MAS-Zine Ebooks

MAS-Zine Ebook [ Order] A Prelude to Nocturnia by Malarky PROLOGUE Angus. My name was Angus once, was it not? I always wondered who or what would dance with me in the delirium of near death. I see them, mortals swarming like pale locusts to swallow all that I have loved, all that I have called my own. There was a time where things did not disintegrate. There was a time when such as we knew where we could stand forward while our shadows guarded rear. And yet, it is oddly disquieting to know that, is it not? That our peace of mind existed at some point and now it’s gone, like random snippets of an old worn heart. I find it odd, the glimpses of what may yet come after the ashes of this battle have died down – perhaps mortals will forget all that took place, give in to their short lives and shorter memories and the tendency to sanitize our race, plaster versions of sidhe over images of sprites that flirt gaily with the flowers of a meadow. How far will they spawn, come from their ancestors that fought us today tooth and nail, forged iron that they might sheathe it in our flesh and watch us die. They knew us for what we were and are, a predatory race. I do not think we’ve ever pretended otherwise. I wonder sometimes if history as I remember it – from the lens of my own people – is flawed. Perhaps we are the flower-wielding aids to their attempts to tame a nature that cannot be enslaved so? More and more, since the Rending I have wondered this. Perhaps this is mankind’s outmost victory, to overwhelm the memory of our Hunts, our raids, our preying on their people with the image of the garden gnat. Forgetfulness begins and time will see that all respect and fear are lost. I am one of those responsible for such an outcome, after all. I was there when they broke through the flanks, swarms that overwhelmed, iron armed as we’d long feared. Even our fair riders and stalwart mounts could not withstand them. It was then, oh it was then that I forgot to name you, and lost my own name to the hordes. The river dam broke, I remember that much, running through the onslaught of men to drown us by the onslaught of waters. Perhaps they thought it best, the mage-gifted, that we should brave the fury of the waters rather than the certainty of death under their blades. Perhaps, perhaps, but no weaver survived to answer queries. We thought these mortals did not matter, once. I woke later. The waters had receded, and I hung limply from an oak branch that had withstood the waters, allowing them to deposit an unconscious parcel before they moved on. Ribs cracked, it was all that I could do to lay there for hours, till night fell. It was later still when I pushed up, looking at the odd calm that descends after violent storms. Clear skies, starlit and impassive as they gazed down upon the idiocy of the creatures that crawled upon the land. Sidhe and mortals are strewn alike over the dampened fields – but they are many and we but few. The retreat begins, the exile into somewhere else where we can heal such wounds. I don’t think that I can move, not yet. Perhaps the branch will break, and with it the remainder of my bones. Perhaps down on the ground night creatures roam the carrion and the mud, feeding on the dead and dying. Perhaps I’d simply prefer not to move at all, and watch cool stars illuminate the land. It is almost autumn, almost autumn…the leaves begin to tint, I can tell that even by moonlight…or perhaps that is the color of the harvest moon alone, which tints the world blood red. Hela’s Bane, I think my wings are torn. I cannot move them at any rate, but with the force of the waters, perhaps they are simply stuck to one another. Given time, they may dry out, and separate…unless they freeze with frost. I look to the ground, the spiderwebbed, powdered ice, and know that I mustn’t fall asleep like this. I dream of him. A thousand nights since I last held him, and I still dream of him. Nothing but blood around me, and somehow I can still recall the taste of him. Woken by a dream of sleepless nights and endless passageway he finds his way to me – amongst the broken houses and the torn-down streets. Holding out a hand he reaches – sky coming down – and still holds his ground; shadows falling loudly, startled little bird…“innocence for sale” he says out loud, “apply within…” Rooted to the spot, again I stand behind the mirrored walls, embrace the pillars holding on to the dying shreds of light. A flame dances in the shadow wall beyond the fury of the wind…the wind…its darkened doorstep not yet night, the trees sway noisily, unyielding to his touch. “I’ll break you yet,” the gusts intone, into the branches, then flinging them aside, unthinking; then there’s stillness for an instant as the light retreats. The candles in their silent hope fear not the wind, and as the trees regain composure and aplomb, it begins again. The voice beckons: a child-like whimper that becomes a scream! So powerless and fragile is the marble structure that the temple trembles, even as the flames leap high. He stands alone once more, one with the sound as it carries him away. Now he’s but a thought. Now he’s but a lie our memory betrays. I alone stood with him in the temple, I alone knew his face as he wept in the dark to the song, and as the fire erupted he was the epicenter from which all began and ended. He alone remained. I was the one lost in the midst of the storm. I was the one challenged. He stood his full height and admired the view; as I reached out to hold him he burst at the touch…we became silhouettes, broken shadows. Simply said, he betrayed me and left me untouched, all alone. Brooding night; it is dark and the pines look imposing swaying back and forth, standing his might. “Love me now and surrender,” he offers. Candles melt and their wax grazes fingers: there is howling resounding outside; multi-colored reflections regard me as I melt, once again, into light. A groan and I drop from the tree, thump to the moist earth and crawl my way to the roots, random raindrops splashing on my still-pale skin. Here. Here was where I waited for you that night, when we thought the world would end, breaking at the seams, exploding in an orgasm of seeds and sorghum. This was the night you said that I would understand, the slow gnawing at my entrails, the ripping of internal organs as my heart breaks. This is where you said the answers would be found. The end to petty disagreements, to the slow emptiness consuming every fiber of my mud-stained soul. I felt the tears before I knew that you were gone, beloved, a tearing of my soul in two, and they split forth with vengeance, fertilizing the ground already plump with moisture. And you, were already growing moss elsewhere, disintegrating into the fabric of the universe. My hands groped at the dirt, forming it into your likeness, as if the earthworms and black earth could spit you up, and I could taste the unmaking of my own deluded mind. But they did not, and I could not. I watched my hands then, as roots spread through them, taking hold…tentacles…tendrils…the slowly dripping water forming a pool quickly absorbed into the ground. Autumn, in its entire tragic splendor, was rebelling. The season where the dying starts, the darkness sets. You lied. You said I mattered more than progressively stronger vines that wrapped around us both. But that night the choice was taken, love and lover, and I returned to the broken fragments that I pieced together once. That night, I began to vomit butterflies…. CHAPTER ONE There was only the rustle of leaves caught on a gust of wind over the courtyard. They rattled over rock, whispered to each other as they played in small whirlwinds. The courtyard itself was dark, shadowed by the scattered trees around it and the jagged edges of the hold’s corners, balconies dark as everyone retreated into sleep. Footsteps echoed quietly over it, the slight figure darting skillfully through the remnants of deep shadow, braided hair caught in a loop that kept the beads from jangling as they normally might have. Ti’naul crept up to the figure that perched on the lower branches of the oak, his head tilted to seek out its features. “There are rumors, lord. The western gates have let in mortals inadvertently, and the Ladies are curious. It may be they will deploy scouts,” he whispered, crouching by the roots of the tree. Angus dangled an arm and Ti’naul took it with a momentary flare of glee. He pulled his much slighter form up to sit by him and let Ti’naul finish his report, eyes darkened to sapphire in the shadows. They seemed to pool around him and conceal most of his features, the filtered moonlight catching on a strand of deep blue hair that stood out against his dark clothes. “It may be that she will send Doyle, as I expect my sister might send me,” Angus said. His eyes looked over the slim form that sat by him on the branch. “Or she may send pookah, Ti’naul. It’s well known the Shadow Queen does not care for your kind – and to be blunt you are more likely to get near the mortals without being seen.” The corners of his mouth quirked up. A flick of the wrist as he brushed back long hair now tangled by the wind, and he settled back against the trunk almost indolently, eyes narrowed as they contemplated grimly what might come. Mortals had been little more than animals till now…less even, as they destroyed and consumed all in their path senselessly, something about their very nature anathema. Angus held no pretense that his people were in any way less brutal in their ways; they were predators. Mortals, however, the odd imperfect facsimiles of their sidhe counterparts, were simply a plague without rhyme or reason. He for one had been perfectly content to ignore their existence until they had begun encroaching closer to the forests and the rooting for the old Sleeper Gateways. Still, for mortals time seemed to pass so much faster that he wondered if these bolder, rougher men were even related to the barely cognizant ones he’d first encountered. “I would rather not go near them lord. They smell…and they use clubs, and sharp things.” Ti’naul’s soft protest brought him out of his reverie, and in an odd fit of warmth he clasped the pookah’s shoulder. “I’d not worry. Althea has a predilection for her pookah, little one. I know she’d rather send a sidhe lord to do her bidding.” Wryly he looked towards the hold, contemplating. He’d managed to avoid most of the earlier perfunctory festivities, his attention caught by Althea’s spirited discussion with her cousin Nyara, the Shadow Queen. Simrit, her younger brother, had been conspicuously absent altogether; Angus knew the rumors that spread about that as well. “I will not ask you to eavesdrop on them again, Ti’naul. It would appear things are getting dangerous now, and neither my sister nor Queen Nyara will take kindly to being spied upon.” He was fairly certain, after some eavesdropping of his own amongst the nobles at the celebration, that any pookah caught spying on Nyara would be tortured and slain, and he did not care to place Ti’naul under such risks. “I do not understand why she detests us so. We have ever served both Summerhey and the Shadowlands.” Ti’naul’s tone was sullen, and Angus turned to look at him quietly. Long past adolescence, even for a pookah Ti’naul retained something of childlike reactions that fascinated him. Sometimes, however, it was a danger to allow him such free reign. “She is a Queen, pookah. No one said you or I had to understand her mind or reasons.” He sighed, long fingers running over his face. “You’d best shift and go home, Ti. I will let you know if I hear aught…but you may want to lay low for a while, all the same.” Ti’naul flicked him a smile, a flare of warmth that flickered briefly as he dangled off the branch and let go, landing on a crouch in the dark grass. A flash of red, a fox’s tail…and Ti’naul disappeared into the shadows of the bushes. How many years had it been since, Ti’naul’s Gifting? 0-0-0 “I do not need one.” His words had echoed stubbornly inside his head while outwardly automatic responses were framed. One did not scoff at gifts from the Queen of Summerhey, whether one’s sister or not. Angus had returned to his chambers late in the day after every conceivable errand had been tended to, after all excuses had been seen through. Strong hands pulled open the heavy oak doors of his chambers, closing them behind him with a grunt. The youth waited in the middle of the room, prostrate as he’d been taught to wait. Good pookah indeed, bred out of any spine and desire for independence. Angus took a seat by the bed, thoughts churning as he looked over the youth’s face. He was smooth skinned as all sidhe, the pallor augmented by the layers of laced and tied blue veils that hid most of his flesh, the curves of his face. Despite this, some things Angus could glimpse of him – how his full lips trembled, muttering softly. Angus could not make out the words but watched in mute fascination as his mouth parted and closed, the plump lips letting out soft sounds now and again. Angus’s hand snuck up and brushed through the tangled hair curiously, reveling in the soft texture as dark hair spilled like liquid silk. Even the youth’s hands were delicate and soft, unused to combat as Angus raised them, examining them with care. “Hn.” He grunted softly again, letting out a sigh. Sidhe didn’t simply submit to being tormented without fight or being treated as a property to be bargained away, used, and gifted to another. But pookah, pookah he had never understood, the odd shape shifters that peppered the Court’s halls and nobles’ beds. No sidhe would have permitted their worth to be bargained so, submit themselves to the Gifting Pool. “But then again you are not wholly sidhe, are you?” he mused out loud. He brushed back the veil to better expose the other’s face, callused fingers tracing to slip a blade between the layers of veil, freeing the first and second. There was a ritual to a Gifting, a deliberate choice in the orders that the veils were to be removed. He pulled the youth against him, a thought beginning to form from the moment that he’d loosened the restraints and felt his weight slump against him, a moaned half-whimper sneaking out of the youth’s throat. Sidhe snarled, struck out – even at would-be rescuers. It was the nature of caged and hurt wild beasts, it was the sidhe heart. This creature had only whimpered and submitted to the possibility of more pain, the fight gone out completely. Angus had known pookah his whole life although they had never held more than a passing curiosity for him. Even his cousin’s obsession with his own pookah lover had held little interest. His reverie was cut short by a sudden shuddering of the youth, lashes trembling as they slowly opened to half-mast. Ah, the eyes. He’d forgotten the eyes, Angus realized. No sidhe would have called this one a member of his brood after seeing such unearthly eyes. He watched as the fevered confusion gave way to slow recollection and hesitant fear, Angus’ own eyes taking in the changes impassively. “The first veil, I remove. You may look upon me, and your mouth is free. Remember what your lord expects from you.” A formulaic repetition, but he fixed the other with a glare, making certain he understood that he was here to both serve and speak his mind. Angus held little respect and less patience for creatures tantamount to furniture. “You are safe here, worry not.” His voice sounded a bit cold even to his own ears, but somehow seeing that blind terror grated. Fear was not a look that suited the sidhe-born, even half-blooded ones. The youth blinked, slender fingers clutching at the remaining veils as he looked back at Angus. His fingers moved automatically to unbind Angus’ long blue hair, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light of the room. “Your…your pardon?” His voice was barely above a whisper. Something of the singsong quality of his speech pulled at Angus. He narrowed his eyes and slowed his words a little.” Do you not speak the High Tongue?” He said it matter-of-factly, an observation made and committed to memory. The youth recoiled as he stretched a hand and, gripping his jaw, turned his face from side to side, looking him over carefully. “This one does, my lord.” The youth’s gold eyes flickered up to meet Angus’ perusal, confused. His teeth began to chatter of their own accord, nerves slowly beginning to overwhelm. “Do you know why you are here at all?” Angus’ voice was laced with a hint of impatience. His eyes fixed on the youth’s as he finally let go of his chin, settling back and crossing his arms. “To either serve you in your bed or as your meal. Please, do not eat me.” The plea was so heartfelt that Angus wondered briefly if he should simply laugh, or snarl in frustration. In the end amusement won. The planes of his face creased gently as he laughed softly, looking at the youth as he waited in considerable confusion. “Pray tell, why I would wish to eat you?” He tilted his head to the side, reaching out to press the back of his hand to the youth’s forehead. When he recoiled from that touch Angus’ scowl returned. Gods, he was serious. Who had been training him? “Although I imagine that there are plenty of rumors at Court, I’m not in the habit of eating gifts, pookah or not,” he said stiffly, leaning back on his chair. Someone had been having too much fun filling the creature’s head with nonsense. “Though you’re making me begin to wonder if you would have preferred being left in the kennels or the wild. For the record, I am not in the habit of taking in slaves – but you were given by Queen Althea and I cannot refuse.” His words were blunt and ungentle, some malicious delight sneaking into his expression as he watched the youth wince and look away. “Your pardon,” he repeated softly, again, his hands bunching in the bedcovers. Angus frowned. He’d hoped to see a glimpse of that fierce sidhe temper, a flare of pride, of anger, of something. Instead he witnessed this creature that seemed utterly passive, utterly defeated. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he loathed it. “I’m Angus. Have you a name?” The youth’s eyes didn’t look up from the covers as Angus spoke. He sank into silence until Angus repeated the question again. “Ti’naul, lord.” His voice was still a whisper, the corners of his lips trembling as he successfully managed to sneak a look at Angus’ face. “Ti’naul then.” Angus nodded and leaned back to pour two cups of wine, placing one in Ti’naul’s badly trembling hands. “As I was saying, you are safe in my keeping.” “Safe?” The word seemed to feel foreign in Ti’naul’s mouth, his hands aimlessly swishing the liquid within the cup before he drained it with a gulp. An eyebrow shot up in Angus’ chiseled face at the way Ti’naul drained the wine. He paused to pour some from his cup into the now empty one. “You are half-blood, are you not? Half-sidhe and half-pookah….” “Aye, lord.” Ti’naul’s shoulders slumped; the tremors making the cup shake badly in his hands. “But I can serve. Please, I can serve…I do not mind to be…to be what you desire, anything…just do not hurt me.” Angus’ eyes narrowed, letting the desperate words fall between them. Hela, what had he been told of Angus’ own people? Granted, there were slavers still – even after the Culling had taken place in the Shadow Court, Summerhey had allowed the pookah to live in its glades and forests only as servants, never equals. Still, Angus had never been one to force another intelligent being to servitude. It disturbed him to see this half-blood sidhe offer his body and his word to be …what, a pleasure toy? “And what is it that I want pookah?” His words were even toned, cold. Ti’naul looked up, gold eyes darkening as he fumbled blindly to undo what harm his words might have brought. Angus curled his hand over the one that held Ti’naul’s cup, trapping the slim fingers below his callused ones. “You think that you are here to warm my bed. Have you not heard the tales of sidhe raiding pookah homes to take you as our slaves, our concubines?” His tone was almost dangerous, the edge of anger creeping into it. “You’ve grown up likely beaten black and blue at every turn for having both sidhe and pookah blood and you believe the things they spout about us?” Ti’naul’s voice seemed to have been swallowed by an odd mixture of blind fear and utter shame. He was silent as Angus brought up the dagger again, making short work of the veils that covered him still. Next to be torn was the one over his chest, a heart now freed. The arms and hands, that they might work and fight beside him. The legs, to walk the long roads in his service, and finally, the one that modestly covered the area between Ti’naul’s legs. For this last, Angus had no use. He’d never seen the point of mating, of exhausting one’s body into another’s, and he’d never had a care for males, at any rate. “Lay back.” Sharpness toned his voice as he pressed Ti’naul back onto the mattress, taking the cup of wine from his trembling fingers. Ti’naul swallowed, passive, as he was pushed back. His skin goosebumped as it came in contact with the cooler cushions. “No, wait, half propped, here.” Angus sat on the bed then, hands pulling back the sheets to press on Ti’naul’s hips and prod him to lay, half-sitting, against the nest of pillows. “So you would bargain with your body, is that it?” Sapphire eyes met gold ones sternly, Angus’ jaw set in a tight line as he judged his mettle. Ti’naul swallowed again, meeting the gaze, and after a moment or two, finding his voice. “Aye.” Angus watched, keenly, as he steadied himself, pulling back the covers to expose his body completely to Angus’ gaze. Angus noted his sudden gasp as he half-retreated and then steeled himself, the soft flat planes of his stomach sucked in at the rush of cold air. Good, so he had enough of a spine to go through with this, Angus mused. His hand moved to place a palm flat over that belly, feel the trembling below it. “I am still wondering what to make of you. You do not have a warrior’s build and certainly not the character. Still, your body does not seem that of someone used to brothels or an object for procuring pleasure. No soft curves of easy living.” Ti’naul’s eyes had lidded to half-mast, dark lashes shivering as Angus’s hands traced idle patterns over his belly and his hips, which for now were the center of his attention. It was true that Ti’naul’s frame had not the hardness of war training, but even so his muscles were well defined and rippled softly under his skin. After a few moments, Angus looked up, watching Ti’naul’s expression. “You may speak. I am curious to find out about you and I prefer my acquisitions to be vocal.” Not that he held slaves or had ever forced a lover, but it suited him fine to let Ti’naul believe that, to see how deeply rooted such preconceptions were. “I….” There was a soft gasp of breath as Ti’naul’s lips parted under the instruction, his skin goosebumping under the ministrations. “I’ve never been to brothels.” A flare of color crawled suddenly over his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his pointed ears. “And no one taught me to use blades so….” He trailed off as Angus’s index finger traced concentric circles over his belly before dipping into his navel. Ti’naul began squirming then, a low groan spilling out as he bit his lower lip. Angus noted the reaction curiously, not quite certain whether he was in agony, delight, or a strange mix of both. “So you are neither fighter nor lover. A peculiar creature indeed.” A lopsided smile crawled onto his face as Ti’naul continued to writhe, the effort that it took him to control his reactions evident. “Does it please?” “Tickles….” Soft gasps as Ti’naul’s hands curled over the sheets, the blush over his cheeks darkening. Angus withdrew his finger and turned to trace the path of soft hairs that led from that delicious spot to more sensitive flesh. Ti’naul moaned quietly, the sound startled out of him as Angus’ grip tightened. Angus paused, his free hand extending to touch the blush over that too-warm face. His eyes narrowed. The youth had never been touched by another before. His reactions were too new, too startled in their jerky motions, their helpless sounds; a perfect gift, unsullied. “Hn.” His hands stilled. The one at Ti’naul’s face retreated to circle a nipple and pinch it lightly. Ti’naul cried out, embarrassment and incomprehension obvious in his expression. This was all new, too new, to him, and yet he had been willing to trade such a thing. Angus had almost stopped completely before he felt Ti’naul’s member harden next to his hand. Detachedly his eyes trailed to it, tracing its contour from root to tip, moistening the pads of fingers over its weeping head. Just this, and the other was aroused? His hand stroked almost delicately, drinking in Ti’naul’s unabashed cries, his quivering limbs. So trusting a creature that it rattled Angus to the bone, and he withdrew his hand. “Sidhe, take what they desire. They do not wait for others to decide, to make a move. They do what feels right, what feels natural.” Angus paused, still slowly exploring the offered flesh. “Part of you is sidhe. Part of you should mind such mindless submission, should rebel against it.” He drank in the sounds that spilled from Ti’naul, the way his body arched and trembled with each touch. He stilled, watching Ti’naul’s eyes go wide when he realized that Angus did not mean to claim him, not like this. “And you are mistaken, in thinking that what I want is to force you into my bed. Get Se’hleh to bring you appropriate clothing, and I will train you in the use of blades tomorrow morn. I have never forced a lover or a servant, and I am not partial to men. If you wish to serve me, do so. But not like this, Ti’naul.” Without another word he rose and headed out of the room, leaving his Gift untouched and unharmed upon his bed. 0-0-0 Ah, it had taken Ti many years to forgive and understand that first meeting, hadn’t it? Angus still remembered the sullen distrustfulness that eventually gave way to loyalty, and later still, to friendship. CHAPTER TWO It isn’t open for discussion, Angus.” Althea’s voice was even, her delicate features tilted to the light as she looked over the balcony of her sanctum. The balustrade curled, framed carefully by vines as they twined and flowered. The hold was the only part of Summerhey that still clung to the rock, carved out from the face of the mountain itself as myriad waterfalls encircled it. Angus had never been one for the light, retreating into the shade of wisteria as he watched his sister bathe in sunshine, her deep green hair mingling with the verdant shades around them. In the vicinity, the old redwoods stretched to tower and overwhelm, the sidhe tented dwellings pockets of sunlight against the deeper shadows. A tree of butterflies, Angus reflected, as he watched a nearby trunk tower over the waters. “I have no issue with scouting these mortals. I know some of our people in the outer settlements have likely had contact with them already, despite our warnings. Fragility fascinates.” Arms crossed over a broad chest, he stretched uncomfortably within the confines of the formal dress – he had not changed since the previous night’s excursion. “But a Hunt? To what purpose? We’ve not been bothered since many years past. I know Nyara and her ambassador…that Doyle, whisper in your ear, my lady sister, but….” “To learn about them…and instill respect for sidhe ways, and sidhe lands.” Her tone was distant, distracted. Angus clenched his jaw, silent for a few moments. “It isn’t respect she wants to instill. It is fear. And I still think that it is…premature to trust her so openly. Besides, I’ve agreed to send Ti’naul already to scout among them. If there is aught that they are planning, he will find it.” “Have a care, brother. You ill-speak the Shadow Queen.” Her tone was sharp, face turning to him as she let a hand trail over the vine, blossoms blooming at her touch. “I would not let Ti’naul too close to Nyara’s men. The Culling was but scarce years past, and the prejudices still run deep.” “I speak my mind. I would serve you poorly if I did not. I know that Doyle whispers honeyed words and reassures you that her darker appetites are sated…but be cautious, my sister and Queen. Kin or not, the Unseelie are not wholly like us, and Nyara would not stop at one Hunt.” His expression unyielding, he felt his hands bunch into fists. Of course. One Hunt. Except it would not be a Hunt, but a slaughter. “The very mention of that Culling should warn you about the mettle of Unseelie, lady sister. How many did she slaughter in her rage, how much blood tainted her hands and the halls of Shadowhold?” “You were good friends with Simrit, Angus, and he was both Unseelie and Nyara’s brother.” A hint of irritation as she turned to face him fully now, the shimmering of glamour over skin the only garment that she wore. Her wings extended, a pale iridescent shade that caught the light and bent it, absorbed it to augment their glow. “And we are seeking, here, to bridge the Rending that was made with his departure and betrayal. It is the mortals that pose a threat to us, Angus, not Nyara’s court.” “He wasn’t like his sister, Althea.” He said the last softly, not wishing to elaborate. Althea knew what Nyara was asking of him. “And I cannot say that I do not understand why Simrit sealed the Gateways from her lands and doomed them all to exile from the mortal realms. She’d had his bound mate tortured and slain, Althea, and then his entire race hunted and murdered…there were few that managed to escape to Summerhey. You know this; it was you that closed the boundaries between them, only our Gateways still open to the dancing rings of old. I do not see how Nyara and the Unseelie could think the mortals a threat, if they can only reach them by conquering Summerhey or with our complicity. I am not so duplicitous.” “Nor am I.” Quietly. “Hunt, Angus. See that few are slaughtered and most brought back. I am curious of these mortals and their increasing boldness.” She crossed the distance between them, slim hands moving to cup his face. “You know our lines weaken, stretched too thin…if they are viable mates or labor, might it not be worth knowing? A fitting punishment for the way that they encroach upon our lands. Besides…if there is a way to heal the rift between our people and Nyara’s, then I am almost thankful for the mortals’ hand in bringing us together.” She shook long dark green locks, turning to caress her brother. “Do not think me so foolish as to trust her every word, her each assurance. Send Ti’naul to see what threat there is from their incursions, then go on a Hunt. In the meantime this will place you in her court, allow you access to her circle. My ambassador, as I have long allowed her ambassador Doyle to be within my halls. If there is treachery I would know of it, my brother.” Angus blanched under her touch, at her words. “I will go because I honor you, sister and queen…but I think this…ill-advised, to say the least.” Out of the corner of his eye he could almost see the glimmer of a familiar shape, bright colored wings. Doyle. He knew well what serpent whispered to his sister while he was away. “I will send out Ti’naul and meet the men that Lord Doyle sends to escort us to Nyara’s court. If aught is amiss, if the mortals have transgressed – then I will call the Hunt, to appease you both.” He rose, pressing a kiss to the palms of both her hands. “But if there is treachery, Althea, beware while I am gone. Doyle will be with me at the Shadow Queen’s court, and I mistrust such honeyed words.” A soft smile followed as he left her rooms and quietly set out to do as his Queen commanded. 0-0-0 It wasn’t long before orders were given, men sent. Angus’ guard were sent to ready armor and blade near the palace where they were to meet with the Shadow Queen’s envoys. Ti’naul felt his body creak and groan under the light armor his lord had insisted on. The weight of dry land was still new to him…and pookah were simply not meant to be encumbered so. He wondered idly what would happen if he had to shift so heavily laden. “It will get easier.” Angus’ tired voice reached Ti’naul, who looked down from his perch in a nearby tree. His languid form was graceful as he watched his lord. They were in the mortal realms already, camped near one of the Gateways. “This one thinks, milord Angus, that you would have learned to stay far from trees.” A wry retort, unaccustomed still to the way Angus knew his heart and mind. Such a sensation he had craved much of his life, and still it terrified all the same. Gold eyes glimmered, bright in the embers of the fire. “I dread the clinks and clanks that are bound to follow the moment I am forced to shift out of this thing.” “Better encumbered than dead, pookah.” Deep blue eyebrows rose as he caught a glimpse of Ti’naul. “You are too somber, milord.” Angus had to smile at that reproach as Ti’naul slid off the branch to dangle from his slim arms. “Besides, you’d catch me would you not?” A grin, unbidden. “Ti….” Angus raised an eyebrow, his body taut, as he looked up, hands turned up where scars and burns crisscrossed them. Magic’s price. “Aye, that I would, but I’d just as soon let you land on your hopelessly spoiled rump, see if you learn.” A shrug, as a hint of amusement snuck into his voice. “Saa—so I am told.” Idly he let go, landing in a crouch with innate, effortless grace. “But the hopelessly spoiled rump in question serves you faithfully, my lord, armor and all.” A sobering, and Angus let out a sigh, securing gloves over his scarred hands. “Only a fool goes into battle never knowing fear,” he said. “A reckless one at that, and I do not think that of you. Still, I do not think that you quite grasp where we are going, after this. I met my lady sister and discussed when we are to meet with Lady Nyara’s men.” A flicker of anger as he brushed back his hair and snuck a look at Ti’naul. “I do not trust either her motives or her ambassador, Lord Doyle.” Doyle’s predilection for murdering his hapless lovers was well known to Ti’naul. “Best this is done quickly, and well. If it buys the Queen’s army enough time to ready, then we may retreat with what allies we find. But who do we rally against, the mortals or the Unseelie who are too eager to form this alliance now? Perhaps my worries are for naught.” “Perhaps.” Ti’naul’s expression sobered. Lord Doyle’s exploits were well known among the Court pookah, even in the short time Doyle had made Summerhey his home at the Shadow Queen’s behest. He made Ti’naul’s skin crawl, and he had made it a point to avoid the Unseelie lord completely. Ti’naul stretched before making a new perch by Angus’ fire. “I know your men would follow you, lord, to the very bowels of the Earth. Unseelie and their tastes? It makes even sidhe warriors squirm. And you know I’ll not be permitted to follow you into the Shadowlands…by now I think it likely they have seen me around Lord Doyle’s rooms, spying about.” ”Hn.” A hiccup of sound and Angus shook his head, tracing patterns over the soft sandy ground. “Althea may not speak of it, but she worries. Queen Nyara’s interest in the mortals is almost obscene.” A look. “And I would not bring you into their court, even if it were allowed. I know your family fled the Culling, and you know better than most the fate of pookah in Unseelie hands. I rather longed to keep you safe within the palace rather than riding out to scout the mortals – but that you would not have it, Ti. I should have flogged sense into you when you were first Gifted to me….” “To rue, regret….” A glimmer of a smile as Ti’naul’s shoulders hunched in a shrug, his mind still in the situation at hand, not lost in memory. He looked over at the careful runes that Angus’ hand brought to life over cool sand. “It is milord’s nature to worry and imagine the worst, as much as it is in mine to hope for the best. Inevitable, I suppose, that fate should designate it so.” Ti’naul picked up a sickly twig and slowly drew his own designs into the sand. That Angus should worry was almost a given, for Ti’naul’s own resolve faltered at the thought of what might come, if mortals ever truly realized the effect of iron on sidhe – or for that matter, if its use spread like wildfire and Nyara’s people learned the secrets of its crafting. Either would be a formidable force to go against. He had to remind himself that attacking wasn’t, in essence, what he and Angus were doing. They were not moving with an army’s aid to meet the humans in a clash of steel, a flash of magicked bolts. Neither was it haphazard design; a handful of sidhe warriors would follow after Ti’naul’s initial scouting and assessment of the immediacy of the threat. He could go to the places where sidhe glamour faltered and failed in the midst of iron-poisoned land, less likely affected by its bane by being half-pookah. While he tried to pinpoint how widespread its use had become Angus would be leading some Hunts to capture mortals and bring them back for interrogation. A joint endeavor; Summerhey’s riders with their stalwart mounts and the Shadow Queen’s hounds. The thought of such alliances made his blood chill to ice. Ti’naul’s eyes went to Angus’ wings, carefully glamoured and hidden under a thick cloak. Neither held illusions of heroic deeds earned upon the battlefield, an ant’s challenge to a charging beast. Mortals could not vanquish the sidhe yet, but if their hold on iron had grown strong enough…he brooded, contemplating the odds. A village or two could not resist a sidhe hunting party; and if the Shadow Queen wanted more? If she wanted this alliance to force mortals into slavery and use them against the very Seelie that had helped subdue them? The only hope, if it could be called so, was in division of forces hashed together through fear and inertia rather than decisive loyalty. Many might yet rally to the standard of Althea’s house or at the very least her brother’s. If nothing else, whatever doubt rose in uncertain hearts might give nobles at Summerhey time enough to muster their own army and resist. “Ti.” Angus’ voice broke his reverie. “Then give us nothing to regret, ah?” A wink, as Angus clapped his shoulder, and rose. “Come, early to bed then, so we may start on the road before dawn breaks.” A moment’s pause and he moved slowly to tend to the bedrolls, leaving Ti’naul still to gaze at embers as they died to ash. CHAPTER THREE Angus left Althea’s court in Summerhey when at last the summons were sent, jaw clenching as he contemplated disobeying. Althea would not let him, even if he’d chosen to. After all, Doyle whispered in her ear of a healing between the courts, of her brother being a necessary sacrifice to such a goal. There had been one people once, and many still spoke of a rejoining, even with the memories of the Culling still so recent. Angus would have been the first to agree, had the words not come from such a forked tongue as Lord Doyle’s. It did not ease his mind any that, unlike the customary exchange of ambassadors where each remained on a foreign court, Nyara had recalled Doyle back to her hold, presumably for urgent consultations. Long had Angus had Ti’naul spy on Doyle and his goings, long enough to worry as to what his purpose was in this sudden recall. He had arrived at the Shadow Court as dawn broke, finding that even the prelude of daylight felt oppressive in this place. Rays filtered in only to highlight the deeper pockets of darkness that remained untouched, harsh discordant angles of carved rock as the palace jutted out in every conceivable direction. There was a suggestion of design, arches curling in deliberate juxtaposition of sharp corners as the ragged edges were weighed down by intricate carvings, lovingly detailed. He paused, recalling that even such unyielding rock had once been overgrown with moss and plants, a hum of life as pookah tended to its crevices and nooks, a darker thrum that nonetheless had once been almost welcome. It had not been that way since the Culling, since these very stones had witnessed Nyara’s hatred and cruel sport, saw the gentler inhabitants slaughtered and burned until the rocks themselves were tarnished with that shame. Then there was Simrit, broken-hearted and grown mad, embracing his own death for the chance to punish his sister, wanting to take from her hands something as precious as his Ka’teela when he’d been ripped apart. Angus remembered the screams, the pookah that had filtered in with tales of horror about what had taken place. It was through them he’d tried slowly to unravel what had happened. Simrit had loved a pookah, he had known that much. Angus had warned his cousin that Nyara did not share affection willingly, that the Shadow Queen would punish her brother’s lover if she ever learned of it. Simrit had been so certain that such things could never come to pass, that his mate was safe within their secrecy. Besides, he’d assured Angus, he was Nyara’s first defender and her general. Surely his sister would not mind it so, that he took someone to his heart? Angus suppressed a sigh, jaw clenched and expression neutral as he wandered further into the dimly lit halls, hand instinctively over the pommel of his blade. His heart misgave the reason for the sudden alliance, since, as far as he’d been able to establish, to the Shadow Queen the mortal threat was anything but new. He wondered idly what news her spies had brought to her ears, particularly Doyle. Angus had long had Ti’naul keep close watch on what meetings Doyle had at Summerhey, which lords and ladies of the council lent him their ears. From what the pookah had gathered, no insignificant number of Althea’s advisors had been won over by his promises and well-crafted words. Angus had tried to warn Althea of it, but his sister was a Queen to the core, and certain of her own omniscience. Darkly he suppressed a shudder as he entered his apartments, sapphire eyes witchfire bright as they took in the corners of the inner rooms. Doyle would dance over all their graves, he suspected, a jackal made fat and strong while the lions battled one another. Doyle had been but a minor lord not too long past, a warrior under Simrit. Angus had always thought him better suited to serpentine court dances than to blades. He distrusted the way his eyes had roamed over Simrit, hungry and unrelenting. Simrit, so certain in his strength, so unwary of his enemies. The pookah had remembered him, and those that fled the Shadowlands had sung his story at their campfires for many a year. It was, after all, Simrit who had forced the Gateways open to let out survivors of the Culling before he’d had them sealed. He’d heard Ti’naul singing the lai once, nestled in the balcony and unaware that his lord had returned. Angus had hidden behind a curtain, wanting to hear the tale complete; for once curiosity had gotten the better of him. It was then that he’d realized Ti’naul had been one of the pookah to have fled that last determined onslaught…the conscience of a bloodied time preserved in the songs of servants. He’d never known Ti’naul to sing before. Ti’naul’s eyes were closed as his voice rang out softly to entwine with the creeping vines over the balcony. The words, the sounds brought forth the images of Simrit, the warmth of his voice, the strength of rage, of grief. For the first time, but not the last, Angus had wondered if Ti’naul had ever met Simrit; he’d never actually asked, he realized now. Laughter, and Simrit turned his head to catch Ka’teela, the pookah laughing as he shifted yet again, a fox’s paw harder to hold than his slender hand. Simrit let out an imprecation, shifting weight uneasily to dive after the smaller creature, wings stretching to brace his fall. Ka’teela laughed, contritely curling close to Simrit’s limp form, lapping at his empty hand, head cocked to the side. He shifted yet again, a growl uncurling as he nipped at the Simrit’s shoulder, grinning like a fiend. “You will be the death of me,” Simrit said gruffly as his lover laughed again, slim limbs draped and twined with his. A shift in time, and Angus could see the images changing, Ka’teela’s limbs entwined on Simrit’s giving way to grimmer views, the Shadow Court. Simrit stood before her, Queen of the Unseelie, Shadow Mistress and beauty absolute. Now he bowed before her and rose numbly as she commanded him again, eyes dull and clouded over with the knowledge of what he’d returned to find. “You have pleased me, Simrit. ” He had gone at her bidding to spy on the rough-hewn settlements of mankind, to report on what peculiar creatures of no noble birth nor innate talent wrought. He had returned to her with a handful of captives. No, not to her. He had wanted to return to Ka’teela. “My mistress is most kind.” The words sounded dead, a monotone of repetitious sentiments spouted with the grace of the sidhe-born. Simrit, firstborn and bard of the Shadow Queen, Simrit, sidhe-born and mate to Ka’Teela Yet he bowed and mouthed pleasantries, allowed his body to react accordingly as he watched the dance of flames below, watching the bodies of the slain. Before that week was past, every pookah in her land, every shifter, would be murdered at her word. Angus reeled, drawing a sharp breath as he witnessed through the song the raw grief that had pushed his cousin beyond rage. Simrit’s pain rippled over bloodied armor as he stood, eyes stinging with the need to scream and howl. The onslaught from the song came unrelenting, the strains becoming heartbreak as they rose. Who did Ti’naul think of, as he sang? Angus’ blood rose to his face and his jaw clenched tightly. His servant had to have lived through such a thing – and even now those songs were still outlawed, for they spoke of one who betrayed his own kind. Ti’naul’s face, where the light caught it, was a mixture of sheer agony and such…longing that it made Angus want to flee the room, having witnessed something he should not. But the song went on, and rose, and held him captive in that place. Ka’Teela, working on the orchards, picking up the sehla fruit and pelting him with it. Ka’Teela, draped upon the sheets, tangled like the butterfly that struggled out from the cocoon, slender and frail for all that beauty clung to him. Ka’Teela, the gentler side of wildness, of abandon. Ka’Teela dancing in the glades, singing him to waking. Ka’Teela, slender form broken and bloodied atop a pile of pookah corpses, flame devoured. Ka’Teela. Ka’Teela… Simrit’s heart had hardened as he watched the pyre, emotionless until there was nothing, not even the fox’s tail untouched by tongues of flame, consumed into that breast. He waited, and made merry with the others until the dawn had come…and then he went to her, his older lover, to her and to their child. He took them, and what surviving pookah he could find. He took them to the portals, saw them through…and then he sealed those Gateways, with his blood…. Ti’naul’s voice had broken then, as the song came to a stop. The pookah had pulled his legs up onto the ledge where he sat, the image of misery and grief. Angus had fled the room, unable to think of what to say after witnessing such things. The shame of knowing that he and Althea had stood by, not actively welcoming the pookah into Summerhey until Simrit had forced the gates open on his side, sent them through. A shared shame, and one that sidhe hoped would fade over time. He could not acknowledge that he’d heard Ti’naul singing of such things, and when next he’d seen him, Ti’naul had only smiled and moved onto the tasks that had to be taken care of, with never a clue to his earlier moods. Angus wondered, then, what else he hid within him. Such things, oddly enough, all came to mind as he found himself in Shadowhold. Angus moved to the bedside, slowly removing his cloak, and, after a moment’s pause, his blade. Wearily, his strong hands moved to pull at the clasps and straps that held his armor in place, fingering the bindings until he felt them give way. He should have felt the other’s presence in the room, a momentary rising of hackles as he made to turn, reflexes honed in a thousand battles. Doyle, it seemed, had been waiting for him. CHAPTER FOUR Ti’naul had found his way into the edges of the valley where the old forest roots mingled with the younger crops the mortals had put in place. Men, he mused, seemed to have had sprung like relentless weeds. Waterways peppered the landscape, irregular rocks supporting the suspicion that the bed of stone was a natural occurrence and not sidhe-crafted. Above it lay the remains of an intricately carved wooden gate, the remains of a once proud structure left there by the sidhe to consecrate this forest to the Bright One. It had been at the end of autumn that the sidhe had come to this area only a few years back. While Ti was certain that mortals may have guessed why the reclusive strangers had taken an interest in the outlying villages, he imagined that few would have admitted to transgressions made into the older hallowed woods long a sanctuary of the sidhe. It had started harmlessly enough, youths daring each other into the confines of the gnarled and twisting trees, venturing further until many were lost. Sometimes, only sometimes, their bodies were found posed and wasted away as if from some unfulfilled hunger, some terrible thirst. They were untouched by beast, unmarked but for the ways their fingers groped at dirt as if in the last moments of existence their souls had refused parting with their flesh. Ti’naul, like many others, had once thought that with such warnings the excursions would become less frequent, men learning not to trespass into those areas protected by the Elder race. Instead, the warnings were dutifully ignored with the arrogance of youth. He supposed that, after all, mortals were near babes to the long ages of the Sidhe. It had only been a matter of time until the more daring of them began to chop the elder trees, openly cursing the sidhe names that had long laid their claim over the land they now inhabited and crawled upon. Long-lived as the sidhe were, they were no more patient than their mortal counterparts, arrogance bred from centuries of warfare of their own. The dragon lords had been formidable enemies, so the mortals were but minor inconveniences for a long while. Once the other Elder races had been tamed, subdued or properly wiped out, however, the eyes of both the Shadow Queen and the Lady Althea of Summerhey turned to the encroachment of man upon their hallowed lands. Soon the subtler warnings were substituted by more open warfare, and the onset of organized Hunts where entire villages were razed. He remembered that, the Hunts. It’d reminded him too much of the Culling, although the prey were different. At least these days, with Angus at their head, they were more raids and gathering of prisoners, he thought with an inward sigh. Ti’naul made his way onto the edge of a brook, looking for shelter. He’d discarded his armor earlier, finding it cumbersome in this terrain. The woods rang out with the signs of an incoming storm, and he did not wish to be caught in it. He freed his aquamarine hair from its confines, the queue loosened to fall nearly to the ground. Liminality…perennially at thresholds, neither fish nor fowl, as his very looks betrayed the mingling of bloods. He brushed his hair back behind his delicately pointed ears, thoughts drifting to Angus. A day, only that, since they had parted ways, and his heart still misgave. A day, and his lord would have by now reached Shadowhold – where Angus would be opening the Gateways as his sister had commanded, binding them carefully to undo Simrit’s sealing. Angus had said nothing when Ti had brought news of Doyle being summoned back to the Shadow Queen as well. He had muttered that he was glad that at least Ti’naul wouldn’t have to spy on the snake anymore, since Doyle’s taste in lovers was well known. Ti had found that remark peculiar, the color rising to his face even as it did now. Of all the things to say, and he – for once – could think of nothing to reply. He let his hands play idly with the water as it danced and polished the old stones. There was a sudden rattling of branches. Ti’naul left his reverie and looked at the approaching storm. Even now it had claimed the sides of the mountains, he could hear its ferocity as it advanced on the valley. The dance. The song of the wind was unmistakable, as the storm raged and progressed, thrashing against trees with abandon. A breath and he stood up, abashed that he could have let his mind distract him so – with thoughts of Angus of all things! He began picking his way through the cleared trees, feeling chilled as the wind picked up around him and the rain began to fall in thick, blinding sheets. He let out a startled yelp as his foot caught on a root…then couldn’t find his voice as the cloak was pulled from him, his body shoved roughly against one of the tree trunks. A groan, and his hands snapped to his blade, only to feel it torn from his hands. He couldn’t breathe, pinned as he was, and he couldn’t concentrate enough to shift. “It is one….” There was a hint of vicious glee in the human’s voice, and Ti’naul started to mutter a protest before a blow connected with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t cry out as their blows rained upon him, teeth gritted as he felt the fabric of his tunic tear and warmth trail down on him. Blood. Its taste was metallic in his mouth, and he swallowed down a scream as a vicious kick was aimed and hit his abdomen. A sharp blade dug into his ribs as he gasped for air. No laughter, no, only anger directed at him. Men from a nearby village? He couldn’t even see much of his attackers, the rain washing away the trail of blood as quickly as it ran, what little light filtered only half catching their silhouettes. Eventually they let him sink to the ground and only then did the sounds spill, coughing as he reached down and felt the bloodied hole torn in his tunic. It was strange, that the one coherent thought that ran through him was that the rain would wash away the traces of his blood upon the earth. How would Angus know if he had fallen well? He clambered onto unsteady legs, one hand supporting his weight against the damp tree trunk while the other pressed tightly to the wound. He’d not die here. His hair had come unbound during the scuffle, a curtain that obscured his face. He watched the way the light flickered on the crimson stain and gave a growl as he shifted, startling his attackers enough for him to run away into the chaos of the storm. It was a lot harder to trace and catch a small fox in the woods than an injured fae, after all. After a while he could no longer hear their frenzied pursuit, finding his way to the edges of a small grove of trees shrouded in darkness. He stumbled there and shifted clumsily, bloodied hands curling on the bark, mouth parting with pained groans giving admission to his agony. No different, ruled by their passions and their grief, as all men were. Where could the fish-bird live, if water drowned and air suffocated? He fell slowly into the shadowed grove, a fleeting thought as his eyes closed and he lay inert, hands thumping into the wet moss. 0-0-0 [ Order]
MAS-Zine ebook: A Prelude to Nocturnia / Cover by Malarky	About the author Malarky is a freelance writer and illustrator of varied interests and styles who has lived in several countries, including a 3 year stint in Japan. Working with a variety of media but favoring CG and markers, her illustrations tend to focus on the fantastic, a nod to her fascination with both old world folklore and myths and latinamerican magical realism. Two of her shonen-ai webcomics – Blatah! and Nocturnia have been online for almost four years and have a worldwide audience. Malarky 's currently working on a new webcomic: Haven Hathaway. Her artbook —Shadowspires— can be bought through her website. http://www.uneide.com/art or http://www.amazon.com. http://blatah.comicgenesis.com http://nocturnia.comicgenesis.com In the works is a yaoi artbook which should be published later this year, so keep an eye out for it! More about her art can be learned through her website, or you can take a peek at a recent TV interview (in Spanish). http://www.uneide.com/art/apisinterview.MPG