Guardian of Honor

Bastien lifted her fingertips and kissed them.

Dodu sighed and withdrew her hand. “Some other time, then.”

He grinned. “Definitely.”

With a swish of the ass she knew he admired, she served another table. Bastien shifted, trying to find a less painful position.

The door opened, letting in gray twilight and the stench of frink-filled rain. Bastien’s smile faded. His brother Luthan scanned the room, spotted Bastien and strode to him.

Bastien’s brows knit. Luthan didn’t move with his usual fluidity, and pallor showed under the golden tone of his skin. He looked as if he’d been through an ordeal—more than just confronting the Marshalls in their Council, which Bastien had heard Luthan was going to do—as the new Representative of the Cloister. His acceptance of the position had spurred a lot of talk, since it now left the Chevaliers without a spokesperson to the Marshalls.

Was Luthan’s streak of silver over his right temple wider? Bastien scowled. They were very different in personality, but close nonetheless.

Luthan stopped and looked down at the lounging Bastien, dressed in render-hide. Luthan himself had a pure white surcoat over his flying leathers, decorated with the coat of arms of their mother’s family—the estate Luthan claimed for himself. When Luthan’s eyes fixed on Bastien’s hands scored by the tentacles of the soul-sucker, Bastien sat up straight. Then Luthan’s gaze lingered on the new hat.

“That is the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen.”

“You wound me to the core!” Bastien placed fingers over his heart.

Luthan scowled. “Looks to me like your last fight did that.”

Bastien cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “And you look like merde too.” He swept his hat to a corner of the table. “Sit. I know Council meetings are bad, but it shouldn’t make you look like a herd of volarans ran over you.”

Grunting, Luthan gingerly settled his long length on the opposite bench of the booth, angling his body so he could keep an eye on the room as well as his brother, an automatic strategy for a trained fighter. Bastien, of course, had taken the last booth with the wall at his back. Standing at the bar gave Chevaliers more freedom, but Bastien hadn’t been sure he could stay upright for long. Eyeing his brother, Bastien didn’t think Luthan could handle the usual jostling at a crowded bar either.

“You look like merde,” Bastien repeated.

Luthan stared at him, and his gray eyes seemed to have become darker. Bastien frowned, but when that pulled at the wounds in his scalp, he stopped and suppressed a wince.

“Jerir,” Luthan said, as if that explained everything. He caught Dodu’s attention and lifted a hand for ale.

“Jerir,” Bastien echoed, mind racing. He was supposed to be the quickest of wits of his family, and Luthan usually made him use every one of them. “An Exotique and jerir. Knowing the old tales, I’d say the Marshalls must have used it as a test.”

When the ale was set in front of him, Luthan stared down at the liquid. Then he looked up with gleaming eyes and a slight curve of the lips, lifted the mug in a half salute to Bastien, and drank. He set the glass down, pulled a pristine handkerchief from an inside pocket and dabbed his lips. “Right you are. There were several tests, but I don’t know the details. I do know that they—” he jerked his head toward the Castle “—have a whole pool of the stuff.”

Bastien choked, swallowed, breathed through a couple of gasps. “A pool?” He shook his head. “Can’t be. Jerir is scarce and valuable.”

“A pool. The ritual bathing pool in the Temple, to be exact.” He closed his eyes and a shudder rippled his long frame.

Bastien leaned forward and pressed his fingers on his brother’s fisted hand. “What is it? How can I help?”

“Take the job as Chevalier Representative to the Marshalls’ Council.”

5

“Become the Chevalier’s Representative?” That jolted a laugh from Bastien and he leaned back against the padded wall—just the contraction of his chest hurt, by the Song. “Very funny.”

Luthan didn’t open his eyes. “I’m not joking. Listen to your last words. You want to help, to matter, to make things better.”

Letting his eyelids lower, Bastien fingered the edge of his hat. “I think you take life too seriously and want me to, also. I’m willing to help my brother.”

“And Lladrana?”

“The Marshalls believe they are Lladrana.”

Luthan opened his eyes. “They are doing the best they can.”

Bastien snorted and lifted his mug to drink again, let the smooth buttery taste of goldenale slip down his gullet. He licked his lips. “The Marshalls follow old ways. What’s worse—they keep those old ways and old spells from the rest of us, so we don’t know what they are doing, why, or what to expect. Most damning of all, they hid the knowledge that our boundaries were failing from us until we were invaded by the greater horrors.”

“Perhaps they thought they could find a remedy without involving us.”

“That’s your supposition. Meanwhile Chevalier lives were lost,” Bastien said. Including his childhood friend….

“They say the Exotique will solve the puzzle of restoring the fenceposts and boundaries. As in olden days, they Summoned one, and Tested her.”

“Did you actually see her?” Bastien lifted a brow.

“I saw a forming of her.”

His brother’s voice held an odd note. Ever fascinated with something new, Bastien scooted a little closer. “You did? Where? And what did she look like?”

“During the Marshalls’ Council this morning. She looks—odd. Exotique.”

“Hmm.” Bastien eyed his brother. “What of you? There’s something different about you. You didn’t Pair with her, did you?”

This time Luthan choked. “Merde, no!” His mouth twisted. “Mind you, I was invited. The Marshalls were displeased that no Chevaliers showed up.” His eyebrow mimicked Bastien’s.

They grinned at each other.

“It’s the jerir. I took a plunge.”

Bastien’s mug halted midair. “All of you?”

“And not just a quick dip. You know the size of the Temple pool—a nice dive and glide across to the other side to stagger out.” He shuddered again.

Drinking deeply, Bastien finished his ale. He’d never seen his brother so twitchy, not Luthan the Calm. “Better you than me.”

“No, better both of us.” Luthan’s fingers curled around Bastien’s wrist. “Bastien, the stories are true. The jerir makes a difference in a person, an obvious difference. I could tell at a glance those who’d bathed and those who hadn’t. Everyone can see the change, and I’d wager every Marshall in the Castle will be in that pool before long. It’s an advantage they can’t pass up, and neither can you.”

“Ha, as if they’d let my little toe into a sacred jerir protection pool.” Bastien withdrew his arm from Luthan’s grip. An odd vibrancy to Luthan’s fingers had set every silver hair on his nape rising. He waved to order two more ales.

Luthan’s eyes blazed. “That’s just it, Bastien. Word’s gone out.” His teeth gleamed in a grin that seemed to mock. “They’re breaking tradition. Anyone who wishes to can immerse themselves in the pool for the next month.”

“Must be desperate.” With a smile, Bastien handed a couple of pegtees to Dodu to pay for the drinks.

Shoving his empty glass aside, Luthan took a swig from the new one. “It’s a grand gesture, and a smart one. They’ll find out who’s the toughest, they’ll get better Chevaliers and soldiers from this move, and they’ll challenge the Chevaliers—the dissenters who don’t think much of them, like you—to match them.”

The ale turned sour in Bastien’s mouth. A feeling deep in his gut told him he’d be swimming in jerir. Rot.