Ginn Hale - Lord of the White Hell Book One

At one time the building had to have been inhabited by more than just staff. Once the Tornesal family had occupied the halls and numerous entertaining rooms. Someone had played the harpsichord in the music room and no doubt many members of the family had sat at the card table.

But now Javier was left alone with this edifice of a house and its huge, desperately attentive staff, who occupied themselves obsessively with the vast minutiae of sweeping, dusting and polishing every surface of the place.

Kiram glanced to the hollow-faced saint chiseled over a stone doorway and absently thought that he'd been told about that particular style of sculpture. Had it ended just before King Nazario's death? He couldn't remember.

He was escorted to the second floor past the library to the green room, which turned out to be a large suite with slit windows that overlooked a small herb garden. The bed was hard and cold, but the deep green linens on it smelled freshly laundered. There was a bath and Kiram used it.

Afterwards he was loath to dress in his old clothes. Instead he wrapped a towel around his waist and lay back on the bed. A fire blazed in the hearth and Kiram stared up a the ceiling, feeling troubled and at the same time too exhausted to do more than lie there and watch the shadows dance above him.

His arm hurt. His head ached. He closed his eyes and if he slept he didn't dream, but when he opened his eyes the room had darkened. Outside, he could hear rain falling.

"We should run away," Kiram murmured to himself.

"Where would we go?" a quiet voice responded. Javier leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, skin luminous in the dim, golden light. He'd washed recently and his hair was glossy black.

Kiram asked, "How long have you been there?"

"Not too long." Javier sounded weary. "I was enjoying the view."

"You should have woken me up." A slight breeze fluttered through the room and suddenly he became aware that the towel must have slipped off his hips. Javier watched, with a smile as Kiram reached for but did not replace the towel. He felt a confusing mixture of embarrassment and pleasure at being so ardently observed. Then he heard someone clomping up the stairs and quickly covered himself.

"My valet, bringing clothes for you to wear to dinner," Javier explained.

A moment later, an old man bowed past Javier and laid out the suit of fresh clothes. The pants, jacket and vest were all Tornesal black but not servant's dress. Silver threads decorated the silk vest and the white shirt was flawless linen. The trousers were silk as were the stockings. The clothes fit him decently, but had obviously belonged to someone with broader shoulders and thicker thighs.

Javier watched him dress and the valet waited, pretending to watch nothing. But when Kiram caught the older man's gaze flicker to Javier's face and then to Kiram's own body, he missed a button of the vest and had to unbutton it and start again.

"These clothes are much too nice. They look like they belonged to a prince," Kiram said, as if it were an excuse for his flustered clumsiness.

Javier replied, "They're too small for me anymore. And they suit you."

The valet gave Javier a narrow, disapproving glance, as if he felt that the clothes would have been better suited for a pig to wear than Kiram.

If Javier noticed the look, he paid no attention to it. "Tornesal black is drab on most men but you make it seem magnificent."

The valet lowered his eyes, apparently engrossed in the marble floor.

Kiram couldn't believe that Javier would say such a thing while another man was standing in the room with them. Was he drunk?

Javier swaggered forward to brush some minuscule speck of dust off Kiram's shoulder and gave him a smile. "Now that you're suitably attired, shall we go down to dinner, Underclassman Kiram?"

The ebony inlayed dinner table had clearly been made for gatherings of more than a dozen diners. Even sitting across from Javier, the width of the table made it impossible to whisper to him. And yet, Kiram didn't dare to raise his voice in front of the constant stream of servants that circulated between the kitchen and the table.

They brought small, exquisite foods in ornate dishes. Kiram sampled tender cutlets of veal, rich cream sauces and sharp greens served with fragrant orange and lemon dressing. The food was delicious and yet Kiram hardly ate more than a few bites. Javier ate nothing; he drank a milky, white liqueur from a cut crystal glass and watched Kiram.

"Aren't you hungry?" Kiram asked.

"I'm not as interested in food as I am in getting drunk."

"You shouldn't," Kiram said.

"Maybe not, but I'm going to if I can."

"I need to talk to you." Kiram couldn't help but lower his voice.

"So, talk," Javier said.

A servant slid a plate of pork loin medallions and blood orange segments in front of Kiram. Another servant removed the bowl of soup that Kiram had hardly tasted. A third refilled Javier's glass. Their relentless attention made Kiram uncomfortable. Any of them could be spies for Prince Nugalo or his man on the hill.

"I don't trust these servants," Kiram said in Haldiim. He scanned the men's faces for any sign that they understood his words. Most of them seemed to take no notice at all. Only the man refilling Javier's glass seemed to be listening and he just looked confused. Emboldened, Kiram continued, "I need to tell you what I found out about the curse that's been placed on your family."

"All right, tell me." Javier pronounced his words slowly. His accent was very strong, but Kiram was delighted to see that his suspicion about Javier's fluency in Haldiim had been correct.

"My uncle's partner and several other Bahiim tracked the Tornesal curse down to the academy. Someone there is using the shadow of an ancient Haldiim curse called the Old Rage to destroy your family. They think it's an agent of the royal bishop's-"

"Slow down. You're talking too fast for me," Javier said in Cadeleonian.

"A man at the Sagrada Academy is responsible for the curse. The Bahiim think he's an agent for the royal bishop, probably Holy Father Habalan." Kiram spoke as clearly and evenly as he could.

Javier seized his glass and swallowed what remained of the milky white liqueur within. When he set the glass down, the servant refilled it again.

"Is your uncle taking you away because of me?" Javier asked at last.

"Yes," Kiram admitted.

"Does you uncle's partner know how to lift the curse?"

"Maybe." Kiram gazed at his dish of pork and the dark blood oranges. "But the Bahiim can't interfere. They have to be invited to do so by the royal bishop."

Javier laughed at this but in a hard, angry way.

"So, it's hopeless," Javier said in Cadeleonian. "You're leaving me and it's hopeless."

"We could go to Yuan." Kiram couldn't keep the slight quaver of fear out of his voice. He had no idea how they would get there or how they would survive, but if Javier said yes, then he would go. He'd go tonight.

Javier's dark eyes glittered like polished obsidian. Then he bowed his head and his black hair fell over his face.

"I can't leave Fedeles." Javier drained his glass. "And it wouldn't matter if I did, because the curse would follow me. Your uncle is probably right. You will be better off in Anacleto."

"No, I won't," Kiram snapped.

"Yes, you will," Javier said it like it was an order. He slammed his glass against the table. The servant poured the last of the liqueur into his glass and Javier swallowed it like medicine then stood up slowly, swaying on his feet. "Well, it looks like I managed to get drunk after all. It's not easy, you know. The white hell burns the alcohol out of my body like a poison. It never lasts long enough." Javier absently ran his finger along the rim of his empty glass. "It never lasts."