Stone Rose (5 page)

From that moment on, working their way up to the top ranks of the royal guard had no longer been enough. They'd lost all interest in commanding armies after seeing Culebra.

Becoming his bodyguards should not have been so easy given they were soldiers with no bodyguard experience whatsoever. That aside, they knew little of life at court. Their days had been spent in the city or on the palace grounds. Protecting Culebra meant learning how to spend their days in the midst of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the country—in the world.

They'd been astonished to learn they were the only two ever to volunteer for the job of protecting Prince Culebra. Friends in the guards had been baffled and their superiors vastly disappointed, but he and Granito had not cared a whit.

From the moment they had seen Culebra, protecting him, making him smile, had become their primary purpose in life. Of course, their lives had changed again as the prince grew older, more confident under their care ... and gone from breathtaking to desirable.

Two men had never enjoyed greater fortune than they, especially when Culebra so easily and happily accepted them and their strange relationship.

He should have been grateful for all the years of happiness he had enjoyed, grateful that Culebra had accepted him and Granito and the way they loved each other the way brothers never should have. It was not fair to expect it to last forever, and he should accept that and learn gratitude and finally move on.

And he was grateful, but mostly he was angry and miserable. He took another swallow of wine and then set it aside because it was his last bottle and he didn't want to have to go the village for more anytime soon. Doing so would just earn him more unwanted looks:  disapproval, sympathy, pity. The pity was the worst. He didn't need anybody's pity.

He flinched at his own thoughts, which immediately called up Culebra in all his pale, delicate beauty, the long line of white broken only by the black bandages wrapped around his eyes.

With a rough noise he picked his bottle up again and drained it by half. Slamming it back down, he glanced towards the woods again, wondering when he would be fool enough to go crawling back. It was painfully obvious that Culebra was never going to recall him.

Slumping against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. Better still would be if he could figure out how not to think at all and just float along on the wine until he finally drowned his memories or himself.

The sound of horses forced his eyes open, and Dario scowled at the group of four men riding up the hill toward him. Mercenaries, by the look of them, but why would mercenaries seek him out? He took another swig of wine, then used the wall for balance to pull himself to his feet. The world spun alarmingly, and his stomach gave a lurch as though trying to escape, but thankfully the contents of it stayed where they were for the moment.

He glared, or tried to glare anyway, as the men reached the top of the hill and rode across the yard toward him. They came to a halt in front of him, and then moved to form a semi-circle around him, effectively trapping him. Well, they thought effectively. Unfortunately, they might have been right if only because he was too drunk to be as much of a threat as usual.

It must have to do with Culebra. There was literally nothing else in his life that warranted such attention, but Eyes if he could come up with any theories as to why.

Trying to make his alcohol-clouded mind work for the first time in a long time proved to be more difficult than he liked admitting. Dario studied the men, looking for any clue as to their purpose. Any advantage he could find he would take because he was already at such a disadvantage that he was as good as dead if they wanted to kill him. He doubted it, since they had not yet attacked him, but there was never any telling with mercs.

They were nondescript in appearance, wearing good leather armor over sturdy tunics and breeches, the kind meant for hard travel and not having tea in the Lavender sun room. That they wore tunics at all was interesting, though. Tunics were a bit outdated, if not quite old-fashioned yet. Only the southern areas still dressed like that. Long hair on two of them, thick curls on the other, beards and goatees all around. More southern. The horses clinched it—those massive beasts were definitely southern blood.

Unfortunately, that they were southern in origin was about all he could deduce. That alone told him they were good at what they did, which in turn told him they were probably under the thumb of one of the cults. But that wasn't terribly useful because most mercs belonged to either the Order or the Brotherhood. They made better money that way and were more easily able to slip under the law. "Whatever you want, you've come to the wrong place. I've got nothing for you but cheap wine and rotted vegetables."

"Are you Master Dario Tapia?"

"Why do you want to know?" Dario demanded. They did not lack for weapons, and in his current state he stood no chance against them. But why would anyone come looking for him? Without Culebra and Granito, he was nothing. The flies were more dangerous than he was.

The long-haired, bad-goatee bastard in charge jerked his head in a way that was imperious enough to put the king to shame. "You are coming with us."

"I'm too smart to go anywhere with anyone, unless you're taking me to the pub to buy me more wine," Dario replied, shifting his weight, tensed for trouble. They would take him, but they would not take him easily. "I'm just a drunkard bothering nobody. Leave me in peace."

Two of the men dismounted, and Dario moved, lunging forward and tackling of them to the ground, startling the man's horse in the process. He drew a dagger and plunged it into the bastard's throat.

As he rose, his stomach caught up with all the movement. He threw up all over the dead man, shoving away from the body as he finished. He looked up just in time to see the other man bringing the hilt of a sword down on his head.

Pain flared and the world went black.

When the world returned, it was still black, but cut by yellow moonlight. Dario tried to sit up and realized that someone had bound his hands—and done it well, unfortunately. He huffed in irritation and relaxed as much as he could, though between the ropes, the roiling stomach, and his throbbing head he wished he would just pass out again.

He was going to be beyond irritated if the surprise kidnapping forced him into sobriety.

"You're finally awake," said a smooth, deep voice with a hint of the soft, rolling accent of the coast. Nothing like the rougher southern accent of Dario's kidnappers; nothing like the sharp, clipped city accent he had worked so hard to achieve. It was closer to his native north mountain accent, but still very different. "I was beginning to think they were collecting corpses."

"I would not count me among the living quite yet," Dario said, and then groaned as his stomach lurched again. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until his stomach finally decided to settle. Slowly opening his eyes again, he took a more thorough look at his surrounding, but he could tell little beyond the fact it was a building made of earth and clay. So he'd been dragged to a village—not his home village, however, because they would not have let the men drag him off if they had realized they were a threat.

The other man chuckled somewhere off to Dario's left. Dario looked that way, but could see nothing beyond a vague impression of a thicker shadow. "You smell like a tavern, I will grant you that."

Dario grunted and closed his eyes, willing his stomach and head to hold still. He probably smelled a great deal worse than that, but the kindness was appreciated. "I take it you received the same charming invitation to this party as I?"

"Charming," the man agreed. "I did manage to kill two of them first. I saw they were only three when they returned, so you must have managed a kill of your own."

"If I'd been sober I would have gotten them all," Dario said, annoyed with himself. On the other hand, he still had absolutely no idea why they had taken him at all. He was, quite literally, nothing.

The man made an amused noise. "Cocky."

Dario sneered at that, even if the expression was lost in the dark. "I'm not cocky; cockiness only gets people killed. I'm just good at what I do when I am not soaked in cheap wine," Dario replied, not bothering to add that it wasn't the alcohol that was the problem so much as the self-pity. "So why were we invited to this party, do you know?"

He heard the man shift, the rustled of fabric and the soft thump of boots against stone. "I know why these carrion took me, but that reason is unique to me. You have nothing to do with it. Clearly we are connected, but I cannot say why. They are impressively close-mouthed for mercs, but then again, they look like expensive mercs."

Not helpful. But also not surprising. He knew for a fact the man had nothing to do with Culebra, and there was literally no other reason in the world that anyone would bother to kidnap Dario. "It cannot be that hard to figure out what we have in common. There can only be so many places we overlap. I suspect why I was taken; your reason must be similar. They are not making us do anything, so we must therefore be collateral. We will find our explanation there, but you must tell me why you have been taken."

"I am not telling anyone anything," the man replied. "I don't hear you explaining yourself, either."

Dario glared at him, annoyed all over again by the lack of light. "I used to be—"

A door opened, letting in noise and light, and Dario stopped talking. "It's time to go," a rough, southern-accented voice said. Dario recognized him as the ringleader from before.

"Sorry," Dario said. "I have a previous engagement and must be on my way. But perhaps we can do dinner another time."

The man gave a sneering laugh as he sank to one knee beside Dario. He grabbed a fistful of Dario's hair and yanked his head up. "You might speak like a palace rat, but we all know the snake threw you aside, protector. Still I think you are the best rat to bait the trap."

So it was about Culebra. Blood and bone. "I may no longer be his highness' bodyguard, corpse-eater, but that does not mean I won't protect him. I suggest you take extra care in watching your back while I'm your guest."

The man just laughed. Dario heard his fellow captive gasp at realizing Dario's identity, but before Dario could say anything else his captor slapped a damp cloth over his mouth. The fumes of dream wine made his eyes water, and then the world returned to black.

Sunshine woke him up the second time. He looked around, hoping for something useful, but it was clear they had been locked up in a little storeroom, probably in the back of some little farmer's cottage. The smell of earth and grain certainly indicated the room had once actually been used to store such things. Sunlight slipped in through the cracks in the wooden planks. They must have been more east, then. No houses around him used wood to build houses. That put them days from where he lived.

For the first time in months Dario felt almost like himself again. Unfortunately, that meant he felt the raw, gaping wounds left by the absence of Granito and Culebra. But his head was no longer fuzzy, and he was aware of the world with a clarity he loathed. He supposed it was for the best, really, but he still wholly resented the bastards who had dragged him against his will back to the land of the living.

At the very least, they could have given him a bath before shoving him into a small room where he was forced to smell himself with every breath. To think that once he had bathed every day; he and Granito had taken turns bathing Culebra, and oh the delightful things that could be done to a wet, pliant prince.

Thinking about it, the clarity of the memories in his mind, just made him want to scream, put his fist through a wall, and then find the nearest barrel of wine.

"So you are the Dario," said a smooth, coastal accent. Dario vaguely recalled it from before, when they had been locked in that black room.

Dario turned his head toward the sound and took in a small, compact, handsome man. Definitely from the coast with that skin, which was slightly darker than his own from all the sunshine. He was dirty, clothes torn and stained, arms and face covered in scratches still caked with blood. He was as sorely in need of a bath as Dario and looked as though he needed a few good meals. But his eyes were clear and sharp. They were a rare blue, as bright as the ocean he'd probably grown up beside—probably some Kundou in his blood, with eyes like that. He was playing restlessly with a couple of pebbles, flipping and turning them with a dexterity that spoke of being very skilled with his hands. "The Dario? Do people say that? But I am not the Dario anymore, only a Dario."

The man laughed. "So you are that Dario, I am not mistaken? The famous bodyguard to the Basilisk Prince."

"His name is Culebra, not Basilisk," Dario snapped out of habit. Culebra hated when people called him that, as if there was nothing to him as a person, only as a reincarnation. People should have revered him, honored him, but instead he was surrounded by fear and petty jealous, and never allowed to simply be Culebra.

"Yes, I can see why they think you might still make good bait," the man said, amused.

Dario scowled at him. "What do you mean, bait?" But he recalled then that one of the mercenaries had said something similar before knocking him out. 'I think you are still the best rat to bait the trap' was what the carrion had said.

"The same reason they use me," the man replied, smiling crookedly. "Cortez and I have not spoken in many months, and we parted in bad grace. But I never stopped caring and was trying to find her again when they took me. If I cannot let her go, then there is a good chance—a hope—that she has not let me go either. That makes for very good hearing. Unfortunately, it also means she must be doing something she does not want to."

The irritation went out of Dario, replaced by pain and longing. "He threw me out. I doubt I am as useful as they think. Who or what is Cortez, and what has she to do with Culebra? Who are you, for that matter?"

"My name is Fidel, and these days I am just a wanderer."