"You aren't listening," Sin insisted. "Daingean now ally with Fiain. With your marriage to Alannah, Connacht will ally with Daingean, so Fiain will be forced to side with Connacht. When that happens, Eadrom, who is currently allied with Fiain, will have to break their alliance with Walsh in order to keep the peace with us. And they will. They have no familial ties with Walsh. And now that the current--or rather, former--Walsh king is dead, the new ruler has a clean slate with us."
"I don't care," he said with a shake of his head. "The cost is too high."
Silent, Sin studied him the way he often studied his favorite maps. Sadness darkened his eyes, until it was snuffed out by determination. He nodded, as if making a monumental decision, and motioned to the table in the corner. In the center rested what looked to be a small trinket case.
"It arrived this morning," Sin said. "Just before battle."
"A gift?"
"A weapon."
Weapon? "Worry not. I'll take care of it." Puck would do anything--kill anyone--to fix his brother's problems. Fair was fair. Sin had always fixed his.
He crossed the tent to stand before the little case. Mother-of-pearl overlaid some kind of metal. A cluster of diamonds glittered at each corner. As he reached out, a pulse of malevolence brushed his skin. Not magic, but pure unadulterated evil. His blood flashed ice-cold.
"Who sent it?" And what type of weapon was it, exactly?
"A woman named Keeleycael, with the title of Red Queen. She said she hopes we enjoy our downfall."
Keeleycael. He'd never heard of her. "Does she rule a neighboring realm?" To Puck's knowledge, a woman had never led...anything. Not outright, anyway. Females aided their kings.
"I'm unsure," Sin said.
The answer hardly mattered, he supposed. No one threatened his brother and lived. Downfall? Not while Puck lived and breathed.
Sin hadn't just saved his life too many times to count; he'd saved Puck's soul.
Just before Puck's seventh birthday, his cousin died in battle. Needing a new commander from the royal line, the king chose Puck. Meaning, a little prince was ripped from his mother's arms sooner rather than later so that a woman's sweetness would no longer "influence" him.
Ruin a boy, and you ruin the man he will become.
The words his father had shouted at his mother the day Puck was taken.
"I'll go, too," five-year-old Sin had said. "Where you go, I go."
The details of that fateful day were forever branded into Puck's memory. How their mother's sobs could be heard throughout the fortress. My babies. Please, don't take my babies. How tears had streamed down Sin's face as he'd taken Puck's hand and willingly walked away from the only home he'd ever known. How comforted Puck had been by the younger boy's unwavering resolution to stay together.
The two boys lived and trained with the clan's most hardened soldiers for years, softer emotion beaten, whipped or cut from them.
At the ages of twelve and ten, they were both given a sword and abandoned by their father in the midst of the most dangerous sand dunes with these parting words: Return with the heart of our enemy--or stay gone.
If Puck could flash back in time, he would demand Sin remain cosseted with their mother, safe in her loving arms. Now, guilt was his constant companion. Until he'd learned to fight, and fight well, he'd been unable to protect Sin from daily abuses. Worse, their mother died before they could visit her.
She'd delivered a stillborn babe soon after their departure and, in her grief, purposely burned herself to ash. A warrior could have survived the flames, but not a female without runes and magic.
Massaging the back of his neck, Puck considered the best way to proceed. "Have you opened the case?"
"No. I waited for you," Sin said, with a tremor of fear.
Fear? Impossible. Sin feared nothing while Puck guarded his back.
"I shouldn't have brought the cursed thing to your tent." His brother strode toward the table. "I'll take it and--"
"No." Arm extended, Puck stopped Sin before he could make contact with the case. Yes, Sin had already handled it without consequence. Didn't matter. There was no reason for further risk. "I want to know what's inside." Wanted to know what this unknown queen thought to use against his family.
"I'll fetch one of the commanders. Let him--"
"No. I'll do it myself." A good king did not put his own life ahead of his people. "Leave me. I'll let you know what I find."
"You stay, I stay."
Another log fell into the fire pit of his guilt. He popped his jaw. "I don't want you endangered, brother." Not now, not ever.
For a single heartbeat of time, Sin's eyes glistened with unshed tears. He quickly blinked them back. "And yet," he said, "still I plan to stay."
Why those almost-tears? Suddenly Puck couldn't tolerate the thought of having his brother anywhere but nearby. "Very well. Stand back."
As Sin moved to the other side of the tent, Puck palmed a short sword and braced for the worst. Bomb blast? A magical trap? Then, he did it--he opened the lid.
At first, nothing happened. But between one heartbeat and the next, black smoke rose from the case, the scent of sulfur saturating the air, stinging his nostrils. Glowing red eyes blinked open, focused on him and narrowed.
Puck reared back even as he thrust the sword forward. The metal merely ghosted through the darkness. What the--
A horned creature appeared--the owner of those eyes. With a high-pitched screech, it swooped down. Target: Puck. He tried to leap out of the way. Too late. The creature--
Pain seared him, shoving a roar past his lips. The creature had entered his body, and now tore into his organs. It bit and clawed, too, and yet Puck experienced no outward signs of injury.
Frantic, he dropped the sword to rake his nails over his chest, slicing skin and muscle--to no avail. The creature remained inside him, a dark presence, howling with a toxic mix of hate and pleasure.
The blood in Puck's veins might as well have been fuel; every cell in his body seemed to catch fire, melting him from the inside out as he...changed? Two rings of fire erupted on the crown of his skull, as if circles had been burned into the bone. He reached up and felt...horns?
Breath wheezed through clenched teeth as he yanked at hanks of brown fur sprouting on his legs. The fur remained. Next, a hard shell grew over his feet--hooves?--as his leather boots ripped apart at the seams.
Changing shapes wasn't new to him, but this transformation had control of Puck, not the other way around. He couldn't stop it.
Jagged black lines appeared on his chest, small rivers of lava burning as they spread. An image formed. A butterfly with wings as sharp as shattered glass. Different colors shimmered in the firelight, one after the other, altering as various emotions flooded him.
Mostly, panic grabbed Puck by the neck and held firm, choking him. Was this a hallucination, caused by smoke?
Or was he becoming a monster for good?
His knees gave out, unable to support his weight. As he lay on the ground, panting, the panic died. His gaze landed on the Walsh sword, and the pride he'd experienced only moments before faded before disappearing altogether. The devotion he bore for his realm and people...gone. He felt nothing. The sword was a scrap of finely honed metal, the realm a meaningless location, its citizens a nonentity.
Puck searched for emotion, any emotion, hidden anywhere. There! Love for Sin, a shining beacon.
He would protect the younger male from this...whatever this was. But, as he attempted to reach for his brother, muscle locked on bone, holding him immobile, and panic returned.
"Sin!"
Sin wouldn't meet his gaze.
Something's wrong...
A terrible nothingness began to creep through Puck a second time--this one directed at his brother. Precious Sin. Treasured Sin. Puck's reason for...everything. But an invisible dagger cut into his heart, affection draining out...draining...
Still he fought. "Love you," he rasped. Can't lose Sin. Can't... But
even as he spoke, his heart emptied.
One moment his love blazed, a light inextinguishable by war, persecution or travesty, the next it was nothing but a snuffed-out torch.
Puck blinked up at Sin and felt...nothing. He hadn't forgotten their past, or the many ways his brother had aided him throughout the centuries, or everything Sin had given up on his behalf, but he cared not at all.
Sin crouched beside him, sadness once again darkening his eyes. "I'm sorry, Puck. I truly am. I knew what was inside the case... Keeleycael...she knew of our prophecy, claimed we were already on the path to destruction, and one of us would kill the other. This way, we can live. I just... I couldn't kill you, and I couldn't let you kill me. You would have hated yourself. I'm sorry," he repeated. "So sorry."
His brother had betrayed him?
Not possible. He would never do such a terrible thing.
"I made a deal with a she-devil," Sin continued. "I'll never forgive myself, but better me than you, aye? Don't you see? You won't concern yourself with the crown, or the clans. You're now possessed by the demon of Indifference." He tapped Puck on the chest, and his voice hardened. "The two of you are joined for the rest of eternity."
Sorrow, determination and fury--so much fury--suddenly blazed inside Puck. An explosion! His brother had betrayed him. Had actively plotted his ruin. But just like everything else, the sorrow, determination and fury faded, until only cold disinterest remained.
Puck the Undefeated had just become Puck the Fucked.
He should leave. He might not have an aspiration to slay his brother, or to stay here, or even to go, but common sense said, Do not remain with the one who harmed you.
Muscles unlocking from bone at last, he stood.
"I did this for us." Sin straightened, reached for him. "Tell me you understand. Tell me we'll stay together."
Silent, he backed away from his brother. He would go for a walk, think about what had happened and what he should do next.
"Puck--"
He strode out of the tent, never once glancing back.
2
Centuries passed. The exact number escaped Puck. He didn't care to keep count.
He didn't return to his brother or clan, even when he heard rumors of Sin's brutality. Apparently his brother had morphed into the most bloodthirsty tyrant in Amaranthian history. He destroyed half a forest--one of only two--to build a fortress. He made slaves of the Connachts and any other clansmen he captured, and killed anyone who "plotted his downfall."
He believed thousands of people plotted his downfall.
In reality, Puck knew the truth. Sin's black soul had finally come out to play.
Aimless, Puck wandered from one end of Amaranthia to the other. Those who got in his way died. If he came across something necessary for his survival, he took it. Food. Weapons. A night's lodging. Sometimes he accepted a lover. He could harden, and a female could ride herself to satisfaction, but he cared nothing about her pleasure--and could not achieve his own. Though he felt a physiological need for release, no one had the power to make him come. Not even himself.
He remembered how he'd once secretly dreamed of being with the same woman over and over again. When he actually did it, he found the experience lacking.
As Puck grew used to Indifference, he realized the demon did not--could not--steal or erase his emotions, only bury and hide them. Which the demon no longer preferred to do; he'd developed a taste for issuing punishment whenever Puck felt too much for too long.
Never indifferent about that, are you, fiend?
Even now, the creature prowled through his mind, every step like the swing of a sledgehammer as he waited for Puck to misstep.
He had to learn to bury and hide his emotions all on his own, and cover them with thick layers of mystical ice, summoned by magic he made sure he always had on tap. The kind of magic he could wield anywhere, anytime. With ice came numbness, with numbness, peace.
A necessary process. A well of fury, hate, pain, concern and hope still seethed inside him. He was a powder keg, and one day he would blow.
When that happened...
Would Indifference kill him? Would Puck welcome death, or fight?
At least the demon cautioned him anytime an emotion slipped free. Snarls equaled a slap on the wrist. Roars meant Puck trod upon dangerous ground. When he heard purring, he'd felt too much for too long, and hell was about to be unleashed--upon him.
The demon would deplete him of strength, leaving him immobile for days. Practically comatose.
To circumvent punishment, Puck created rules he followed without fail.
Trust no one, ever. Remember everyone lies.
Kill anyone who threatens my survival, and always retaliate for the minutest slight.
Eat three meals a day, and acquire clothes and weapons whenever possible.
Always follow through.
At some point, Puck came across Princess Alannah of Daingean. She screamed and ran away from him, terrified of the monster he'd become. Oh, well.
Though magic still swirled inside Puck, he'd lost his ability to shapeshift. The horns remained atop his head, two ivory towers of shame. The fur on his legs and the hooves on his feet remained, as well; no matter how many times he hacked them off, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could free his mind of Indifference if he freed his body of its beastly attributes.
As time passed, different males attacked him, determined to kill the disgraced Connacht prince. Puck was stabbed, staked and hung, drawn and quartered, and set on fire. Whenever possible, he fought back. And if he couldn't fight back because of the demon, he waited until his body healed, then meted retribution ruthlessly, mercilessly, overcome by a rage he couldn't control.
Of course, Indifference always penalized him afterward.
One morning, as Puck walked the sand dunes he'd once adored, his feet throbbed. Or rather, his hooves. A quick glance down proved he had sustained multiple injuries, leaving a river of blood in his wake. He needed to steal and magically alter a pair of shoes. And clothing. He'd forgotten to dress.
Two golden suns highlighted a small camp in the distance. Perfect. Different garments swung from a rope anchored to the tops of two side-by-side tents. The scent of meat wafted on the breeze as a coinin roasted above a fire pit.
No one waited outside, though voices seeped from one of the tents.
"--announced this morning. Prince Taliesin of Connacht killed his father in his sleep."
"Guess that means Taliesin is king now," was the grumbled reply. "Prince Neale was to be the successor, but he's dead, I think."
Puck stopped in his tracks. Sin had killed their father?
They'd both despised the male, but cold-blooded murder while the Connacht slept? That was low.
Puck waited for a punch of surprise...disgust...rage...something. Not a single hint of emotion seeped past his ice. As he pulled on a pair of too-tight sheepskin pants, he wondered what he should feel. All of the above, perhaps? A need to stop his brother, definitely.
"If Prince Neale isn't dead," one of the men said, "he's still a beast."
Neale--Puck.
"Would you rather have Taliesin or a beast ruling over your family?" the other male asked.
"Beast," both men said in unison.
The fact that anyone would want Puck over Sin...the Connachts must be desperate.
Can I really walk away and leave my clan in danger?
And what if Sin married a woman who loved him, killed Puck, and united the clans? Amaranthia would surely collapse.
Sin had to die.
Always follow through.
Well, all right, then. Puck would save the Connachts from a madman and the entire realm from devastation--and finally mete vengeance against his brother. And deep in his heart of hearts, Puck did want vengeance. For the bright future he'd lost, and the love Sin had so coldly destroyed.
Puck deserved to rage against the male. He'd earned the right.
Indifference snarled a warning. Puck summone
d a tendril of magic to cloak his heart and mind with more ice.
As glacial logic returned, realization set in: if the demon managed to drain him of strength, Sin would best him.
He knows my weaknesses already...
Puck's hands curled into fists. He needed to find Sin's weakness.
No one offered better direction than the Oracles.
Puck ate every bite of coinin--rules were rules--found, magically altered and donned a pair of boots, then headed east. The Oracles lived in the most dangerous part of Amaranthia, where potent magic thickened the air, creating rifts that led to other realms, endless pits, the center of a volcano and even the bottom of an ocean. Only the most desperate citizens dared to venture here. Those who sought to save themselves or a loved one, kings who needed guidance when choosing an heir, or people like Puck, with nothing to lose.
The three-day journey took a toll on him. No campsites, no food or water. At least he managed to avoid the rifts.
Finally, he reached the realm's tallest sand tower. The Oracles lived up top, with a view of...everything. Too weak to climb, Puck used the last of his magic to create a sand staircase.
He needed to acquire more magic, which meant he would have to kill someone, and soon.
Should he slay one of the Oracles? History claimed the trio created Amaranthia as a safe haven for anyone with magical inclinations. Their supply of magic must be limitless, even unending.
At one time, the thought of harming a female would have disgusted him. Now? Bring it. A source was a source.
Business first. As he stepped onto the upper level without rails or walls he discovered three females standing together, each draped from breast to thigh in colorful scarfs. A fine, dark mist obscured their faces.
In lieu of a greeting, he said, "You know why I'm here." They must. "How do I regain what's mine? Freedom from the demon. The Connacht crown. Unification for the clans. Protection for my realm. Sin's black heart on a golden platter. Princess Alannah."
He would take her as his due.
As winds grew more violent, the women asked in unison, "What is our credo, Puck the Undefeated?"
All of Amaranthia learned their credo from the crib. Nothing given, nothing gained. The more personal the gift, the more detailed the answer.
What was more personal than his blackened heart?