Playing With Fire (8 page)

The faeries began to shiver, gathering together, forming something that looked like a body, like a flaming, lean body.

Zujan snorted, “Fickle beasts. He cannot touch you.”

“What are they doing?” It was fascinating, the faeries were fascinating. And a little scary. Maybe more than a little.

“Trying to seduce you. They’re bored and want to go back down.”

“Then why don’t they?” They were kind of pretty.

“They cannot. They feed on me. If they move too far away, they dissolve.”

“Feed on you?” Wintras took a step back away from the faeries.

“Their life force must come from somewhere, pet.” The faeries shivered, stepped toward him then back toward Zujan.

Wintras started to back toward the door, the wind howling through the room. He didn’t want to watch them do whatever they did.

“Thank you for the meal, pet.” Zujan stood, gaunt, terrifyingly pale and small, arms held open to the faeries.

“I’ll pass that on to Mata,” he murmured, continuing to watch with horrified fascination despite himself.

The flashing lights descended on Zujan, the swirling lights seeming to make the sorcerer appear tiny. He stepped forward. “Zujan…”

Dark eyes met his, desperate, agonized. He went to Zujan, cursing himself as a fool and batted at the faeries, pushing them away from Zujan. They dissolved as he touched them, burst into sparks. He touched Zujan’s arm, hissing at how cold the almost translucent skin was.

Zujan looked up at him, shaking, obviously frightened. “Who…who are you?”

The man was obviously delirious. Funny, Zujan also seemed so much smaller and non-threatening. Wintras reached out again, managing not to wince or pull back as his hand wrapped around the freezing arm. “One of your slaves, Zujan. Come downstairs with me. Get warm.”

“Warm? There is no more warmth.”

All right, Zujan was nuts. And living up here in this tower was not helping. Wintras bit his lip, but knew already what he had to do. It was not in his nature to refuse help to those that needed it. He bent and picked Zujan up, heading back for the stairs. The man seemed to weigh nothing, light as a bird in his arms. The wind picked up, screaming through the windows, making him shiver, making Zujan seem even colder. He didn’t bother trying to shut the door behind him as he exited, just headed down the stairs as quickly as he could.

The faeries spun, trying to push against him, against Zujan.

“Go away,” he growled, trying to push them away with his arms, hindered by his burden.

An angry hissing sounded, the faeries glowing brighter, the scent of smoke stronger.

“Leave him alone!” He moved faster, almost falling down the stairs, getting dizzy as they went down and down and down. Zujan was so cold. Even through both their cloaks it was like holding a block of ice in his arms.

They reached the bottom of the tower, the door slamming behind them. Zujan’s eyes opened, the black ringed with icy blue.

Well, the man was alive. Wintras took a breath, not having realized until now how tense he was about that. Zujan dying would free him, but arriving in Zujan’s kitchen with the man in his arms, and dead would likely have gotten him killed. He refused to consider any other possibility for why he might be happy Zujan was still alive.

“The kitchen’s the warmest room in the castle,” he said by way of explanation as he strode through the old halls.

“No. Too many people.” Zujan pointed down an old hall. “There’s rooms.”

“It’s cold here. You need a fire, food.” He turned down the hall though. He could go for food, blankets.

“I’ll make a fire.” He got a wild grin, Zujan’s eyes rolling.

He wasn’t sure that was a very good idea—after all, the place had nearly burned down last time Zujan had made one. He didn’t say that though. Besides, he wasn’t convinced Zujan would be able to, the frigid body seemed so weak. He pushed through the door Zujan pointed to, the room they entered small, but clean. The fireplace was prepared, needing only to be lit, and there was more wood stacked next to it. There was a large cushiony chair near the fire and a bed, all made up with blankets and quilts. Someone had obviously been in here in the last weeks, keeping the place as if someone actually used it.

Who knew, maybe this was really Zujan’s bedroom, the one gone up in flames just for show, for when Zujan…entertained.

“Oh.” Zujan smiled, relaxing suddenly, slumping in his arms. “Home.”

Wow, this little place really was Zujan’s room. Funny, how it was unimposing and small, nothing more fancy than books and more books to decorate it. Even the tapestries on the wall were merely serviceable rather than ornate.

Wintras put Zujan down in the big chair and looked for something to start the fire. Light from the hall flickered in, and he headed back that way—he could use the torch on the fire, if he could get it off the wall. He heard something like a soft whoosh, the dim light from a fire stopping him in his tracks.

He turned back, watching the fire slowly build. “I wasn’t sure you were going to be able to. You look pretty done.”

He picked up a couple of blankets from the bed and brought them over to Zujan. The sorcerer looked tiny, young, curled in the chair, cheek resting on one arm. Wintras wrapped the blankets around Zujan, shaking his head at how cold the pale skin was. Zujan needed to be warmed. Body heat was the best for that. Wintras bit his lip. Zujan needed food, too, if he went and got another tray, he could get a couple of boys from the harem at the same time, and they could lie with Zujan.

Full-body shudders began wracking the thin body, Zujan’s teeth chattering. Wintras couldn’t not help. He couldn’t. Wintras pulled the blankets away and pulled off Zujan’s clothing and then took off his own borrowed cloak. Zujan was almost blue he was so white, and when Wintras sat, taking Zujan into his arms, Zujan was the coldest thing he’d ever held.

It wasn’t natural, and it couldn’t be good.

He wrapped himself around Zujan and the blankets around both of them. “I don’t understand how anyone could be so cold and not dead.”

“The magics. It’s the… Oh. Sweet Velus in the Heavens. You’re warm.”

“That’s not hard, seeing how cold you are.” He pulled Zujan closer, hands stroking over the freezing skin. He thought maybe Zujan was a little less cold now, though that might have just been the room getting warmer as the fire began to blaze.

Zujan chuckled, head lolling. “Wait until the bar’cha start gathering in the hall. They can’t come here. No one can, without my permission.”

He shivered. He’d just walked right in. He wasn’t even sure if Zujan had been conscious at the time. “Why do you let them do this to you?” Zujan was this powerful, terrifying mage who ruled by terror and fire. It was hard to reconcile that image with the slight, freezing, vulnerable man in his arms.

“There are prices to pay for all things, Wintras. The more wonderful the gift, the more horrible the cost. Surely you know this.”

He shrugged, Zujan’s words making him feel young and inexperienced. “I know you have to work hard to get stuff done.”

“Yes. I was born with this gift, born with a host of bar’cha hungering for someone’s body to…” Zujan shivered, pressed closer. “They require sustenance, life force. They are the curse that comes with the gift.”

“Wow.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he just kept sliding his hands over Zujan’s skin. The man was definitely beginning to warm up.

A soft moan sounded, Zujan’s eyes closing. Wintras bit back his words of concern, confused by his conflicted feelings. Pale and fine and delicate—how could this man be the same one who ruled with a fist of iron?

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, just held and rubbed and shared his heat with Zujan. He could go back to being defiant and angry when Zujan was throwing his weight around again. Until then, they would rest.

* * * *

Warm. Quiet. Easy. Home. Oh, he must be home.

His mother had built this place for him, imbuing it with the last of her spirit, his father’s magics gone mad, the skin falling from her bones, offering him sanctuary. He had stayed in the room for years—Cook leaving food in a box that he pulled to him on the rope, Father watching and raging, screaming threats. He had learned so much, read so much, learned control and distance. Learned that the world was vicious and waiting to destroy him.

His father was the first person who fell to his flames; the army come to destroy his home the next to feel their heat.

Zujan stretched, memories irritating him, waking him. Warm hands, warmer than any he could ever remember, slid along his arm, patting him.

Oh. Oh, sweet Velus. “So warm.” He couldn’t remember not being cold.

“Yeah, I think you’re finally feeling normal. I didn’t think your skin was ever going to warm.”

He frowned, eyes blinking open to focus on his little prince. Odd. He didn’t remember inviting him in. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t either.”

“Are you all right now? Hungry? I can go get food from the kitchen.” Wintras shifted.

Zujan nodded, forcing himself to sit up, pull away from the warmth, draw the veil of calm around him. There was something about this boy that ate away at his control. “You may go, Wintras.”

Wintras got up out of the chair like it was on fire, face turning into the familiar mask of…disdain? Dislike? “I’ll ask Cook to send someone with food.”

“Don’t bother. No one can come here.” He wrapped himself in a cloak, stomach aching.

“You know you just have to ask, and I’ll bring it back myself.”

Zujan nodded, moving over to the books against the wall, fingers trailing along the spines. He hadn’t needed to be in this room for so long.

“Are you… You’ll be all right?” Wintras asked.

He closed his eyes, the scent of his mother’s perfume somehow fresh, close. He wanted to be held again, to be touched and warm.

“Zujan?” His name was whispered, Wintras suddenly at his side, tall and warm, one hot hand on his arm.

He sobbed, leaning into the heat, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh.” Wintras’ arms went around him, his prince holding him, patting his back awkwardly. He shivered, melting into those arms, refusing to think, to try and understand what this meant.

“You’re cold again already.” It sounded like an accusation.

“I can’t help it.” Zujan shrugged. It was how he was.

“No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood.” Wintras froze as the words slipped from his mouth. “I mean…”

Zujan blinked then started laughing, tickled down deep, amused that this stubborn, angry boy would say such a thing.

Wintras stayed stiff, though the prince didn’t try to move away. “I’m glad to find I am finally amusing you.”

“You will never be a diplomat, prince. Although, I must admit that my own skills do not live along that path either.”

“I am simple like my people, Zujan. That is where my strength lies. In helping them, being one of them.”

“We must all play to our strengths. Your challenge will be to hide your weaknesses.”

The books caught his eye again, page after page teaching how to rule, how to control, tales of heroes and villains.

“You mean like you do? Hiding how small you really are?”

Zujan nodded, not really even paying attention then the words hit him. Being in this room made him complacent. “I’m not that small.”

“Sure. And I’m not your slave.”

“You are here as a consequence of your own actions.”

Wintras snorted, and his arms dropped away, the long, warm body stepping back. “And you had nothing to do with it.”

“You cannot control me; you can only control your own actions.” He could feel the fury, the frustration again, threatening at the base of his spine.

“I would never dream of trying to control you, Zujan.”

“Amazing. You do have a self-preservation instinct. Your father will be pleased.”

Wintras snorted. “My father would have been pleased to have me return with him instead of my being held prisoner here. Why do you still pretend you’ve done this to help me?”

He turned, heat leeching from him, fire blazing anew. “Because one day, prince, your mouth will find you beheaded and your lands lost, either to me or to another as strong as I am.”

“And if you and your ilk were not greedy warmongers, it wouldn’t be an issue. My people have no wish for war or more land and jewels. They wish only to be happy, left in peace.” Wintras was back to the stiff angry boy, glaring at him, dark blue eyes shooting a fire of his own.

“And the war that earned your father his crown? Are your histories so short you cannot remember even a generation ago?” He would not have this. Not here. Not in his home. Not in his rooms.

Zujan moved through the door, through the barrier, leaving his room, the bar’cha flocking to him. They offered him forgiveness, strength, the illusion of size.

All they asked was his soul.

Wintras followed him out, a look of disgust on his face. “Our wars are in the past, there is peace now. I wish only to preserve it.”

Soft voices hissed in his ear.
Send him away. He hurts us. Send him away, our love, and all the pain and fury will fade. We will play again. We will call for the harem and have them warm us.

Wintras shook his head. “I don’t understand how you could let them do that to you. I don’t care how powerful it makes you, it’s…” Wintras shrugged and turned his back.

Zujan almost laughed. Let them? They were the first things he remembered, the lights surrounding his world.

Send him away
.

“Go home, Wintras. Go home, and tell your father if I see him or you on my lands again, it will be war and I will destroy every single human on your lands.”

Wintras whirled back around, looking at him as if he expected to be struck down.

“Go? Just like that?” The prince advanced on him. “What’s the catch?”

“Go. If I ever see you again, I will bathe you in the fires of regret and let the bar’cha suck the marrow from your bones. You are not welcome here.” The words made the stones vibrate, his heart calling to his mother and her need to defend him. “You are not welcome here.”