Carte blanche - part 2
When they come upon the town walls at dusk, Stiles is ready to call it a day. His legs weight a stone and his skin is coated in a sticky mix of stale sweat and dirt.
“Protection from wild beasts and raids. Almost all bigger towns and cities have them now,” Boyd explains quietly when Stiles asks about the walls. The guards don’t pay them much attention when they pass the gates but Stiles thinks that is mostly due to the higher influx of people arriving to participate in the local festival.
The end of summer festivals are dedicated to gods overseeing good harvest, rain to treat the fields gently and rivers to be benevolent as their swelling streams shape the landscape in autumn. Stiles hasn’t really bothered much with deities as they tend avoid the Sacred Mountain, but what he has seen is that the prayers usually go above their heads. But belief gives mortals hope and if it helps them to survive, who is Stiles to judge.
He has been missing some company in the last two days, but after half an hour in town he remembers why he’s never wanted to set foot onto the mortal world again.
Due to the festival the main road is crawling with people. Derek seems to know where they are going and marches on with determined, confident steps while the rest - but mostly just Stiles - try to keep up and consequently bump into the loitering locals. Lanterns lit both sides of the street, drawing the buzzing crowd to the street and making them stay for the smells wafting from the vendors through the open space.
There is not much variety - potatoes can’t be prepared in that many ways - but people mingle and there are numerous festival games. Everything is colorful and bustling with life, and compared to the bleak and boring scenery of the last days hits Stiles with sudden sensory overload. Scott keeps a hand on the middle of his back, pushing him along and Stiles uses that fleeting contact to ground himself against the whirlwind.
Half of the town square is taken over by the temporary stage built by performers, most likely a travelling group passing through the land and stopping for the festival. The musicians occupy the back to set the mood for the scenes, a stoic man plays drums for a steady background beat while the soft notes of a flute wave around the base. The little girl playing is probably the man’s daughter, and her older sister sits on the far left, plunking the strings with graceful, long fingers.
The performers take the center of the stage, two men and three women dressed in traditional robes dyed a deep burgundy red, embroidered fish swimming and birds flying down the sleeves and moving between folds with every gesture and motion. One performer’s face is painted chalk white, her eyes contoured with black kohl while all the others are wearing expressive masks.
There is a sudden, sharp transition from the flute player and the group breaks up in a flurry of turns. The woman without the mask takes center and after a few delicate movements, she starts to tell the origin of the kingdoms.
When the Ruler of the Heavens felt lonely she cut off locks from her hair, braided the golden strands and with a kiss to each braid created immortal deities known to humans as gods and goddesses. The Ruler felt no longer alone and it pleased her immensely that all of her children lived together in harmony. All of them, except two: the god of the Sun and the goddess of the Silver Moon quarreled with each other relentlessly, their heated arguments filling the halls of the palace day by day. One afternoon the Ruler became so annoyed at having to listen to their constant bickering that thunder struck the ground beneath their feet in her anger. The ground shook as the two of them tried to keep their balance and in the commotion one of the vases got knocked off, shattering to pieces on the ground. The god of the Sun accidentally stepped onto the shards and soon blood was coating the edges of the fragments beneath his feet. The goddess of the Silver Moon, her soul gentle and full of compassion, became so distressed that their argument resulted in spilled blood that she bursts into tears. Some drops fell on the shards, mixing with the blood as the god of the Sun tried to comfort the goddess of the Silver Moon, their previous arguments forgotten. Pleased with the unexpected peace, the Ruler of the Heavens collected the shards and scattered them beneath the Heavens, creating the world as it is known as a reminder to deter further quarrels, the shards becoming kingdoms with the spilled blood shaping their landscapes and borders. The tears became the essence of the qilin, forever bound by blood to the land, linking the mortal world with the will of the Heavens.
Stiles knows the story by heart, but the performers are talented, seasoned professionals and soon he gets immersed in the play. He hasn’t met the god of the Sun, but the portrayal of the goddess of the Silver Moon is spot on, especially her willful, self-centered monologue at the beginning. He claps loudly with the rest of the audience and Scott even joins in the enthusiastic shouting and whistling. The performers take the compliment with grace.
When they start on their next act, Stiles’ mood sours quickly. He neither wants nor needs to see how the first Ruler in the kingdom, now remembered in history as the Crimson Queen, has been chosen by the Sacred Beast.
When Boyd puts a hand on his shoulder, he almost flinches from the contact. “Come on, we don’t have time to stand around.” His hand slides to the middle of Stiles’ back and stays there, the pressure a warm, steady presence anchoring him to the present as they wade through the crowd.
They come to a stop in front of a small inn. The dark, wooden walls gleam from diligent hands polishing the surface and the patio is well-kept and cared for, even in this dry season. Stiles perks up at the possibility of hot water when he sees Derek standing on the side, deep in conversation with a muscled man who is presumably the inn-keeper.
“I miss sleeping indoors,” he sighs wistfully, but his eyes narrow when Boyd looks at him with pity. “What.”
“We are not staying here,” Boyd says and Stiles bites his lip on a whine.
“What do you mean we are not staying here, of course we are staying here. Derek is dealing with the inn-keeper about the two rooms we are going to rent for the night, about the dinner we are going to eat and the hot bath I’m going to take. I don’t care about breakfast,” he keeps listing and even Scott throws one or two wistful glances at the neat little stairs leading to their presumed lodgings for the night.
Boyd grins. “Not going to happen.” Stiles decides to ignore him and almost starts humming at the prospect of clean, freshly laundered sheets and scented bath water.
When Derek claps the man on the shoulder, ending their conversation and gestures at them to follow him as he makes his way into the inn, Stiles is well into his lodging daydreams.
“We can grab some provisions before taking the horses,” Derek nods toward the door in the back that most likely leads to the kitchens.
Stiles’ daydreams quickly crash and burn. “What horses.”
Derek waits for Stiles to get a move on and when it becomes clear that Stiles has no intention of going anywhere, he grabs his shoulder and pushes him in the right direction.
Stiles has had enough manhandling in the last few days to last him three lifetimes. At least.
“The horses I’ve just negotiated for our transportation,” Derek says impatiently. “Grab something to eat, we are riding through the night.”
“What, wait. No,” Stiles protests and a muscle in Derek’s jaw ticks.
“This is not negotiable.”
“Why.” He is not whining.
“Because this town is big enough to avid not to be picked out from the crowd, but not big enough to successfully get lost in. And maybe you have forgotten, but the current regime is not particularly fond of my face. I can’t really play bodyguard or get you anywhere near the Capital if we keep running from freelance bounty hunters and military sentries.”
When they reach the kitchen, Scott and Boyd have almost finished packing. The staff is nowhere to be seen - either they are out enjoying the festival, or the inn-keeper thought it best to keep them away. Stiles thinks that’s a reasonable decision - if someone comes looking for them, telling the truth has less risk than convenient lying. Their take away menu contains the usual trusty potatoes and a little bread with a side of nuts and a smidge of dried cheese. From what Stiles has seen so far, this is a feast.
“How much did you pay the inn-keeper?” he asks as they walk through the kitchen and out the backdoor, heading toward the stables at the backyard.
“I don’t need to buy his silence. He’s a friend. One of my men,” Derek says quietly as Boyd goes into the stables.
“He doesn’t look very bandit like. Your friend,” Scott notes. Derek’s sigh is resigned and long suffering.
“I told you before. I don’t care what you call us or how you see me. Bandit, vigilante or savage murderer, I honestly don’t give a damn as long as we are clear that we are fighting against Gerard Argent and his Council.”
Before Stiles can answer, Boyd appears from the stables, slowly leading two mares out whose coats gleam pearly white in the gentle light of the moon. Stiles can’t help himself and steps over to one of them, lifting his hand to run along her long neck. Her mane feels velvety soft, slipping between his fingers like quicksilver. She turns her head a bit and whinnies softly against his shoulder, her breath ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. For the first time since he’s descended from the Mountain, Stiles feels calm and tranquil.
“They look bigger and sturdier than the normal horses. Are they beastling hybrids?”
Derek and Boyd glance at each other, surprised. “Yes,” Derek answers. “From one branch very far removed from the common horse line. The blood has been further dilated so for all appearances, they look like a cross between the north mountain bay and the snowrock breed, neither beastlings. But they ran faster and their stamina is considerably better. They are also less spooked by aggression and react to sudden movements more level headedly, making them ideal for long distance travel and ambush as well.”
Stiles hums thoughtfully. “A very careful mix of the best characteristics of both common horse and beastling lines. Difficult to tell the difference even up close if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Clever.”
Whoever is breeding these horses from the eggfruit tree they have cultivated, they know their job and do it well. Judging from their militaristic utilization, it’s most probably a provincial lord sympathetic to Derek’s cause.
Derek takes one of the reins from Boyd and climbs onto her back with surprising ease, his back straight and thighs shifting as he quickly finds his balance. Black on white, he looks like merciful death. He takes the reins in one hand and offers the other to Stiles.
Stiles eyes his long fingers and open palm with suspicion.
Derek sighs. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”
“I’m riding with Scott.”
“One of us with one of you. If we are ambushed or separated at least we have a chance of fighting and making it out alive.”
“Then I am riding with Boyd,” Stiles says stubbornly. Derek is not amused and from the look of his eyebrows, his patience is wearing thin.
“You are either with me or you can walk. Choose wisely.”
“I would rather fly,” Stiles murmurs under his breath, but reluctantly takes Derek’s hand. As soon as they touch, Derek hauls him onto the horse as if afraid that he will change his mind. Stiles flails a bit and grabs onto Derek’s arms, his fingers digging into hard muscles a he tries to not fall down. The mare tolerates his fumbling with surprising patience for which Stiles is infinitely grateful.
They take off in the dark, trotting along empty backyards while avoiding the main road swarmed with celebrating people. The guards at the gate are talking with the mingling travelers, passing flasks that hold quickly disappearing sweet, thick mead. They slip out of town unnoticed, Derek leading and Boyd falling a few steps behind, laughter and music fading in the night as their distance grows.
Even after a few minutes and finding their rhythm, Stiles feels uncomfortable. This is the closest he has been to a mortal in centuries, and physical contact, apart from Lydia’s gentle touch and Scott’s playful shoves, has been scares even as he stayed on the Mountain and interacted with faes and deities. Even gods and goddesses are wary to touch the Sacred Beasts and most humans don’t see them even during their reigns. In the early months after Jackson’s coronation Lydia once said that their true forms should resemble to a bird rather than a horse, as most qilin are kept between the gilded golden bars of the main palace, chained by duty and guarded by well meaning bureaucrats.
Derek’s presence doesn’t really help. Stiles is almost sure he is not completely human - he has a faint, almost undetectable magical signature that flows and ebbs in the day. If Stiles didn’t have so much power himself, he could easily dismiss the occurrence, but the slight, almost nuance changes point towards an iron-tight control practiced and perfected through the years. He hasn’t seen any artifact on Derek that can channel magic - apart from a wolf teeth hanging from a loose leather cord around his neck, he doesn’t wear any jewelry. His sword is a simple sturdy work of art without any flashy craftsmanship and his clothes scream practical rather than fashion, lacking runes hidden between intricate embroidery.
Whatever he is, magic is soaked in his blood. How much and what kind, Stiles is not sure yet, but it makes him cautious.
His reverie is broken when Derek shifts his balance, the muscles in his legs tightening and heels nudging the mare’s side.
“I’m not stopping if you fall,” Derek says over his shoulder as the mare glides into a gentle gallop. Stiles just rolls his eyes and huffs while he grabs at Derek’s sides, fingers tightening in the folds of well-worn black fabric as he adjusts to the new rhythm.
They are mostly using narrow roads wading between trees and bushes, trying to avoid open planes and remain hidden from beasts as well as humans. The summer sky is painted a deep indigo, stars shimmering on the clear surface as moonlight bathes the landscape in silver.
Stiles takes a deep breath, his lungs filling with the heat of the season and the faint traces of leather and salty sweat of human skin. The steady pace of the mare lulls him into a sleepy haze while the slow burn in his thighs anchors him to the present. The longer he stays on land the more he senses his bond with it flare to life, like a limb that becomes numb during sleep and prickles with the sudden rush of blood when it finally gets oxygen, needling and insistent and impossible to ignore. Stiles hears the earth moan from thirst, sees the forests twist in agony and feels the force of life and magic taper to a trickling stream, slowly evaporating from existence.
It hurts more than he thought it would, twisting his insides until he’s nothing than a pulsing tissue of open wound. He wants to scream and cry and hide, never to look back or remember. He hates Lydia a little for forcing him out of his blissful, peaceful oblivion.
Derek is a constant, steady presence in front of him, his wide shoulders relaxed and hips smoothly rolling in sync with the mare’s gait. Stiles shifts a little closer, breathing in the subtle mix of pine, salt and musk, searching underneath for the spicy scent of magic and simmering power. It coils around him like a snake, shifting, ready to strangle if handled carelessly. The pain under his skin dulls as Stiles observes and tries to get a handle on it.
The quiet of the night is only broken by the short, sudden snorts of the mares. When Stiles catches a shooting star on the horizon, he feels bone-deep exhaustion settle over him and makes a wish.
*
Well into the morning Boyd orders them off their horses to let the animals catch some rest. Upon Derek’s insistence and Stiles’ badly disguised whining, they don’t stop and keep on walking. They still avoid the main roads and choose hidden, mostly wild animal used trails as both Derek and Boyd are reluctant to march into open space. Stiles doesn’t argue as they have seen decidedly fewer beasts since they have been so kindly escorted than when he and Scott were on their own, so at least Derek and Boyd know what they are doing.
Scott falls into steps beside him and Stiles, still feeling raw from phantom pain the night before and also a lot confused from Derek’s unexpected, soothing presence is insanely grateful for Scott’s familiar company. The mare peacefully trots behind them as Stiles keeps a relaxed hold on her reign, the smooth leather swinging slightly from side to side with their every step.
Temperature has been climbing with every passing hour since sunrise, but somehow today the air feels heavy on Stiles’ skin. Pressure pushes against his muscles and he has the urge to shift into his beast form. As the day progresses, the urge twists into a constant irritation with a throbbing headache. He is unusually silent which makes Scott more and more agitated, and after a while even Derek keeps glancing at him with barely concealed concern.
Just as he thinks his head will either explode or he will change and stand in all his sacred glory in front of these humans just to finally ease the crushing force on his body a little, he hears a faint, rumbling sound in the distance.
They all freeze for a few second and just listen, trying to identify the source. When it comes the second time, louder and longer, closer; Derek inhales so suddenly he starts coughing. Stiles would make fun of him if his stomach didn’t clench with fear.
“So how fast are these hybrids, really?” he asks, inching closer to the still disturbingly calm mare.
“Fast. But I’m not going anywhere,” says Boyd, and when Stiles looks at him, Boyd’s expression is such a mix of open hope and disbelief that Stiles is momentarily shocked by it. He opens his mouth but the words get stuck in his throat when static suddenly skitters along his skin, raising goosebumps under his clothes. The slow roll of thunder fills the edges of the horizon, dark clouds filling the vast canvas of the sky like carelessly spilled ink.
When the wind picks up, the pressure in Stiles’ head eases as his magic settles.
The first raindrops, when they finally appear after months of exile, still feel summer warm on Stiles’ face.
*
Once it starts, the rain doesn’t let up. The trees don’t provide much cover as most of their leaves have dried and fallen to the ground. They do stop for a while to eat and Stiles watches the water cascade down the twisting branches, drops hurling themselves towards the ground in suicide drive. The earth swallows the liquid greedily and the cracks caused by the season brought drought slowly fill with sticky mud.
With Boyd’s approval they get back onto the horses, but their progress is slow and cautious due to the slippery soil. The rain doesn’t bring much relief from the heat, what is not swallowed by the ground and vegetation evaporates quickly, settling around them in the humid air like a smothering, heavy blanket.
After a few hours Stiles is drenched to the bone, clothes soaked and the fabric pulling at him with increasing weight. Finding balance on the wet coat of the mare is a challenge even as she trots along at a solid, easy pace so Stiles is forced to hold onto Derek more tightly as they progress. It sours his mood even more when he realizes he is not as bothered with this development as he should be.
By sundown he is grouchy and irritable and has been annoying Derek for the better half of the afternoon.
“Shut up,” Derek snaps the seventh time, and Stiles decides not to test further his quickly diminishing patience.
They find shelter under a small group of lanky trees, the space protected by their tightly woven branches.
“Try to get some rest before we move on,” Derek advises as he takes first watch. Stiles finds himself a less damp patch near the roots and leans back against the dark root. He watches the drops descend from the sky and listens as they hit the ground, the sound soothing on his frayed nerves. No matter how exhausted he feels, he can’t sleep.
The sun has not yet risen before they continue and Stiles is more than a little cranky. Derek takes one look at him and grabs at Scott, dragging him towards his mare as his new travelling companion. Scott, the traitor, is not objecting. Stiles huffs and accepts Boyd help as he pulls him up on his mare.
Boyd is just as much of a talker as Derek is, but Stiles decides to bite his tongue on his scathing commentary and huddles into his drenched clothes, radiating misery. His mood is considerably lifted when both Scott and Derek look horribly uncomfortable with their new arrangement.
Sometime in the middle of the day the rain stops, Boyd starts humming and Stiles dozes off as he listens to the deep, baritone cadence.
“Stiles,” Boyd calls quietly and he startles awake, thankful for Boyd’s big, steady hand on his thigh to keep him upright. He mumbles incoherently to indicate that he is paying attention, straightening in his seat and looking around.
They have migrated to the main road and from the sudden influx of travelers it feels like they are part of an enthusiastic marching troop. In the warm light of the setting sun he can make out the silhouette of a sprawling town.
“Where are we?” Stiles asks, stifling a yawn.
“Soon in the capital of Lah province. We will spend the night.”
“Thank the gods,” Stiles breathes and for a second seriously contemplates to kiss Boyd in gratitude. His damp clothes are highly uncomfortable and his thigh muscles are aching from constant riding. Spending one night indoors, lying on a clean, dry mattress will be heaven on his body.
The guards at the town gates are a lot more attentive than the ones on the festival night. Stiles is a bit worried he has to intervene and show his token with the glaring Ministry seal that is bound to get them free passage along with some unwanted attention, but after Derek exchanges a few words with one of the men and signs some papers, they are let through without further delay.
The town is a lot bigger than the last one they have visited, and their little group is easily sucked into the flowing crowd. Men dressed in the light purple attire of assistant office clerks are lighting the lanterns as night descends, and the streets soon fill with the enthusiastic yells of street vendors and the mouth watering scents of cooking food from many open-to-business restaurants.
Compared to the previous settlements this town is bathed in luxury.
“Taxation policies are rather lax in Lah province,” Boyd explains and Stiles realizes he’s said that last sentence aloud. “The current provincial lord is rather sympathetic to the people’s suffering and is not afraid to have his views heard in Council meetings. Or do something about it. With keeping respectfully to non-threatening political protocol, mind you, but it’s no secret what he thinks of Gerard’s regime.”
“Oh,” Stiles exhales in a rush of realization. “That’s why we can prance around and you two don’t look like you are about to bolt as soon as someone even makes shifty eyes at us from a corner.”
Boyd’s lips twitch into an amused half-smile. “The power play certainly helps. Though the town’s most lucrative business provides us with perfect coverage. Not many are going to ask questions or be on the look out when you are in Lah’s capital.”
Stiles frowns. Before he can drill Boyd further, he sees Scott sliding off the back of the mare, Derek following as he and Boyd come to a stop next to them. After his feet touch the ground Stiles takes a look at the towering walls in front of them, its white surface gleaming in the teasing play of colorful night lights. The garden behind it is lush and green, barely peppered with the reddish brown hues of the coming season. There is not a leaf out of place within the geometrically perfect formations and it’s clear that whoever owns the establishment is not having either money or water resource problems. The obvious care that goes into its maintenance reminds Stiles of the evergreen gardens of the Sacred Mountain, full of swirling colors with the sweetness of freedom in the air, and the sudden flare of homesickness punches him in the gut.
The two story building towers over the trees with all its imposing mass with music and laughter filtering from the open windows while balconies hidden behind sheer, silk curtains provide the illusion of privacy.
The interior is just as impressive as the outside. From the airy hall delicate stairs lead the way upwards and long corridors dressed in understated, modest tapestry lead the way to secluded rooms. Impressive paintings and glossy sheets of sophisticated calligraphy line the walls with the occasional sculptures displayed on mahogany stands breaking their dominance in the hall.
Apart from them and a discreet guard the hallway is empty, but after a few seconds pass a boy appears in one of the corridors and hurries over, meeting them with a smile. His shoulders fill out the deeply rich red clothe perfectly, the gentle fall of the material accentuating the well-defined lines of his body. The fabric is clearly expensive but surprisingly simple in its design, slim lines of silver contouring fallen leaves swimming in black-inked rivers.
“Welcome to Triskelion, Lord Derek,” the boy greets them in a soft, surprisingly deep voice. His face is smoothly shaven, displaying cheekbones as sharp as glass and his curls glint golden in the light. “It’s always a pleasure to have you back with us.”
“It’s too tempting to pass on the company,” Derek says and Stiles blinks at the barely concealed warmth hiding between the words.
“Perhaps a good soak and clean clothes will help to relax the Lord and his companions while your dinner is being prepared. Do you intend to stay the night?”
“Yes, the usual. And a bath would feel good. Thank you, Isaac.”
Isaac’s smile deepens before he turns and they follow him, passing murmurs of conversation behind closed doors. In the inner gardens small groups of two to four people are lounging on lavishly decorated pillows and soft ottomans, drinking from delicate porcelain cups and enjoying small bites of fresh fruit and sweet canapés.
Stiles remembers the starving children as he hears one of the men laugh loudly, his cheeks flushed pink from alcohol as his companion stifles her giggles behind silk sleeves and soft hands. In this moment, he kind of understands Derek’s burning hate of the current regime a little.
Isaac comes to a stop at the end of the hallway and gently slides a door open. The warm, soothing aroma of scented bath water wafts through the air and Stiles slowly inhales, holds his breath for a few beats before exhaling as the screen closes behind them.
The room is dimly lit, creating a hazy, cozy atmosphere that becomes more soothing with the quiet sloshing of water. The bath takes up half of the space, its surface milky white from the added oils and herbs while the polished wooden floor shines with dark, inviting brown hues in the candlelight.
Compared to the place’s furnishing, this room is almost puritan in its interior; but the clean, simple lines and minimalistic decoration leaves the illusion of open space. It helps to calm Stiles’ nerves like a healing balm.
When he hears the rustling of fabric he turns and sees Derek taking off his clothes and he freezes.
“What are you doing?”
Derek lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t stop undressing. “Getting ready for a bath?” His voice is just on the side of mocking. The tone raises Stiles’ hackles, his previous calm forgotten.
“All of us? Together?”
“Well,” Derek drawls, and Stiles tries very hard not to let his gaze linger on shifting muscles and slowly exposed patches of bare skin. “You can wait until we are all done, if you are more comfortable with that.”
“You wait,” Stiles huffs quietly and starts to unfasten the cords of his dirty tunic. It’s not that he’s never been naked in front of others. He had numerous attendants waiting on him as he soaked in his personal bath since birth, reverent hands massaging his muscles and drying his skin with sinfully soft, fluffy towels. The faes assigned to care for him adhered to his every whim, but no one has ever bathed in the same water as him, let alone bathe with him in it. Qilins are holy creatures and the water they touch is considered blessed by most high ranking sage and deities.
Whatever. Derek doesn’t know he is close to committing sacrilege. Stiles doesn’t really want to enlighten him so he gets on with the naked communal bathing experience.
He is not entirely successful in hiding his awkwardness, though, and Derek misinterprets it as embarrassment.
“If you are this bashful seeing bared flesh, will you faint if we get the full experience this place offers?” he asks, amused and obscenely naked as he sits down on a wooden stool, next to a bucket of clean water. Isaac silently kneels behind him, his sleeves rolled back and trousers tightly tucked above his knees. He gently swirls a washcloth in the bucket before wringing it out and starts to wipe Derek down, first wetting his shoulders then sliding the fabric over damp skin.
He follows Isaac’s movement and the realization sneaks up and jumps on him like a stealthy predator. The elegant decadence that enhances the senses from the corners while men and women flirt in the silvery streaks of moonlight. Isaac’s soft skin and his deference to Derek, the faint notes of sandalwood and orris root that permeate the air.
Stiles’ skin flushes red and the color deepens when he hears Boyd’s amused snort echo in the room. Isaac takes hold of the bucket and trickles the water over Derek’s cleaned skin before standing up and glancing at Stiles. Before he can protest, Isaac rolls his eyes.
“Relax. I wouldn’t touch you even if you paid me,” he says, his voice bored as he fills the bucket again.
“Isn’t that sort of your job?” Stiles shots back. Isaac laughs quietly, the sound bouncing off the walls before he looks at Derek who has stood up and is now walking over to the bath.
“He’s cute, she will like him.”
“Like to devour him, you mean,” Boyd speaks up and catches Isaac’s eyes.
“Something along those lines,” Isaac agrees amid Stiles’ growing confusion.
“Take your time,” Isaac addresses Derek again over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “Dinner will be served as usual with the regular attendees.”
Derek grunts his thanks as Isaac makes his exit, seemingly content to sit and relax in the warm bath. Stiles tries to swallow his words with questionable success.
“You brought me to a brothel.” He’s swinging between amused and mortified.
“Not a brothel,” Derek corrects closing his eyes and tipping his head back on a sigh. “The best brothel in Lah province. Probably the best in the kingdom.”
“Where you are a regular customer.”
“Something along those lines,” he echoes Isaac and huffs when the water sloshes a bit as Boyd and Scott get into the water.
Stiles sighs and wanders over to the bucket of clean water left by Isaac, bending to retrieve a clean cloth and washing himself down with hurried strokes. The warm bath water surrounds him like the softest blanket, cocooning and protecting, and Stiles lets out a tired groan as he folds his arms on the wooden edge, resting his chin on the back of his hands.
“Now I get it why you said we are safe for the time being,” he glances at Boyd, whose eyes have fallen to half mast.
“Lah is famous for its unconventional revenue sources,” Derek cuts in, his voice deep and sated from contentment. “The provincial capital is a hotbed for gambling and prostitution. No one is going to ask questions here. Or even if they do, loosing them will be child’s play.”
Stiles’ aching muscles feel like jelly and he blinks sleepily at Scott. He is quieter than usual and Stiles would ask him what’s wrong, but privacy is something they are seriously lacking nowadays. He has to come up with something to get Scott alone and make him talk. Maybe Derek said something to him over the ride, or he’s just in one of his cyclical Allison withdrawal flunk.
“Isn’t Lah famous for its agriculture?” Stiles muses, wracking his brain for half-forgotten information about the provinces. Lah’s abundance of grain production encouraged trade with Rey where animal husbandry has been perfected with centuries of practice. Add in the high quality wood harvested from the infinite forests of Ha province in the north and you have yourself the triumvirate, weathering the passing of time with its three roots deeply fixed in the ground.
“Decades past, yes. They had to adapt if they didn’t want to starve to death. Not much to harvest nowadays,” Boyd explains. Stiles feels his curiosity spark to life but the warm steam of the fragrant water momentarily soothes his thirst for knowledge.
He dozes in the bath and doesn’t startle when Derek stands up after that can be either the passing of minutes or hours. Water trickles down his back in rivulets, the drops glistening in the soft light of the room, making his skin glow. There is a quick flash of power that thrums in sync with Stiles’ heart for a beat, making his breath hitch.
Stiles lets the feeling go without dwelling on it as he watches the dark ink of a tattoo shift with the play of Derek’s muscles as he dries himself, the lines breaking and swirling into three points enclosed between his shoulder blades.
“It’s a reminder,” Derek says when Stiles asks about it. When Derek doesn’t elaborate, Stiles surprises even himself when he doesn’t push it.
*
After they have dried off Isaac comes back and leads them to an airy room at the end of a secluded corridor. Three employees are waiting for them on the side, holding dry, clean robes and Stiles waits patiently as one of them steps up to him and drapes the fabric on his shoulders, securing the clothe with a tie and arranging the soft fabric with careful fingers. The room is adjacent to a dining area and two women are putting the finishing touches on their dinner. Tasteful arrangements of colorful dishes cover the table, marinated duck and lamb served in decorated crockery with white rice on the side, steaming vegetables sliced and spiced along with the rich aroma of warm soup. The spread is enticing and Stiles’ mouth waters in anticipation.
As they take their seats on the floor, the employees leave quietly with the exception of Isaac, who sits on Derek’s left and starts to serve. When Stiles takes the first bite, the tender flesh of the buttery, herb coated lamb practically melts on his tongue.
“Compliments to the chef,” Stiles hums as he digs in with relish and Isaac smiles, nodding his thanks. He turns to Boyd and soon they are deep in conversation, apparently catching up on town gossip.
Stiles is halfway through his meal when the door slides open.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” greets a lilting voice and when Stiles glances at the newcomer, he chokes on a swallow and starts coughing.
The girl stepping into the room is one of the most beautiful humans Stiles has ever seen. Her hair cascades over her shoulders and flows down her back in golden waves and her long, indigo deep sleeves flutter in the air as she balances a tray in one hand while she closes the door with the other. Her dress glows white in the light and the delicate, pink petals of a cherry tree move with her every step, creating the illusion of falling blossoms on the silk material.
She places the tray on the table and takes the empty seat on Derek’s right. Their shoulders touch as she leans against him slightly, face turned to him with an impish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. I was afraid you had forgotten about me,” she says, her voice playful and eyes shining with mirth. Derek raises his eyebrows as he chews his food, swallows before answering.
“I thought the constant stream of presents would have reassured you,” he deadpans, and the girl’s smile widens a notch.
“My heart was soothed but my eyes missed your perfect physique.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you could manage.” He gestures toward the tray. “Aren’t you going to serve drinks?”
“Fine, be a grouch,” she sighs, leaning away as she reaches for the ceramic bottle. “I’m sure Boyd missed me.”
“Like a limb,” Boyd agrees and the girl grins, filling the small cups with sweet scented, mulberry liquid. As she leans over to hand Boyd the cup, Stiles catches a glimpse of creamy flesh, her lush curves barely hidden behind a dangerously low plunging neckline. He quickly looks away and he hears the girl giggle.
“Aren’t you polite in a place like this,” she says, her voice teasing. “Looking is included with the dinner, don’t worry about it.”
Stiles resolutely stares at his plate and continues eating.
“Erica, behave,” Derek warns her and Stiles can imagine those berry tinted lips pouting.
“Here, please drink,” she says, handing a cup to Stiles and he takes it with a quiet thank you. The fresh, fruity liquid fills his mouth and slides down his throat with ease. Warmth spreads through his limbs and he starts to relax even under Erica’s not at all disguised curiosity.
“Any news from the borders?” Derek asks, breaking the tranquil silence and Erica rolls her eyes.
“Your conversation skills are a little bit rusty. You have been away from civilization for too long.”
“There is much to discuss and the night is short. We don’t have time for casual chit-chat.”
“But I so hoped we would have time for casual things, my lord.” Her voice is a suggestive purr and Stiles blushes at the implications buried under the words. “Are you sure you want to do this here, not just between the two of us?”
“Erica,” Boyd chides her gently and Erica laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Three.”
Boyd snorts. “Focus,” he tells her and Erica sighs.
“All of you are no fun at all,” she laments, but as she folds her hands in her lap, her back straight and head up, her demeanor changes. The flirty, whimsical persona peels away like dried skin and her eyes focus on Stiles with surprising intensity.
“Are you sure we can talk?” Her question is for Derek but her gaze flick between Stiles and Scott.
“Lord Stiles and his companion are only interested in getting to the Capital in one piece.”
“Is that so,” Erica hums thoughtfully then turns to Derek. “Gerard is assembling the royal army under wraps and calling in debts from a few provinces whose lords have been neutral until now. Not anything glaringly obvious, just a few words here and there about sanctions and renegotiating founding agreements. Most of them fold without further questions. I know two of them tried to bide their time, but one has a daughter who has become engaged to the second cousin of the current Minister of Justice. The other has a son who has received an internship within the Ministry of Public Affairs. Of course both of them needed to immediately relocate to the Capital, close to the Inner Palace. I imagine the two lords were quite motivated to make a favorable decision. With these additions to his lapdogs’ garrisons, Gerard has enough of a force to plan an invasion.”
„All of the neighboring kingdoms are prospering. If he strikes, he will loose,” Derek points out.
“In theory,” Erica agrees and looks at Isaac who continues.
“Rumor has it that all is not well in the west. The harvest has been abysmal and the border sentries have tripled in the last few months.”
Boyd hums thoughtfully. “Increase may as well have been triggered by beast attacks. It’s not unusual for beastlings to poach and our border provinces have been swarmed with them for years.”
“Possible,” Isaac acknowledges before he continues, “but sources confirmed that there have been beast attacks not only in border provinces. Crop production has been on a steady decline and weather conditions have been worsening.”
“Not glaringly obvious, but if you pay attention all of them add up,” Derek nods. Stiles clears his throat.
“How reliable are your sources?” he asks, looking at Erica and Isaac.
Isaac shakes his head. “Even if some of them are useless, there are too many similarities in their stories to be ignored. The kingdom is on the decline, their sentries have been crossing the borders disguised as protection from beastling attacks. It won’t be too long before their Sacred Beast is struck with Sickness.”
“Already happened,” Erica confirms before taking a sip from her cup, long fingers gently cradling the delicate porcelain.
Stiles lets out a tired sigh. “That’s why I asked about your sources. The qilin does not have the Sickness.”
“You are sure about that?” she asks, looking unimpressed.
Stiles’ smile is as sharp as the ragged edges of broken glass. “I have my sources.”
“Honey, if your source isn’t the Sacred Beast herself, I think you might be misinformed.”
“And the source of a whore is questionable at best,” he shots back, annoyed at her casual dismissal and attitude. Boyd chokes on his drink but instead of the shocked outrage Stiles expects, Erica’s laugh fills the room.
“Clearly you don’t frequent brothels or don’t know how they work.” Her amusement is palpable as she turns to Derek. “He is adorable. Can I keep him?”
Derek sighs. “Find another toy to break.” Judging by the lines on his forehead which multiply as the conversation proceeds, he is on the edge of a killer migraine.
“Erica doesn’t work here,” Boyd says quietly. “Please don’t call her a whore.”
Stiles is confused. “Then why is she here?” Erica smirks, but before she can answer Isaac quickly interrupts.
“To exchange information and come up with a plan on how to proceed, thank you for the reminder.”
Derek shots a grateful look at Isaac. “I take it your final destination is the Inner Palace within the Capital,” he addresses Stiles, who momentarily dismisses the mysteries of Erica and nods in affirmation.
“Yes. There is someone there I need to speak with.”
“Right. Because getting to the Capital will be no problem at all. Waltzing through the town and into the Inner Palace is just going to be a piece of cake, no worries!” Erica says, rolling her eyes.
“Getting into the Capital will be tricky, but manageable. Don’t expect us to smuggle you into the Palace, though. I’m good, but I can’t work miracles,” Derek warns him.
“We have it covered.” Scott has been unusually quiet all evening and Stiles is surprised that it’s now he has decided to join the conversation.
Erica looks unimpressed. “I sure hope so, because otherwise you will be walking into your death. Derek, are you sure they are not buddies with Gerard?”
“He has a token with golden signature,” Derek confirms and a hush settles in the air. Isaac blinks and looks at Boyd for confirmation while Erica opens her mouth a few times to say something, but every time she thinks better of it and doesn’t speak.
“You look like a fish,” Stiles notes when the silence becomes uncomfortable.
“Dully noted. But it’s comforting to know you won’t be killed on sight.”
„How did you manage to get a golden token?” Isaac asks, his voice saturated in disbelief. That he even knows about the difference between tokens, let alone about golden tokens tells more about his social status than his soft hands lacking calluses or his impeccable table manners. Stiles’ guess is that Isaac is either not an employee here, just as Erica is not, or he is exceptionally good at his job and managed to establish such a high profile clientele whose members can afford to bestow their appreciation on a regular basis. Or appreciate his silence regarding their meetings, at least. Stiles’ bet is not on the latter.
“Tell me what you and Erica do when you are not pretending to be employees here and I will let you know,” Stiles bargains, but a few seconds tick by and neither Erica nor Isaac bite.
“Now that we know that most of us have connections we are reluctant to reveal, let’s move on,” Derek says, trying to deter the conversation back to its original course. Stiles gives him props for trying, at least. “With the token you will have no problems accessing the Inner Palace. And that’s where we would like our payment for playing bodyguard.”
Stiles snorts. “Dude, when I get to the Inner Palace and find what I’m dreading, paying you will be the last of my problems. I will get in touch with you after you have named your price.”
“I don’t want gold. Just a tiny favor,” Derek smirks and Stiles’ eyes narrow in suspicion.
“I’m not particularly fond of favors.”
“Too bad. But if we want to get into the Inner Palace, we need someone on the inside to leave the door open.”
Erica’s eyebrows climb up her forehead. “I thought we had someone on the inside?”
Boyd rolls his eyes. “On good days we can count on him. Other days, not so much.”
“And as far as I can trust him, he may as well have anything than a good day when we want to proceed with the ambush,” Derek adds and waves Erica away when she wants to refill his cup. Taking into consideration how much alcohol they have consumed, Stiles is surprised about how coherent everyone is.
“Even if I leave the door open and set up a diversion, I doubt you will have enough time to get a small unit inside without the Palace guards noticing,” he reminds them.
“You don’t have to worry about that. I just need to get inside the Palace and will have it under control after that.”
Stiles studies Derek, takes in the relaxed set of his shoulders and his bright eyes that glimmer with intelligence and calculation.
“You didn’t want gold or any kind of monetary compensation. The second you saw the token, you wanted access to the Inner Palace,” Stiles realizes, feeling stupid that he didn’t realize Derek’s motive earlier. He knows that those who recognize the token for what it is are rarely in need of compensation money.
Derek’s small smile lacks his usual wariness and softens his features, makes him seem younger than his years. Or maybe not, as Stiles doesn’t know how old he truly is. Huh. “Correct.”
“Fine,” Stiles agrees, mostly because he thinks Derek will use Stiles and his token regardless if he complies with the request or not.
“Perfect. Now we should discuss the ambush and how we can help you once you are in the Palace, because as much as I admire your dedication to the cause, my lord, your strategy doesn’t always stand on steady legs when it mostly concerns your well-being and not the lives of others,” Erica continues, gently brushing an unruly lock of golden hair out from her line of sight.
“Throwing yourself into the middle and hoping for the best will probably not cut it now,” Boyd agrees. Derek scowls, but before he could refute the claims Isaac grins at him.
“Laura is arranging to deploy a small squadron as we speak, I doubt you can get out of this and play the lonely hero.”
“Or the sad martyr,” Erica adds and with a giggle, followed by Derek’s quiet groan.
“Isaac, why are you talking to Laura. None of you should be talking to her. She should mind her own business.”
“As she is your older sister, I think you are her business.” Even Boyd joins in on the teasing. With the relaxing atmosphere tiredness catches up with Stiles with sudden viciousness and he doesn’t entirely succeed in stifling his yawn. When he opens his eyes, everyone is looking at him with amusement.
“I guess we are not entertaining enough,” Erica grins and Stiles hakes his head.
“You are plenty entertaining, sorry. I’m just exhausted.”
“I will take you to your room if that is okay,” Isaac offers but looks at Derek for permission. When he nods, Isaac gets up and Stiles tries to weakly protest.
“But I want to learn more about Laura.”
Scott’s arm gently brushes against him. “Later. You should rest now,” he says, clearly wanting to talk and sizing the perfect opportunity for privacy without raising suspicion.
Erica flashes him a smile that’s more teeth than lips. “I would be delighted to talk about Laura one to one in your room to sate your curiosity,” she suggests, tracing her eyes along his form from head to toe. Stiles suppresses a shiver but can’t shake the feeling of being a tasty prey in the eyes of a hungry predator on the prowl.
“I think he can contain his excitement until morning,” Derek says, his tone wry and Stiles slips out of the room after Isaac, closely followed by Scott.
The hall is deserted and their room is only a few feet away. Isaac leaves them with a quiet good night, closing the door behind him.
This room is just as lavish as the previous ones, displaying a decadent interior through subtle touch. Stiles sits down onto the bed, runs his fingers over silk sheets. The thin, soft material feels cold under his skin.
“What’s the matter?” he asks as Scott takes a seat next to him. Now that they are alone and Scott doesn’t have to reign in his reaction, the air almost vibrates around him. He’s tense as a tightly strung bow, ready to snap in a second.
“I can’t reach Allison,” he bites out and Stiles heart stops, frozen between beats for a tick before it starts drumming in fast staccato.
“What do you mean you can’t reach her.”
“I can’t. When I reach out, I can’t feel her. I tried to stay within my boundaries as I couldn’t use anything more than subtle probes in the presence of Derek and risk him figuring out we have magic” he explains, glaring at Stiles before he continues, “as I was riding with him all day, that was extremely difficult by the way, thanks for that. But I couldn’t reach Allison.”
His glare morphs into helpless desperation. “This has never happened before. And what the others said about Jackson and Lydia, all the rumors, I just--”
“Okay,” Stiles says, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. “Okay. I will get in touch with Lydia.”
“Whoever is after us, they will feel when you dreamwalk,” Scott reminds him, but his objection is weak.
Stiles lips quirk into a half-smile. “Then let’s hope Derek can fight as well as he says he can.”
*
Walking on the spiritual plane doesn’t require careful planning or any fancy rituals. As Stiles’ whole being is comprised of magic, it comes as easy as breathing to him, no matter where he is. He falls into a meditative sleep, lets his magic surge and his senses spread out over time and distance, feeling every being born with conscience shimmer and undulate on an endless dreamscape.
Lydia’s presence is easy to find even when she wants to hide - the magical signature of Sacred Beasts is distinguished and bright, and Stiles latches onto her presence, sinking between her silvery strands.
When he opens his eyes he finds himself in room, the darkness only broken by the hazy light of the Silver Moon filtering between the haphazardly shut damask curtains. Lydia is lying motionless on the bed hidden behind an indigo veil, her hair spread out in a tangled mass, her back to him. If Stiles didn’t know her any better, he would think her asleep.
When he is only a few feet away, Lydia speaks.
“Stop,” she whispers, her voice scratchy and weak. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even look at him and instead of the utter fury he’s expected, he just feels small and helpless and sad.
“How long?” he asks, and doesn’t know whether he means how long has this been going on, or how long do you have.
She sighs. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
Stiles stares at her for a few beats, throat tight, then takes the last few steps, pulls away the veil and sits beside her. The faint sweetness he smelt when he last saw her sits heavily in the air. It’s the corruption of magic, the slow but constant trickling of a qilin’s life force as it evaporates in the syrupy, thick scent of decay.
“That’s why you wanted me to have a look? To stop Jackson?”
Lydia’s laugh is soft and hollow. Stiles heart aches at the sound. “You can’t stop Jackson. Nobody can. Believe me, I tried. Gerard is controlling him. I don’t know why, I don’t know how. Sometimes he becomes a creature I have never seen before, full of anger and overflowing killing instinct. He is not a beastling so I can’t take control of him. I tried.” Lydia chokes up, swallows, then continues in a shaking whisper. “When he is human he is irrational and cruel. He’s made decisions I have strongly disagreed with. I tried to reason, I threatened, I begged him to reconsider, but he just wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s not your fault,” Stiles says, reaching out to touch her. He plays with her hair that lacks its usual shine, the strands feeling coarse and brittle as he winds them around his fingers. Her body is curled into a tight ball under the heavy blankets, but Stiles can still feel her occasional tremble.
“I’m sorry Stiles. I can’t disobey him.” She sounds defeated, so unlike her vibrant, vivacious self that Stiles whole being aches for her.
“I wondered who is strong enough to control beastlings into attacking a Sacred Beast,” he hums, and Lydia flinches.
“I’m so sorry.”
“As I said, not your fault.”
Silence descends over them, a heavy blanket of sorrow and guilt.
“If I killed him, you would be okay.”
“Stiles, you can’t kill him. It’s not in our nature to harm,” Lydia reminds him.
“But if someone killed him,” Stiles haggles, ideas forming lightning quick in his head like cyclones on the Memory Sea in the height of the summer heat waves.
“You know I won’t let them.”
“But if someone kills Gerard, his control over Jackson will break,” Stiles theorizes. “And you will be cured.”
“I might be cured,” Lydia reminds him. “Sacred Beasts recovering from the Sickness while their Ruler is alive are exceptionally rare. Usually the Sacred Beast dies first, then the Ruler follows. Or the Ruler is killed and the Sacred Beast recovers, if the Sickness is not too far gone. The odds of me making it alive is, sadly, very much not in our favor.”
She wants to say more, but a sudden coughing fit interrupts her monologue. Stiles tracks the bright strip of the moonlight with his eyes as it cuts across the floor while the mattress shakes.
“Even if Gerard’s control will be broken, I’m not sure Jackson can redeem himself in the eyes of the Heavens, “she wheezes, her breathing labored and wet. Stiles shivers, sweat breaking out on his nape. He knows that nausea will soon follow as he smells the blood.
“With Gerard’s death you will be cured. You did nothing wrong, Jackson did nothing wrong. Gerard interfered with another kingdom, he should be punished for his insolence and greediness,” he says, believing the words with every fiber of his being. If Lydia dies, it will be Stiles’ fault. He was the coward when he avoided his responsibilities and stayed in his easy, perfect little tranquil world due to some past trauma while gifted megalomaniacs like Gerard sized power and trampled all over the land and played gods over their personal playground.
When Lydia speaks after a few beats, she sounds tired and resigned. “The just exercised by the Heavens is very subjective, as you may remember and know it.”
Stiles snorts. “Leave the blasphemy to a Sacred Beast who doesn’t have a Ruler or a kingdom to run. We will take care of Gerard, Jackson will revert back to being just a douche rather than an agreeable puppet and everyone will quake in their seats while you sass them into awed reverence.”
Lydia doesn’t answer and Stiles watches her sleep for a few beats before he closes his eyes and severs the connection between the two of them. The caress of Lydia’s magic feels like a gentle kiss of goodbye on his skin.
part 3
part 1