Book Of Tongues (Hexslinger 1)

True, the Rainbow Lady agreed, I do not know much of this Fatherly One-God of yours, except as He may twin with my brother Feathered Serpent, the God-Who-Dies. Yet you do not have a choice — nor do you want one, in truth. You enjoy what you are Becoming far too much, for that.

A lie, he could only hope. Because yes, he could feel it curl inside him now, waiting to explode outward with wild new growth, to spray its poison pollen over everything he touched.

Then the world tipped up, and Rook realized they were flipping over. Lithe muscles gripped him, inside and out, the juice of their exertions drenching them both further in sweet foulness. The skirt-snakes rose up hissing in every direction from their sudden shift in momentum, tongues like little flickering flames, and the Lady’s dragonfly cloak rippled outwards, wrapping them as tightly as his sword fit her sheath.

Enraged, Rook fought her harder than he would have most men, but got nothing but laughter once more, for all his pains.

Enough talk, she said, at last. Bow your head to the yoke, little husband. The king must give blood, always — give blood to get blood. Or the land dies.

Rook scoffed. This ain’t your land, woman — mine either, come to think. This is the desert. It’s been dead a long damn time.

But it could be . . . something else.

And the red vine exploded, everywhere. Blooming and burning, flowers opening like firecrackers with a sound of fifty thousand dead hands clapping, a tumult-choir of stone bells and thighbone-carven flutes. The Rainbow Lady closed her true eyes once more at the sound of it.

Do what I tell you, little king, she warned him. Or I will take it back — all of it. And not from you only, either. . . .

Chess, he thought, helpless. She means Chess.

You . . . leave him the hell . . . alone, he managed, as the rest of it began to fade — knowing full well how useless it was to threaten her with anything.

She licked at his wounded ear, utterly predatory, weirdly loving. Whispering: And what will you do, to make me?

. . . whatever I have to, Rook thought, drowning in his own blood.

Instants (or years) later Rook woke, sun in his eyes and head buzzing, to find Chess watching him — already dressed, his eyes uncustomarily impossible to read.

“You’re bleedin’,” Chess said.

Startled, Rook slapped at his ear, and saw his palm come away thinly red-smeared, though the lobe itself seemed still intact.

“So I am,” he agreed, at last.

“Must’ve been some dream you were havin’.”

“I . . . don’t rightly recall.”

“Uh huh. So who is she, exactly?” Adding, as Rook looked at him: “Yeah, I heard you, yellin’ her damn name in your sleep!”

Rook shook his head, as though to clear it, then looked over at Chess again, and this time found him fairly bristling mad. Like he wanted to get into it right then and there, only held back by not knowing where to find this phantom woman whose face he so yearned to scratch.

“Are you jealous?” Rook asked.

Chess’s eyes flared. “Why? You think I can’t be?”

“Well, uh . . . no, ’course. Just seemed . . . somewhat unlikely.”

“Think I don’t care, right? Or shouldn’t, maybe. ’Cause whores’ boys grow up whores themselves, no matter what . . .” Here he broke off. In a savagely choked voice: “Well, fuck you, Reverend. Even a whore — ”

Rook wasn’t about to argue the point. Especially not since he felt the definite flicker of something rising up in him to meet Chess’s rage — similarly hot, if far blacker. Half of him could taste Chess’s true pain buried beneath the bluster, more fully than Chess himself was equipped to, and ached to salve it even while the other half savoured it, drank deep. Licked its lips, and wanted more.

Ah, but the blood of men is sweet, little king.

“Chess . . .” Rook began again, “. . . who is it you think I’ve had instance to get close with, in all this time, ’sides from you?” Chess didn’t reply. “I was dreamin’, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, Ash Rook.”

“What’s all this about? C’mon, now. You can’t possibly think yourself cheated on, not ’cause I had a damn nightmare — that woman’s not anybody I want to spend time with. And I don’t think you’re a whore.”