Bloodfire: Prequel to the Chay Trilogy

By Gloria H. Giroux

Decades before the bitter war of independence between Ptolem and Osiron end, two royal brothers grow into manhood while on a path intended to define the history of their family and their world. Shayne and Sar-Chay, born to the most powerful Kindred on Osiron, are groomed and indoctrinated in the ways of the Separatae, a fiercely determined group that demands nothing less than independence from their increasingly totalitarian motherworld, Ptolem.

Despite their deep fraternity, mutual respect, and love, Shayne and Sar-Chay are too different in spirit and goals to maintain a tranquil relationship. As their differing concepts of love and loyalty to the women in their lives pit them against one another, the brothers battle in equally desperate desires to control the lynchpin of their next generation, the warrior Vin-Chay. As the men prepare for the deciding conflict to gain Osirons independence, they clash with one another in a relentless cornucopia of hate, vengeance, passion, and unwavering determination.

The souls of three men precariously balance on the precipice of obliteration as the final battle nears, and all three are forced to make decisions that will either save them or destroy everything they hold dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475989045

Gloria H. Giroux

Gloria H. Giroux was born in North Adams, MA. Raised in Hartford, CT, she graduated from Bulkeley High School, the University of Connecticut and the Computer Processing Institute subsequently embarking on a double career of IT and writing. The author of nineteen fiction novels, Keene Retribution is homage to a special place in her life in New England. She currently lives in Arizona where she is working on her next book.

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Copyright © 2013 Gloria H. Giroux.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-8903-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8905-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8904-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907966

iUniverse rev. date: 5/7/2013

CONTENTS

Prologue

BOOK ONE: FLUSH

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

BOOK TWO: FLARE-UP

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

BOOK THREE: INFERNO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Also by the Author:

Fireheart, Volume One of the Chay Trilogy

Whitefire, Volume Two of the Chay Trilogy

Firesoul, Volume Three of the Chay Trilogy

Copper Snake

In Memoriam

This book is dedicated to two lovely friends who are no longer in this world, which is far poorer for their loss:

Robin Foersterling

February 8, 1962 – October 21, 2012

Olga Link

July 4, 1923 – November 19, 2012

You will always be in my heart …

CAST OF CHARACTERS

PROLOGUE

Sixteenth Day of Leo, Fifty-One Seventy-One

There had never been a more glorious summer day on Osiron, Sar-Chay thought. He stood proudly to one side of the large gathering and watched as his second-born son assumed the Crown of Chay in an unusually intimate but lovely ceremony. Vin-Chay stood slightly apart from his birth family, his Ptolemii family, and the other eight Crown Princes as another former slave, Patri Julan, intoned the rites of passage that sealed Vin-Chay’s destiny as the Chay family’s patriarch. Pyke stood a scant meter away, and had a look of honest reverence, awe and love on his plain face, an unremarkable visage characterized by heavy-lidded, pale green eyes, and framed by nondescript long, light brown hair. Reluctantly, Sar-Chay finally accepted his son’s spouse both as a family member and as the love of Vin-Chay’s life. Sar-Chay knew that feeling all too well, and was grateful that his son’s foray into matters of the heart had fared better than his.

He listened intently to the ancient words invoking the duties and responsibilities of the office that Vin-Chay was assuming, and the strong, determined affirmations his son was speaking in an ancient Osiran dialect long associated with the reverent rituals. He let his keen eyes roam across the scene before him, taking in each face, each nuance, each set of garments carefully selected to respect and honor his son. He noted that Lady Mystral, Crown Prince Dhar Krishna’s one-hundred-and-four-year-old mother, stood proud and straight in her finest royal garments. Her lined face glowed with an oddly intense satisfaction. He had known the woman, his late mother’s best friend, for fifty years. His father, Warrick, had known her even longer and had worked with her to free Osiron from its motherworld’s harsh grasp. The woman was a legend amongst the Separatae. A much-feared legend.

Sar-Chay let his contemplative gaze linger a moment on the small basket resting on the ground beside Pyke’s boots, the basket that held Vin-Chay’s sleeping youngest son. Constantine was well enough to accompany his parents outside of the Mediplex or home for short periods. Sar-Chay thought the baby’s face unexceptional, but he acknowledged a mild curiosity about the tiny, tough boy who had beaten all odds to survive his massive injuries and perhaps even have something of a decent future. He wondered what the boy would be like in ten or fifteen years, and as a man. He wondered if he could ever love a damnable Pyke-child, or even truly admit him into the unique Chay family.

Next to the boy rested another basket bearing his new foster sister, Domenica, Vin-Chay’s late brother Dom-Chay’s posthumous daughter. Behind the two baskets stood the boy Cobahr, holding the hands of his little brother Pyco-Chay, and his other new foster sister, TutMi. Her father, Cassian, had abandoned her and her sister, Cassiopeia, to run off in grief at the loss of their mother, dropping the burden of raising the two orphaned girls on Vin-Chay and his family. Six children, Sar-Chay mused in amazement, and at the tender age of thirty, this very day.

Thirty years old, Sar-Chay thought in wonder. Exactly thirty years ago he had been holding a sinful, secret son in his arms and saying good-bye to him as he prepared to let Chay Shayne believe the child was his and raise him as the second-born son of the Crown Prince. Now, that son was the new Crown Prince, and would be a finer one that his titular father ever was, or his secret sire could ever have hoped to be.

His musings were interrupted as the ceremonial point arrived for Cobahr to be invested as the Chay Heir-Prince. Sar-Chay watched intently as the handsome young boy stepped to his Osiran father’s side and grinned up at him with complete adoration in his laughing, light blue eyes. The child was smart and cute, and Sar-Chay did admit to himself a growing appreciation of and liking for the sweet, artistically talented little boy. He did rue the fact that his blood grandson, Pyco-Chay, wouldn’t be following his father into the line of Chay patriarchs. Ah, well, no doubt that child would have his own glorious future; blood would tell. It always had. Look at Vin-Chay. He rested his narrowed eyes on his son, taking in every nuance of the magnificent creature he had spawned and abandoned, and to whom he wondered if he could ever reveal their true connection. He stroked his well-trimmed, short, black and silver beard, his dark brown eyes crinkled in barely hidden sheer joy and satisfaction.

Vin-Chay matched him in height and body structure––both men quite tall at two-meters-six––and the younger man bore the slightly heavy jaw of his sire, whose trait was long-hidden by the thick black pelt covering his face. Vin-Chay had chosen to remain clean-shaven and long-haired, his ebony locks falling halfway down his back, a vestigial preference from his long residence on Ptolem; Sar-Chay’s black and silver hair was cut short, as was the style for most Osiran men. The younger man was lithe but well-muscled, as Sar-Chay had noted during covert observations of Vin-Chay as he trained and exercised in the Miliplex athletic chambers. He had been impressed with his son’s prowess in hand-to-hand combat and with his adept usage of ancient battle weapons like the broadsword and the viciously sharp twin tripoints, weapons he wielded with concentrated mastery. Sar-Chay took great pride in the fact that although Pyke had supposedly trained his son in such efforts, the pupil had far outshone the master in his ability and tenacity. It was no wonder he could survive and thrive for years under so many oppressive, hostile conditions. Vin-Chay had emerged whole, strong, and dedicated enough to have devised and carried out a plan that had resulted in Osiron’s ultimate victory in the war of independence. And through all his trials he had remained kind and compassionate, no small feat.

Sar-Chay studied his son’s intense, handsome face as Vin-Chay watched his own son’s investiture. Although the young man could present an inscrutable, impassive front when occasion dictated such restraint, this was not one of those times. Vin-Chay’s love for his child radiated out from those startling blue eyes like the rays of the new morning sun. Sar-Chay softened just a bit towards the damned Ptolemii who had sired the child that had brought so much love, stability and purpose to Vin-Chay’s life.

The patri finished his prayers and made the final hand blessing over Cobahr’s silky, long blond hair, then formally announced the confirmation of Crown Prince Chay Vinetio DeGael-DeGrec, and Heir-Prince Chay Cobahr DeGael-DeGrec. Sar-Chay shuddered at the hyphenated clan names; he would never be pleased that his son had chosen to modify his esteemed nomenclature to incorporate Pyke’s undistinguished clan. He sighed; he’d just have to get used to it as he had so many forces at work in his life. He shook himself out of his moment of self-indulgence as he registered the noise around him. People were laughing and talking, and congratulating his son and each other as the gathering spread out over the grassy bluff for the post-ceremonial feasting. Georn touched his arm gently and nodded his head in understanding and support. Sar-Chay was grateful for his mate/friend’s presence here on this day and in his life, but he couldn’t suppress a familiar pang of longing for lost loves and chances of which he had failed to make the most. He hoped his son would not follow in those particular footsteps.

Sar-Chay felt another touch and turned to speak to his spouse, but Georn’s quieting presence had somehow been replaced by Vin-Chay’s disquieting one. Sar-Chay never could shake the fear that someday, perhaps, Vin-Chay might study the face of his uncle a bit too closely and see more than he desired to, or should. Sar-Chay’s dream was to someday tell his son of his true heritage, but this was not that day. He grinned effortlessly.

So, Sar-Chay said brusquely to hide his dangerous pride, you now rule our esteemed Kindred. And your first official actions will be?

Vin-Chay sighed. So much to do for all of us, Uncle. It will take years to rebuild from the ashes of this conflict. But, one step at a time. He smiled. For myself, I need to have my family’s home rebuilt and expanded for the extra occupants. I need to give the children a strong sense of stability and safety.

You could have that at the Chay compound, you know, Sar-Chay replied just a bit peevishly. He’d like his son to be in slightly closer proximity than that distant agriplex in Tuscany. The land was beautiful and fertile, but it was too isolated for someone of Vin-Chay’s prestige and expectations. Well, Sar-Chay’s expectations anyway.

Vin-Chay shook his head. I will always hold my birth home dear, but that is not the home of my future. And, I plan on signing the property and a number of other holdings over to H’Elene to make sure she and her children are well provided for. He raised his finely arched eyebrows at Sar-Chay’s narrowed eyes. She deserves that alone for tolerating my father all those years without benefit of legal wedlock. She endured a great deal from both my parents and should have a more secure life now that we’re all starting over. And I don’t want my brother and sisters to ever worry about their future.

I suppose so, Sar-Chay admitted grudgingly.

Vin-Chay frowned intently. His mind was awhirl with a thousand critical details that required his attention and concentration. There was no time for rest or complacency right now. The Athenian Senate needs to ratify the emergency indoctrination funds for people who will be coming home from their captivity. You and the High Command need to define an adequate plan and timeline for replenishing our warrior force and ships. We also have to decide if we want to split our rather contentious Gaul province into two and reevaluate its increasingly chaotic judicial constitution. Also, the Circle needs to come to better consensus on how to approach the Isiin summit. The Tii and Dhar Kindreds are being somewhat stubborn about some proposed reparations concessions. I want to ensure that Pyke has full backing when he and Rue Dann meet with Lord Aristine and Lady Vashira next month. We need to bargain from a position of conviction and power.

I still don’t care for the idea of having Pyke function as a primary member of our delegation, Sar-Chay groused. He’s not one of our people.

Yes, Vin-Chay said as calmly as he could, he is. By virtue of the facts that he is my consecrated spouse and was an integral factor in our success. And, he is willing to take an oath of Osiran citizenship to prove his loyalty. I will insist that he retain his Ptolemii citizenship as well to honor his birthworld and past. This subject is closed. There was no mistaking the implacability in the cool tone.

Sar-Chay could see the ice in his son’s eyes as the touchy subject of his damnable Ptolemii spouse arose between them once again. He tensed, then sighed and nodded curtly.

Vin-Chay went on in a more conciliatory tone; he hated to be at odds with his annoying but beloved kinsman. His voice softened, but was still threaded with the titanum that cloaked his willpower and determination. Pyke was a key intimate in the Pharon’s seat of power. He knows the people, the rules, the intrigue, the possibilities and the limitations. He and Aristine have a mutually respectful history. He will aggressively see to our best interests not only because that’s how he’s made, but because he will be securing our sons’ futures. That will always be primary for both of us. Sar-Chay grunted, and Vin-Chay sighed in frustration. Before he could continue to defend his spouse, Sar-Chay held up a hand.

I give up. Very well, I will accept his place in your life––our lives––and do my best to … endure him. But don’t expect miracles.

I don’t. Just the honesty and compassion for which you’re so well known.

You’re playing me, Sar-Chay muttered with just a touch of appreciation for his smart child.

Of course. I’m a Chay. It’s what we do.

One of our many enviable qualities, Sar-Chay retorted.

There are others.

Let’s not get into those. This is, after all, a day for celebration and renewal.

Indeed it is, Vin-Chay agreed, smiling brightly at Cobahr, who had caught his eye and grinned from across the lawn where he fidgeted next to his grandparents. Pyco-Chay was straining to extricate his hand from his older brother’s, but Vin-Chay’s firstborn was keeping a titanum grip on his small, impulsive, cunning sibling. Sar-Chay noted the wistful look on his son’s face as they both momentarily contemplated the next generation of ubiquitous Chays. Suddenly, Vin-Chay turned to his uncle with a hopeful look on his young, open face.

Do you think my father would be proud of me? Vin-Chay asked quietly.

Sar-Chay smiled slyly. Oh, I know he’s proud of you.

BOOK ONE

FLUSH

CHAPTER ONE

"God’s Blood, Sarashi––move!"

Shayne’s voice was saturated with the frustration he felt nearly every day as he tried doggedly but usually in vain to instruct and guide his younger brother in the athletic pursuits that he found so enticing and easy. Both teenagers were elegantly designed by nature, with tall, lithe, well-muscled bodies and nearly identical faces etched from the genes of their father and mother. They, and their little brother, Sabriel, had a version of their father’s dark eyes and shiny, raven-black hair, strong, square jaw, and the high, well-defined cheekbones that all Chay males seemed to thread down through the generations. Their younger twin sisters, Waneta and Wakanda, favored their mother, Rue Sabra, with their vivid red-brown hair and green eyes, setting off their gentler, far less aggressive personality and manners. Her slightly cleft chin echoed in her sons’ faces, but that was essentially the extent of her contribution to the Chay male heirs.

The sixteen-year-old Heir-Prince to the Crown of Chay was by far the more outgoing and demanding of the two oldest brothers, and rarely acted any other way. On occasion he allowed his thirteen-year-old brother to see a vulnerable, sensitive side, but those happenstances occurred few and far between. Anyone who observed the siblings would doubt that the older had a heart or conscience, let alone a soul whose depths were unfathomable even to him. The boys’ father had pounded his implacable philosophies into them from the first weeks of their lives, and brooked no dissension as to his lofty expectations and demands. Shayne was fast following suit and rarely gave leeway to anyone, even the younger brother he secretly adored. It wouldn’t do to allow Sarashi to know just how much his frequent, devoted companion and best friend meant to Shayne; that would provide the younger Chay with an edge over his older sibling. As Heir-Prince to the most powerful Kindred on Osiron, Shayne couldn’t permit that. Wouldn’t permit that.

Shayne frowned and glared menacingly at Sarashi, who was struggling to pull himself up the huge, slick wall with a well-worn, fraying rope that chafed his raw hands. Sarashi cursed his clumsiness, his overbearing brother, their judgmental father, and the damn rope as he methodically placed hand over hand and ascended the wall slowly but surely as a booted foot occasionally slipped against the smooth rock surface. Beads of perspiration popped out all over his intense, handsome face as he clenched his teeth and proceeded upward.

Grasp the rope tighter! Less distance between your hands, Sasha! Shayne barked, gesturing wildly.

Shut up! Sarashi retorted as he ignored the familiar commands and continued his sweaty efforts.

You need to keep your feet flush against the rock. That’s why you’re slipping, Shayne responded, secretly enjoying the torment as well as instruction that he was inflicting on his sibling. And, of course, he also made allowances for his brother that he wouldn’t for any other person, if only because Sarashi was one of the few people––adult or child––who had the audacity and courage to defy him or respond verbally with an attitude and verbiage much less deferential than expected for the young Crown-Prince-in-waiting.

"Shut up!" Sarashi echoed as he cursed audibly under his breath, tightened his grip, expelled a final raspy wheeze, and made the top of the fifty-meter wall that had defeated him on every other occasion. He gave a wild whoop of exhilaration and success as he gingerly positioned himself with one long leg on either side of the half-meter thick wall that had up to this moment been an unbreachable enemy. He had an exceptional view of the Chay compound from his height, and enjoyed the soft, salty breeze that washed across his face as a dozen huge, white clouds ambled silently across the sapphire-blue sky. He felt at peace, but knew it wouldn’t last; it never did when he was with his impossible older brother. Still, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He glanced down at Shayne, who was standing far below glaring up at him impatiently, hands on hips, a temperamental cast to his finely chiseled lips and a dangerous squint to his warm brown eyes.

All right, Shayne sighed loudly as he flexed his shoulders and drew himself up to his full two-meter height. His face relaxed just a bit. You took long enough, but you finally made it. Now come down so we can wash and change before we eat.

I’m not hungry, Sarashi lied languidly, making no attempt to comply. He was calm and enjoying his temporary respite from his brother and their family. He leaned back casually and rested his palms against the narrow rock top. His lively, perceptive eyes took in every aspect of his luxurious but restricted world: the immense quadra-tier Chay home sprawled out across the bluff overlooking the Meditteran Sea; the relatives and servants scattered about the outside of the compound as they prepared for the feast that would follow his manhood ceremony that very night; the small fleet of commercial and personal crafts that docked a half kilometer away, and were still disgorging busy people attending to every demand made by Chay Warrick; and the marvelously crafted, extensive, manicured grounds replete with trees and flowers of every Osiran species, and a few rare Ptolemii ones. The wall on which he sat was at the center of a huge, circular athletic training ground along with archery, gymnastics and track courses; the Olympian swimming pool was indoors at the west end of the main house, sheltered by a shimmering transparent lucitium dome that let in both the bright sun and glistening moonlight and stars. His world was undeniably beautiful and desirable; he wondered why that knowledge didn’t soothe him more. He wondered why he was so different from his brother.

His brother’s terse voice broke Sarashi’s rambling thoughts. That doesn’t matter. Father has scheduled the ceremony and meal for specific times, and whether you want to or not, you will eat. And eat a full plateful, boy, or there’ll be hell to pay. The threat came through Shayne’s voice loud and clear; their father had made plans, and no one would be permitted to alter those plans, particularly the boy who was their immediate object.

Now climb down here immediately, Shayne barked coldly, that familiar and dreaded iciness creeping into his deep voice for the tenth time that day alone. Sarashi’s own voice was changing, and he was painfully shy and aware of the occasional tonal crack that made him unsure of himself, and too self-conscious. He reluctantly gave a short nod of the head, swung a leg over the top of the climbing wall, and awkwardly slipped a half-meter into a back-down position as he instinctively wrapped the rope around his strong hands. He descended fairly easily, although he felt typically awkward under the relentless scrutiny of his silent brother. He released the rope and dropped down the last meter, nearly losing his balance. Shayne said nothing, to his credit and Sarashi’s embarrassment.

Shayne grinned unexpectedly, and clapped his brother on the shoulder. He nodded his head in approval as he glanced up at the imposing obstacle the younger Chay had just overcome. You did very well, little brother, Shayne said seriously. I couldn’t scale that beast the first time either, he added graciously. He had actually taken two times to conquer the wall they had breezily named Diablo; their father had scaled the wall his first time out at the age of ten.

Try five times, Sarashi confessed mournfully as he enjoyed the close rapport they rarely failed to share. Father wasn’t pleased when I failed the last time.

You didn’t fail, Shayne interjected quietly. You just didn’t succeed. Failure lies in not attempting to try, and you’ve never been guilty of that.

Tell Father, Sarashi replied irritably as he shrugged off his brother’s hand and began walking towards their house. Shayne fell into step with him and the brothers were silent until only a few meters away from the wide sliding doors of the rear enclosure that opened to a wide expanse of lawn that disappeared over the bluff. Sarashi stopped, closed his eyes, and drank in the wonderful smell of the sea breezes that caressed his smooth cheeks. He loved the sea, and the mountains. He never felt more alive or graceful than when he was treading water in the relentless, crashing salt waves or the glacial lake at the family lodges. His father had promised to take him and his brother there after the ceremonial gatherings ended, and the father and sons could have some quiet, quality time together. Too rare, these days: Chay Warrick was always so busy since returning from a mandated conclave on Ptolem and setting up a series of regional parliaments. The ubiquitous Heir-Prince was immersed in his studies and the new exploration of carnal pursuits. Shayne interrupted Sarashi’s peaceful thoughts with an oddly gentle hand on his shoulder.

Father knows how hard you try, Shayne said seriously. He only wants what’s best for you.

A full psychological meltdown? Sarashi replied archly, as one eyebrow rose to its full height.

Shayne grinned artlessly. Hardly. It wouldn’t do to have the second son of the household babbling in gibberish that sounds like Ptolemii while bound in tritium restraints at the Psyplex.

That actually sounds good right about now, the younger brother muttered as a slight blush crept across his close-set ears and under the short, perfect hairline.

It won’t be that bad, Shayne replied. A few ancient intonations, some Holy Oil, a little bloodletting––

Bloodletting? Sarashi gasped as he stared into his older brother’s amused face.

Didn’t Father mention that part? Shayne asked mildly. Nothing to worry about––the stilon is sharp and the patri usually knows what’s he doing.

Stilon? Sharp? Sarashi’s face had completely drained of color, and Shayne found himself caught between a catty amusement and a mild annoyance that his sibling wasn’t of a heartier disposition in the things that mattered. He decided to string his brother’s taut composure out just a bit more, and see if the fragile tendril would snap.

Indeed, he said, nodding seriously as he fought back the urge to laugh. A little slash here, a tiny cut there, and it’s done. It’s hardly likely that you’ll be unable to sire children, but of course, there’s always that potential.

Where, here and there? Sarashi stuttered as he managed to find his voice, but it cracked and he thought about throwing himself off the bluff. He felt his face grow warm and red as his brother pointedly let his gaze run down the length of Sarashi’s long, lean body to rest on a place just below his midsection. At that moment, Sarashi knew Shayne was simply tormenting him, and there was no ‘bloodletting.’ He groaned and whirled around, and wordlessly covered the last few meters to the back of the house as his brother’s laughter echoed in the vast expanse of the Chay enclave and burned his ears like the very fires of Hades.

CHAPTER TWO

Chay Warrick frowned deeply in concentration as he watched his teenage sons amble back to the compound. He had observed his younger son’s efforts to breach the wall and actually succeed. He was pleased at Sarashi’s success, but concerned that it had taken so many efforts. He himself had made the climb up and over the first time out, and he expected nothing less from his sons. At least Shayne had only taken two tries to conquer the daunting physical challenge. Not bad, but Sarashi was another matter. The boy was clearly not as proficient in any pursuit as was his older sibling. He didn’t move through his young life with the same ease as his brother, and likely never would. He was painfully awkward and unsure of himself, and needed to be brought up to scratch as soon as possible. The second son was always constrained in their ancestral line, and Sarashi’s fate had been set before he was even born. He had obligations, however, to his immediate family and his lineage, and had no right to expect to circumvent those responsibilities in any way.

Not that Chay Warrick didn’t appreciate his younger sons––Sabriel, anyway––but Shayne was definitely his heart, soul and hope, and of necessity and desire he had always expended much more care and time on his oldest. Sarashi understood; he had made the matter clear to the boy on his fifth birthanniv in a heartfelt albeit somewhat one-sided discussion. The boy had nothing to complain about, however, since his older brother was a devoted if demanding companion and guide through their carefully crafted life and set of expectations. Sarashi would be just fine, and Shayne would establish and seed a magnificent line down through their impressive dynasty. Chay Warrick had planned and bred well, and his offspring would show the true fruits of his labor. Five-year-old Sabriel was already showing a remarkable aptitude for logic and mathematics, and his father was studiously devising a well-crafted future for the youngest Chay son in the highest scientific sectors.

A small hand tugged relentlessly on his sleeve and he scowled down menacingly at his small daughter, who grinned impishly at her imposing but adoring father. Wakanda was alone, a rare occurrence for the twin. He wondered where Waneta was as he suddenly picked up the little girl and hugged her tightly. His rough black beard tickled her soft cheeks and the two-year-old giggled wildly as her father whirled her around and enjoyed a rare unguarded moment with his adorable child. He chucked her under the chin, and brushed back a lock of long, silky auburn hair, her mother’s hair. He carried her out of the hearthchamber to find his wife and check on the preparations for the evening’s elaborate feast and celebration of his son’s manhood ceremony. If all was going well and not in need of his attention, he’d have the time and opportunity to make a quick visit to central Etrusca and enjoy the unique pleasures of his longtime concubine, Cassandra, and spend some time with their young son Cayden. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

He’d have to ensure a bit more discretion than usual since his wife, although usually tolerant of his fleeting infidelities, could barely repress her frustration and rage at his unfathomable passion for the common, yet stunning daughter of gem merchants. She could understand his attraction to women of impressive lineage and accomplishment, but not to someone so terribly beneath him––in more ways than one. And Chay Warrick couldn’t explain his attachment to himself, let alone to his wife of nearly twenty years. He’d stopped trying years ago, after his bastard son had been born. The boy barely resembled his mother in his unremarkable features, but thankfully did so in his kind, cheerful nature. Cayden would never rise to the intellectual or social heights that his legitimate brothers would, but he had a keen sense of steadfast self and honor that radiated through even at the tender age of three. Someday, Warrick hoped to be able to bring his special son enough into the Chay fold to interact and enjoy his brothers and sisters. Someday. If he could persuade his wife that the boy was no threat to their sons. Except, of course, in his heart.

Sarashi caught a glimpse of his father leaving their spacious hearthchamber, with one of his little sisters slung over their sire’s broad shoulder. Her high-pitched giggles receded as he threw himself down into his father’s favorite chair, and eyed his older sibling skeptically. Shayne sashayed over to the hidden spirits’ store, pressed a none-too-well-hidden indent, and popped open the middle layer that held their father’s precious store of Corson annise. He flashed a conspiratorial grin at Sarashi as he defiantly overrode the individual flask lock and smoothly removed the shimmering, pyramid-shaped lucitium flask and its golden liquid and wiggled it at his brother. He raised his eyebrows in a distinct challenge. Sarashi hesitated, then shook his head. He was tempted, but not suicidal.

Coward, Shayne threw out as he reached for a tall, tapered goblet, pulled out the platinium cork, and carefully poured in a significantly impressive draught of the forbidden drink. He closed his eyes and lifted the goblet to his nose, and breathed in the sweet, tangy, rich scent of the secret cluster of herbal and floral ingredients that comprised the rare and impressively expensive beverage. His father had allowed him a half goblet on his sixteenth birthanniv, right after he had presented his firstborn with the ritual Chay signet ring bearing the carefully etched sphinx. Although Shayne reveled in the strength and honor of the ring, and the fact that it had been presented before the traditional ceremony, once he had tasted the strong spirits he found himself craving that pleasure even more than he’d ever thought possible. He’d managed to sneak a few sips here and there when Chay Warrick wasn’t looking, but he had never had the temerity to appropriate a full flask in broad daylight as he was now doing.

His desire to show off to his impressionable and less bold sibling overrode his sense of caution. He took one more deep breath, and swallowed nearly the full measure of his stolen spirits. It took all of his willpower not to choke and cough, and show Sarashi that he was all too human. His eyes watered a bit, but he let a slow, wide smile cross his full lips as he licked them appreciatively. He put the goblet down on the carved marble table and cocked his head at Sarashi.

Before he could make another sarcastic or taunting remark, they both heard a slight noise near the chamber portal. Sarashi shot out of the chair and grabbed the goblet, downing the last few drops just as their father burst through the portal and glared menacingly at them. Shayne froze beside his brother, who stared at their father guiltily and placed the goblet down with a perceptibly trembling hand.

Warrick glared coldly at his second son. He couldn’t believe that the unpredictable but reasonably intelligent teenager would disgrace him on this special, meticulously planned day by being a thief, and a sneak, and quite possibly a young drunkard. Shayne started to say something in his brother’s defense, but fell silent under his father’s withering stare. The two brothers remained frozen as their father strode slowly across the huge chamber, to stand a meter in front of them as he raked his disapproving gaze up and down both teenagers. Without a word he deliberately withdrew his cy-comm from his tunic pocket and commlinked with someone at the other end. His chilly black eyes never left his sons’ white faces.

The festival has been canceled, Chay Warrick said evenly into his cy-comm. He breathed in deeply in satisfaction at the shocked looks on his sons’ faces. Inform all but my immediate family that I express my deep regrets at any inconvenience for their travel plans, but the rituals and feast will no longer take place. Yes. Thank you. He snapped the small device shut and pocketed it as he moved a step closer to his younger son. He could smell the tang of the spirits on Sarashi’s hot breath, and had to forcibly restrain himself from slapping the miscreant across his well-chiseled cheeks. His hand shot out suddenly and he grasped Sarashi’s jaw painfully as he moved his face closer to his son’s.

You have disgraced me yet again with your headstrong behavior, boy, he said in a low, deadly voice. Before he could go on, his oldest son interrupted.

Father, please––Sarii didn’t––

Silence! Chay Warrick roared as he flashed the Heir-Prince a furious look. Shayne fell silent at once, cursing his own cowardice as his younger brother remained quiet and unmoving, and obviously ready to take whatever their angry parent was about to dish out. The Crown Prince returned his burning gaze to his younger son.

Your manhood ritual will take place this evening as scheduled, but with only our immediate family present. I will not disgrace our traditions by failing you as you have failed me. However, there will be no subsequent ceremonies or feasting, and there will be no holiday at our lodge for you. Your mother and I and your siblings will partake of that time together while you remain here and complete a series of academics I’ll assign. You are confined to our compound grounds for the next three months. If you fail in any of your assigned tasks when I return and query you on your learnings, that time shall be extended to six months. Do you understand, Sasha? he demanded with a tone that brooked no dissent despite the unexpected usage of the rare nickname usually employed by Shayne during affectionate moments.

Yes, Father, Sarashi replied softly, unable to meet his sire’s eyes or those of his brother. As his father removed his strong hand from the boy’s chin, leaving vivid red fingerprints on the soft, pale flesh, his older brother broke in again.

Father, no, Shayne stated firmly. His father turned chilly eyes towards his firstborn and waited. Shayne ignored the cautionary look in his brother’s eyes and stepped up to his responsibility. Father, he said in a hesitant but determined voice, I took the annise. Sarii only grabbed the goblet when he heard you coming to protect me. He is blameless in this. Punish me, not him. Please.

Chay Warrick stared hard at his oldest son before he raised his right hand and struck the boy across the cheek. Shayne rocked to the right but steadied himself and kept his father’s stare. The whole left side of his face tingled painfully, and he could feel his cut lip starting to throb and swell. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying. His father hadn’t hit him for months, and he was foolish enough to think that perhaps that ‘instructive’ behavior had run its course. Apparently not. His eyes flashed as he thought that although he might endure his father’s punishments, he would never let Chay Warrick use such tactics on his brothers or sisters. Never. It was all he could do to not rip his father’s hand from his brother’s face.

Warrick turned his gaze back to his younger son and said derisively, "So. You are not a drunkard and thief––simply a liar––and a poor liar! I am no less ashamed of you. The punishment stands. He turned to his other son. And you will accompany me and our family as planned to the lodges."

But–– Shayne began.

No ‘buts,’ boy. Your punishment is to enjoy a family holiday while your innocent brother suffers for your transgression. Hopefully, you will feel the guilt and shame you should for your stupid actions and their pointless consequences. You are both well overdue a serious lesson in familial and personal responsibilities. I can only hope you understand your folly, and this type of thing will not happen again. He whirled around, grabbed the pair of gloves he had accidentally left behind so short a time ago, and stormed out of the hearthchamber.

After a few long, painful moments of silence, Shayne spoke simply to his brother. I’m sorry, he said gently. I’ll talk to him again. He’ll change his mind.

Go to hell, Sarashi replied as he turned away and walked out of the hearthchamber, all too aware of his brother’s eyes boring into his ramrod-stiff back.

CHAPTER THREE

The tiny avihummer pecked delicately at the delectable morsels left by his secret human friend on the narrow ledge beyond the boy’s window. The avian caught a glimpse of the huge creature out of the corner of his left oval eye as he fluttered his wings, grasped one more crumb in his long, thin beak, and flew away to his nest in the barken tree a hundred meters away.

Sarashi rolled over on his back, relishing the soft comfort of the bed situated a scant meter from the huge window in his third-tier noxchamber. The view overlooked the bluff and sea, and the immense expanse of blue water and whitecaps as far as the eye could see thrilled him every time he enjoyed the guilty solitary pleasure. He loved being in his noxchamber, not only for the spectacular view, but also for the solitude and refuge it offered from his family. He was fortunate that he enjoyed the time spent in his special place, since he had spent so much mandated time within as he entered the seventh month of his father’s punishment for his failure to achieve perfection in his parentally assigned studies.

He had applied himself rigorously to his tasks after the annise debacle, while his entire family enjoyed weeks of pleasure in the mountain lodges. Shayne was the only one who had dared to contact him covertly by a specialized cy-comm that couldn’t be traced. He had disconnected the link three times without a word, but Shayne kept persevering and on the fourth contact the brothers managed to speak a few hesitant, painful but heartfelt words. The conversations flowed easier after that, and occurred nearly nightly as the younger Chay studied and memorized and thought logically and prepared himself for his father’s return and interrogation. He was eager, too, to have his best friend home, even if the sixteen-year-old in question was demanding, arrogant and trouble from the word go.

He and Shayne would probably talk for hours when the family returned, but the one thing Sarashi would never tell his brother was that to release some of his constant tension, he indulged in a very un-Chay-like foray into writing poetry (useless, ridiculous sentiments penned by crass fools who fancy themselves pseudo-intellectuals, as he once heard Warrick say to one of his political allies). In truth, Warrick only tolerated academics related to the written word because they were a traditional component of the educational system. Sarashi and Shayne forced themselves to excel at their courses in this realm simply because to not excel at anything was anathema to their demanding father. Well, Shayne forced himself; for Sarashi, the successful exertions came naturally.

Sarashi loved the written word, and found that he had a talent for throwing together the proper words to express his earnest sentiments. He preferred to manually write his thoughts in cursive rather than on his correlator. He had written dozens of poems and brief essays on his life thoughts; most of them were destroyed once he read and reread them over and over again and committed them to memory. He was terrified that his father might finds the scraps of paper and punish him in some more tangible way than just personal humiliation.

Today he had written Ode to an Avihummer, a light, metered discourse on the flitting of the tiny avian outside of his window. He conscientiously removed all evidence of his poetic diversion, and then returned to the topics his father had demanded that he study.

Sarashi was prepared when his family returned, but his blood turned to ice at the frosty expression on his father’s face when the craft docked. His little brother and sisters ran to him and started babbling happily as they embraced the tall teen’s legs. Sabriel handed his older brother a special rock he had found in the lake and brought home for his sibling. Sarashi thanked him with a whirling hug and grinned at Shayne as the Heir-Prince carried his mother’s garment bags into the compound while his silent father brushed by him without a word. Sabra embraced her son and kissed his cheek softly before she followed her husband into their home along with the three younger children. Sarashi hoped that he would have a little respite from his anticipated engagement with his father as the family settled in, but the Crown Prince was waiting for him in the entryway and barked a cold order to follow him into his private culturchamber.

Father and son were cloistered in the increasingly oppressive chamber until midnight as Chay Warrick bombarded his son with questions and demands and expectations on everything from astrophysics to ancient lyric poetry, which he disdained but of which he demanded his son’s perfect knowledge. Sarashi’s confidence broke down hour by hour as his stomach grumbled from hunger and the icy man across from him registered not the slightest indication of approval, or of whether or not his son had succeeded in his lofty expectations. When the ancient chronometer chimed the midnight hour, Warrick rose slowly, and fixed his relentless stare on his son’s pale face. He informed his son that the month of the Third-Millennium Ptolemii Hartan cult skirmish was Libra, not Capricorn, and that Sarashi would be confined to the compound for six months as he prepared for another evaluation. Sarashi had the temerity to find his voice and ask if he had missed any of the other queries. His father arched a disapproving eyebrow and informed the boy that there was no difference in one mistake than in one hundred, and left the chamber after ordering his son to retire to his noxchamber for the night.

Sarashi found himself trembling violently after his father left the chamber, and only a superhuman effort prevented him from vomiting or voiding his bladder. He moved like an automaton through the portal and through the quiet, dark corridor to the stairs that would take him to the safety of his noxchamber. He could hear his father’s steps as the man headed towards his own noxchamber, but nothing else in the silent, dark household. He stripped quietly and quickly, ran a cold washcloth over his hot body, and slipped under the covers. He heard a soft crinkle of parchment, and reached beneath the pillow. The small note in Shayne’s bold handwriting said, Food in the third drawer. Sorry. He ripped the note into tiny bits and destroyed them in the sanichamber compactor before he furtively opened the third drawer in his clothes chest and found the generous slice of carrolan cake and the crusty end of a fresh bread loaf, along with a small sealed flask of citrine juice. He gobbled the food and beverage down while keeping one eye on the portal, terrified that his father would come in and punish both brothers. The grumbling in his stomach stopped, and after the last crumb was ingested he slipped back under the covers and slept like the dead.

Since that awful night Sarashi had thrown himself diligently into preparing for his next parental assessment. There was no point in challenging the punishment––that action would get him grounded for even longer, and God knew what else. So far, his father had confined his physical punishments only to Shayne, who as long as Sarashi could remember had turned up occasionally with bruises on his face or arms or chest, and an occasional split lip. Sometimes Shayne would make flimsy excuses, and sometimes his silence spoke volumes. Sarashi couldn’t understand why his father would punish his firstborn when that young man was so obviously smart and dedicated to the Chay ideals, and obedient. He felt guilty that he didn’t share his brother’s abuse, and grateful, too. His conflicts tore at his insides all the time, and sometimes he felt on the verge of exploding, and dreaded that. Thank God he had the calming and strong influence of his older brother to keep him on the straight and narrow, and to give him the encouragement and acceptance that their father would not.

Shayne had quietly applied himself to tutoring Sarashi, and both boys were feeling confident that the next round of academic assessment would have a different outcome. Six months after his manhood ceremony and the disastrous first evaluation, Sarashi found himself closeted in the culturchamber again as his father battered him with queries and demands. Six hours later the boy quietly left the chamber with another two months tacked on to his ‘sentence’ due to an incomplete interpretation of an historical tome on the colonization of Canaan. Shayne had been waiting for him, and knew by the crestfallen look on his brother’s face that the boy was going to have to start all over again. Against his brother’s entreaties Shayne stormed into the culturchamber to confront their father; ten minutes later he met his waiting brother’s eyes in the corridor as he rubbed a vivid red handprint implanted on his left cheek. He pressed his sprained right wrist, badly bruised from a harsh twisting, close to his body as the two brothers wordlessly ascended the staircase to Shayne’s noxchamber. As Sarashi sat silently on his brother’s bed, the Heir-Prince applied healant to his face, and wrapped his wrist tightly with a familiar healant pack. Shayne hid his anger and shame by throwing his brother out of his noxchamber. An hour later, the portal opened quietly and Sarashi slipped into his brother’s darkened noxchamber and spent the night holding his tense sibling until they both fell into a restive sleep. They both pretended that there were no tears in Shayne’s glistening dark eyes.

That was a month ago. Sarashi had spent this beautiful summer morning locked in his noxchamber as he studied some stupid ancient philosopher whose verbose meanderings were just too pointless to his life to take seriously. Still, he’d better present at least a modicum of appreciation for the dolt, who was one of his father’s favorites. He forgot about the avihummer and immersed himself into the rambling words of the holotome. He could sense his eyes unfocusing and his attention wavering, and that familiar feeling of doom descending over him. He didn’t even hear the portal open or his brother approaching the wide bed. Suddenly, he gave a startled yelp as he crashed down onto the floor, only to look up angrily at his laughing brother, who stood over him with arms akimbo. He was about to castigate his impossible sibling when said sibling reached down and offered him a hand up. Sarashi hesitated, then grasped the hand and found himself standing in front of his amused brother a moment later.

You need to take a break, Shayne said lightly, albeit with a discernibly serious tone behind the mild words.

I can’t, Sarashi replied sadly. I know Father’s going to grill me on this idiot’s philosophy, and I can’t make any sense out of it.

And you won’t, unless you give that hard head of yours a break and start fresh. We’ll figure it out together, but for now, let’s abandon this exercise in futility and go enjoy at least some part of this glorious day.

What do you have in mind? Sarashi asked suspiciously.

Shayne grinned. Father and Mother have gone into Etrusca to spend the evening with Gir Antony and his wife. Sabri-Chay and the twins have been sent to cousin Mannon’s home for the night. That leaves you and me to our own devices.

And those devices would be? came the skeptical reply.

Not this, Shayne answered breezily. Let’s go. Without another word the older brother turned on his heel and strode to the noxchamber door. He stopped, turned, and waited, patiently, for a nice change of pace.

Sarashi stared at his brother for a long moment, then sighed heavily, tossed the holotome onto his bed, and followed his brother out of the chamber and down the winding stairs to the first tier. Shayne had obviously expected compliance, since there were two waiting backpacks near the front entrance. Wordlessly, Shayne strapped on one and Sarashi the other, and the two brothers left the home and entered Shayne’s waiting craft a few meters away. Their father had bestowed the sleek, advanced vehicle on his oldest as a birthanniv gift eight months earlier, and Sarashi had coveted the magnificent craft. Ten meters long with platinium stripes, and a jewel-encrusted Chay crest along the sharp nose, the craft had every conceivable technological advance in the instrumentation panels and every comfort in the compact but serviceable navigation seats; it was the envy of all of their friends and quite a few family members. Shayne slid into the primary pilot seat while his brother slid in beside him. Shayne had already programmed the nav-corr and leaned back and cracked his neck lazily as the craft ascended and blazed off on a rapid elliptical southwest course. He laced his fingers behind his head, and snapped an order at the muse-corr, which immediately sent gentle, whimsical waves of folklore music streaming over their senses. Sarashi felt himself relaxing as he closed his eyes and let a dreamy smile play across his full lips. He enjoyed that type of music, whereas Shayne preferred the often-abrasive cacophony of more modern music that held their contemporaries in sway.

An hour later the teens disembarked at a remote section of seacoast at the edge of the adjoining province of Tuscany. Their sweeping course had taken them past the fringes of the lush Tuscany Valley, which held many of the province’s agriplexes, both personal and cooperative. Their family held a number of properties in the vast valley, but no family members resided there; the real estate was simply for investment purposes. The land was beautiful, but the Chays, like most of the royal families, preferred closer cohabitation to the thriving, main urban areas such as the capital city. The boys’ home compound was on the fringes of Etrusca in the province of Athenia, situated close enough to the seat of their father’s power, yet distant enough to maintain a good deal of privacy amongst the beautiful, coveted coastline and forest. The coastline at which the craft landed was not part of their family’s holdings, but belonged to the second most powerful Kindred on Osiron, that of the Tiis. The patriarchs of the Chay and Tii Kindreds were more than friendly, with a plethora of creative intermarriages throughout the generations that promoted their power and potential. Sarashi knew that his father had high hopes for such intermarriage between one or more of his sons to daughters or sons of the Tii Kindred.

There were many such candidates, but neither Shayne nor his brother was given the opportunity to meet or challenge any potential mates––that was the mandate only of their father, who would never abide such interference. Shayne, for one, seemed to blithely accept the matter, and never pushed the point. Sarashi wondered just how unconcerned his headstrong, demanding brother might really be. He doubted that Shayne would desire or enjoy a forced marriage regardless of the benefits to both parties, or the beauty of the woman involved. He was too arrogant and stubborn, and Sarashi knew his brother would try in any subtle way to undermine their father’s best-laid plans.

His musings were disturbed as a rough hand dragged him out of the craft by the sleeve. He waited nervously as Shayne reached in and tossed a backpack at him and then fastened his own to his tall, broad frame. He shut down and secured the craft, and began walking off towards the beach, as his brother’s own long legs scrambled to match his strides. In a few minutes they arrived at a thick outcropping of jagged wet rocks snaked with seaweed and barnacles. High tide would see the rocks completely submerged, but at this time of day the waves were still a good five or six meters away, gently lapping at the sand and hissing softly as the salty air saturated the boys’ keen senses. Sarashi loved the sea and every assault it played against his sensory impressions, and he was grateful to his intuitive brother, who had taken him to the one place where he could, indeed, ‘take a break,’ and enjoy a bit of his currently turbulent life.

He dropped the backpack on the sand next to his brother’s. Shayne had already withdrawn a thin covering, which he laid across the wet rock before planting himself firmly on the smoothest section. He drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them as Sarashi planted himself next to him, their legs slightly touching. The two young men remained silent for at least a half hour as they stared out to the shimmering waves while the bright sun continued its relentless decline in the far west horizon. There was the barest chill in the air, but neither brother minded. After awhile Shayne reached for his backpack and took out a thick slab of meat sequestered by two crusts of freshly baked sourbread, and a bottle of sweet citrine juice. Sarashi followed suit, and the silence continued as their bellies filled and their souls relaxed and communed. After the last crumb had been consumed, Shayne gave his sibling an owlish side-glance.

Better? he asked quietly, his voice filled with unguarded affection and care. He brushed an errant lock of his brother’s soft hair away from his ear, letting his knuckles rub across the boy’s smooth cheek.

Better, Sarashi replied just as quietly. Much better.

Good, Shayne said briskly. He grinned slyly, reached down into his pack, and withdrew a small flask of golden liquid. Sarashi stared at the dangerous object in his brother’s hand and groaned.

That’s what got me into this mess, big brother. How could you raid Father’s annise stores again? The exasperation in his voice was tempered with a thread of admiration for his brother’s daring.

I didn’t, came the tart reply. "I purchased it from an agreeable source in Verron for an ungodly amount of untraceable manual chits. I figured that if you had to be punished for something you didn’t do,