Page 5 of Envious Of Fire
The musician’s lifeless eyes stare up at Tristan, his last look of terror still glimmering in them, captured like a photograph, blood pumping from the fountain of his opened neck.
He had pleasant eyes, says Tristan, as if in start of a eulogy.
“And not much else,” concludes Ashara, ending it.
The truth is, the musician shared many traits with Tristan. From his short blond tangles of hair to his misty blue eyes. His proud yet unassuming posture, how he both stood out and kept close to the shadows, his guard never fully down. Even the proud way he lifted his head as he played—well, when it was attachedto his shoulders. The soft way he spoke, like his words were a melody of their own. How he dedicated himself to the music each time he lifted an instrument, though he was a tad robotic, like a pupil with the highest marks, everything done so properly, yet missing that special, unteachablething.
Tristan was hoping this musician would last.
But, like the last one, in a long line of hopeful musicians that have met similar fates, the boy is now as dead as Bach.
Admittedly, it’s difficult to perform under such pressure for a musician of any measure of talent, especially when one’s sole audience is Ashara, the blood-bonded sister of Markadian, Lord of Vegasyn and ruler of the west region, which includes with a few insignificant exceptions everything west of Louisiana, from Houston, Texas to Seattle, Washington. Even directors in the east region regard Markadian with unwavering respect. Ashara is no exception, as even without a title or rank, a mere whisper from her lips to her brother’s ear can raze a city to ash.
“So much dear Markadian could improve upon here,” says Ashara to the hearth, “so much he could change if he had the drive. He’s too complacent. I’ve made great use of my time in India these past fifteen months, and oh, the ideas I’ve gathered, how they’d handle a rogue among their ranks … how they’d respond to such insolence I have seen here since my return …” She lets out a sigh that isn’t unlike the hiss of a snake. “You’d be loath to hear of it.”
The head still rests at Tristan’s feet, reminding him of a tipped over wineglass pouring its lifeblood. Tristan takes a step back, if anything but to keep his shoes from being soaked in blood, and asks,Should I summon someone to clean up the, um—?
“Is it true?” Ashara pulls her face from the fire. “Did you leave my brother’s side all those years ago … for a boy?”
Tristan considered the question.There were manydecisions I made…that may have been ill-advised.
“Ill-advised, we’re calling it?” Her iron gaze locks on his. “Your nearly three-decade-long flirtation with this boy I have heard is called … Kyle, is it?”
The way she utters his name.
With such predetermined disgust and mockery.
It is obvious Markadian’s words have already poisoned the idea of Kyle to her.
Perhaps that is to be expected. Kyle’s name is like a curse in this place now, considering the events of the last few weeks. So is Tristan’s. It will be this way for quite a while yet.
Healing takes time, even for immortals.
“I am surprised he would take you back so easily,” she says. “The time you were gone, it was like a dark storm moved over my brother’s eyes. Each time he spoke, a cold bite to his words, bitter resentment, even as we drank royal blood together. All of those years … how you’ve left your stain upon him.”
Tristan thinks of the fire twenty-seven years ago, Wendy and her words in that burning house, and he says,Perhaps I have underestimated his love for me.
“Not that it matters at the moment,” she says, “what with my brother’s head so consumed by the latest blunder of his … incompetent assistant. The death of a so-called Brock.”
Tristan’s eyes lower to the headless corpse by the hearth, where another pool of blood has drawn a set of red wings on the floor in the glowing flames.
“Why we even keep a list of Protected Blood is so archaic. And to what end? Appeasing mortals? Keeping peace? Is there not any suitable wine in this damned place?” she asks suddenly with a careless toss of her current glass into the fire.
By wine, she means blood. Despite there being a perfectly fresh corpse at her feet, Tristan suspects that a woman of her stature would never deign to drink from such a disappointingmusician. He may infect her with his mediocrity.
“Could you see to my brother about this dead Brock that so troubles him?” she asks without a glance his way. “Despite your transgressions, and beyond all reason, it is you he still trusts. How many livesdoesthe cat have, I find myself wondering …” With one last disdainful glance down at the headless corpse, Ashara sneers and flicks her eyes away. “And yes, do summon someone to clean this mess. Just having it here reminds me of his incontinent use ofvibratowith every insufferable note he played on that stiff and terrible instrument.”
It.
That is the term she uses for the decapitated human.
At once, agrees Tristan, then departs.
It is not without warrant that Ashara, freshly returned from her lengthy sabbatical, holds such contempt for Tristan. It was only by a thin slice of luck that it was during her absence from the House of Vegasyn that Tristan was found again. If he and Kyle had been discovered while she was still here whispering in Lord Markadian’s ears, it most certainly would have spelled a grimmer outcome for both of them.
Tristan owes a lot to Markadian’s mercy.
The pursuit of someone to handle the corpse of the dead musician is not as quick a task as Tristan hoped. After departing the study, he finds himself lost in a circular hallway, every door seeming to lead to an identical study. Each person he passes is too busy to even look his way. Two women pass by gossiping to each other, and upon Tristan waving at them, they swiftly move into a room, ignoring him. This is expected. Tristan has gotten used to the cold reception, even a year after his return. Decades of gossip and dark words have buried Tristan beneath a hill of judgment he is certain he’ll never climb out from under.
