Rasnake(8)

It was not until he had left home, and shortly after he'd met Milton, that he finally encountered a 'wild dog' and understood better what the Fate Reader had not been able to say. Your destiny lies with wolves.

Milton had laughed and laughed that Tallant didn't know what wolves were. Tallant had finally thrown him in the river. He'd been secretly happy, though, to learn that his fate was bound to wolves—it meant he would never return home, that he would always be somewhere else, and never again under the oppressive hold of his unbending family.

Several years later, however, he still had not found the wolves that were his destiny. He had nearly resigned himself to its meaning only that he was meant to live forever with Milton, in this country. That his fate was with foreigners, and nothing more. He glanced down at his bare left forearm, and stifled an old sigh.

He shoved the selfish thoughts away. Right now, his sworn brother needed him and Tallant would be there for him. Turning his attention back to Cecil, he strode closer and said, "A word with you, Your Grace."

Cecil whipped around, and Tallant was again struck hard by the sadness deep in his pale green eyes. He obviously hurt as deeply as Milton, but Tallant was not yet certain how to bridge the gap between them. "I do not go by 'Your Grace'," Cecil said curtly. "Who are you, other than Milton's battle-bonded elf?"

Tallant quirked a brow at the unmistakable hint of jealousy in Cecil's voice as he mentioned the battle-bond. Was he jealous that Milton returned home with a sworn brother? But, Tallant conceded, he supposed that would not help matters. There was nothing to be done about it, though. "Rasnake, then. My apologies. My name is Tallant Delarma. As you say, we are battle-bonded. He is my best friend; we've been through much together."

He presented his right arm as a courtesy, displaying the tattoo, even though Cecil would not understand what any of the marks meant. But then Cecil surprised him, by lightly grasping his arm in one hand, and tracing the inked runes with his fingers. "You became friends in battle. Your first kills together were thieves, and there's something to do with animals. You share physical and magical strength."

"Wolves," Tallant replied, stunned. "He was being attacked by bandits when I came across the fight and helped him. We were barely done when a pair of hungry wolves appeared. How do you know all that?"

To his continued astonishment, Cecil flushed and dropped his arm as though burned, then backed hastily away. Tallant fought a sudden strange urge to reach out and yank him back.

"Why the hell are you two even here?" Cecil demanded.

"Because he was finally allowed to come home," Tallant said, reminded suddenly of the tower, the way Cecil had said Milton should have written letters, the oddness of that. "Because he could not wait to see again the two people he loves most in the world."

Cecil sneered. "Allowed to return?"

Tallant frowned, his confusion growing. "Yes. He showed me the papers a couple of times. He was banished from the kingdom for twelve years, forbidden any and all contact, on pain of your death."

"What—" Cecil bit the words off, and his expression shuttered, but not before Tallant had seen that moment of honest, open, nasty shock.

Cecil hadn't known.

Milton, that fucking halfwit, hadn't told anyone the details of his leaving.

"He collected gifts, you know," Tallant added. "For your birthday, whenever we went somewhere new. Little things easy to carry, but there must be dozens of them. More still for Her Grace. He carries them in a satchel—"

"I don't give a damn," Cecil said. "It's none of your fucking business."

Tallant grew angry at that. "Like hell it's not. We might not be blood related, but Milton and I are brothers. He's hurt, and the reason for that hurt is you, and I'm not going to sit idly by and continue to watch you hurt him."

Cecil turned away.

"Don't you dare," Tallant snarled, and reached out, grasping Cecil's wrist and yanking him back—

—Causing Cecil to trip, bringing him crashing hard into Tallant, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Tallant balanced them, one arm around Cecil's waist, the other around his shoulders. "Sorry."

"Let me go," Cecil hissed.

Tallant immediately obeyed, but he hadn't missed the way Cecil tensed, the way he flushed, the wide eyes—all the little details that said Cecil wasn't unaffected by Tallant and his numerous tattoos.

Not that it mattered, Tallant would never use Milton's little brother that way. But if his presence flustered Cecil enough to drop his guard—that he would use, if doing so helped bridge the gap between the brothers. He'd have to work out the best way to use it.

At the moment, however, his attention was capture by a ruckus at the gate, as men arrived bearing a cart that contained what was obviously a body. Cecil led the way as everyone moved to gather solemnly around the cart.

"Sir," one of the cart-bearers said, bowing to Cecil. "This was found secreted in her bodice. It fell out when we moved her."

Cecil took the object, then sneered and rounded on a group of old, sour looking men who had just arrived. The council, probably. Cecil flourished the object, which proved to be an official-looking medallion of some sort. "If one girl died with one of my trinkets in her hand, and that makes me the culprit—what does it mean, Lord Weatherby, that this dead girl died with your official seal stuffed down her bodice?"