped.

But Granito had kissed him back, and after that the kisses—everything—had vastly improved.

Wrong or right, they'd never really been brothers. Family, yes. But the brotherly barrier that should have been there simply wasn't, and Dario hadn't been sorry. He knew better than to question when a good thing came along. It was the very same reason they'd had no hesitations about pursuing Culebra.

Gods, he wished he had Granito right then. He might have been the patient one, the ruthless one, but Granito had been the clever one. Better still, he wished Granito was with Culebra. But it had been Granito who had saved Culebra out at sea, Dario believed that with all his heart. He wished they'd both lived, but he was glad he had not lost them both—though, he sort of had, in the end.

"You look as though you swallowed sour wine," Fidel said.

"Huh? Oh," Dario said, and shrugged—or tried to, anyway. He could not wait until he was no longer tied up. Life was ever so much more pleasant when he was the one tying people up, whether to haul them off to the palace prison or to bind Culebra to his bed so he could be enjoyed at leisure.

The filthy thoughts had been a good sight easier to ignore when he was drunk. "I wish I had sour wine," Dario groused. "Good wine would be better, but I will take anything that will get me drunk at this point."

Fidel laughed, making Dario scowl. "You are one of those thinking people, aren't you? Your mind spins and spins unless you are sleeping or fucking or drinking."

"After I am done dumping their bodies in the nearest river, I will be more than happy to add yours to it," Dario said sourly.

The words just made Fidel laugh some more. "You remind me of Cortez. She is quiet and still on the outside, but her mind never stops. People think she is stupid because she was an orphan then a whore then a Brother, and because she is good at killing. But Cortez is no fool."

Dario snorted. "I would never call a professional killer a fool. They risk not only the law, but angering the gods. Unnecessary deaths bring ill fortune, and the Basilisk had no love for those who took lives needlessly. To have gotten away with it for years and years? That is the work of impossible luck or great skill."

Fidel smiled at him, pleased.

"Killing is still killing, though," Dario said. "It does bring ill fortune."

"She quit," Fidel said. "Whatever her crimes, she quit. And I would say she is getting her ill fortune right now in doing whatever it is they are making her do. I hope that she had the sense to refuse, but if she knows I am alive she will agree."

Dario made a face. "So will Culebra. I do wish we knew what was going on, past knowing we are probably dealing with a new cult."

"I'm sure we'll find out before we really want to," Fidel said.

Grunting in reply, Dario tried to make himself as comfortable as possible and closed his eyes. If what the guard from earlier had said, they were going to need their strength. That meant they were probably moving again.

If there was one thing that made him grateful for his peasant upbringings and his extensive travelling with Culebra:  it was that he had learned to sleep almost anywhere. Rickety carriages, horseback, soggy ground, hard ground, sneeze-inducing ground, rowboats and storm-tossed ships. He could sleep in burning summer and freezing winter, even when there was snow falling down on his layers of blankets.

So, despite the discomfort in his arms and legs, the uncertainty and dread souring the food in his stomach, Dario fell asleep.

When he was roughly shaken awake later, it was dark out. Dario groaned as he was unchained and pulled to his feet only to be bound anew. He shuffled behind the guard holding his lead, ignoring the growing irritation at being treated like a dog.

The men led him and Fidel outside to where several horses and another rickety cart were waiting. Beside him, Fidel groaned. Dario almost joined him. The last time they'd been thrown into it, they'd been jerked and rattled and thrown about like dice in a cup. "Can't we just be thrown over a horse or something?" he asked.

"I thought you two were so tough."

"Let's see how tough you are when you get jostled around. Your dick gets hit the wrong way a couple of times, you'll be groaning too," Fidel said. "Then again, your dicks are so small, you probably have to pay the whores double to account for the trouble they go to just finding them."

One the guards cuffed Fidel hard and then picked him up as though he were a maiden and dropped him over the side of the cart. "Enjoy the ride, princess. But if this one leaves you wanting, I can give you a ride you won't soon forget."

"I'm not so desperate I'm willing to settle for your mouse dick," Fidel retorted and grunted when the man hit him again.

Dario climbed into the cart from the back with the assistance of a guard who looked far more amused by the verbal abuse his comrade was taking than he probably should have. When they were settled, the guards mounted and signaled the man driving the cart.

They set off, and it was exactly as miserable as the first time. Dario propped himself in a corner as best he was able and resigned himself to hours of torture. He supposed it was moderately better than being stuck on a ship moments away from flipping from the force of the waves.

But thinking that only reminded him of Culebra and Granito, and he winced.

"When I am finally free of this nightmare, I'm strapping this entire refuse pile to a cart and going for a ride on the most uneven roads I can find."

Dario smirked. "Definitely south, toward Horn Point, then. Those roads are miserable, especially in the spring when they're all cracked and riddled with holes from the winter. Those roads can cost you all of your teeth if you're not careful. It's a pity you can't first haul them to Pozhar. There are some terrible roads in the more rural regions. I hated going further than the Heart."

"I always wanted to travel," Fidel said wistfully. "I only went to Verde to find Cortez and did not really get to enjoy my visit much. Too expensive to travel, and criminals do not have easy ways of saving their money."

"Well, after this over, maybe you can take all these bastards abroad and drag them over the roads of Pozhar. I cannot imagine that you and Cortez will want to stay here."

Fidel smiled, the moonlight just barely making him visible. They lapsed into silence, and Dario stared up at the stars. Thinking of ships made him flinch, but not so very long ago he had thought fondly of their voyages at sea. Culebra loved the air, the smells, the sailors who were always so kind to him. Granito had always loved to learn how the ships worked and more than once he had pitched in to help when things got rough.

Dario had preferred learning to sail, the maps and charts, the stars. He had learned to read them as well as any child of the sea. It made him sad to realize he had not bothered to really look at the stars since his life had fallen apart. He had let himself forget how beautiful they were, how much they soothed him.

If he somehow managed to get out of his predicament alive, he would have to watch the stars more often. He would take Culebra with him, even if he had to borrow the chains and cart idea and remind him why they could be happy as two even if they would never be the same as three.