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chestnut curls, deep cinnamon eyes, and rich café-au-lait skin, no one could blame him if it were.
Peace; that was it. Sometimes Culéoin felt as uptight as any human, given his duties to Prince and Hame.
Zeke held the peace of deep waters, peace that accepted even Zeke's own inevitable aging and death.
The trumpet laughed, and he caught the phrase, echoing it back in another octave. Another part of
Zeke's magic: Zeke was fun. They played together, and not just musically. Then there was the sheer
delight Zeke took in simple things, making age-old beauties come alive again.
So now, once a year, Culéoin defied his own convictions about the unwisdom of elf-human relationships
and met his lover for the final two days of Mardi Gras. Surely no great harm would come from spending
just a little time with this particular butterfly. He asked no other time away from his duties, and Prince
Irindilel always granted his request with no more than a raised eyebrow and an amused smile. Until this
year.
Norenlod, you idiot.
* * *
A few blocks from the club, Culéoin laced his fingers with Zeke's. The streets of the French Quarter
were crowded here. They were to meet the Loa, the Voudoun gods to whom the spellstone should have
been delivered, at ten, giving them time to walk.
After the ease of the music, the burdens of the moment weighed even heavier. Perhaps I shouldn't bring
Zeke along, but something is definitely not right. If there's trouble, I want him where I can protect him. I
want him with me anyhow. Maybe it's time he learned who I am. At least some of who I am. Culéoin
looked around and felt himself tighten as all his senses returned to his familiar hyper-even-for-a-Sidhe
alert state.
Something's different.
Zeke is worried about you; best say something. Their emotions run so close to the surface, burn
so hot . . .
"I am sorry,muirnín ." He brought Zeke's hand, still laced with his own, up to his lips and kissed it. "I
promise I'll take care of business as quickly as I can."
"Business." Zeke's drawl, a combination of his native North Carolina and the local N'awlins accent,
made music of the word. "Never knew an elf had much I'd call business."
Behind the words, Colin could hear his own silent question.Some of what I am, no more. "I perform
various diplomatic and foreign affairs functions for Prince Irindilel."
"Didn't figure on goin' to an embassy ball tonight." The Bard raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his
mouth crinkled. "You elves in the UN or somethin'?"
"A power at court has this nephew," Culéoin began, then stopped, wondering how best to describe
Norenlod's latest ineptitude. "I could give you a lesson in diplomatic history, but what it comes down to is
that one should let a defeated enemy keep his pride. So we give the Loa a ceremonial, yet very complex,
piece of magick every year in acknowledgment of the continued peace between us."
Then as quickly as possible, he summarized Norenlod's disastrous encounter with an allegedly
decaffeinated version of the fabled chicory coffee of New Orleans, finishing, "He passed out after one
sip, thank Danu, so he took no serious harm. When he awoke, the stone was gone. So, thanks to that
idiot Norenlod, we're out looking for it instead of . . ." He smiled, a bit wistfully, and Zeke finished for
him.
"Instead of jus' bein' us. You doin' all this to look good to your Prince?"
"Indeed not." Colin chuckled. "I've only told you about the diplomatic end. It gets a bit more
complicated. Think of the stone as a great big psychic energy amplifier tucked into the center of a magical
Mardi Gras bomb."Something's different, something's different, something's different. . . .
"So what does Mardi Gras have to do with it?"
"The local Voudoun run the Krewe of Oblata and set the spellstone off when the king and queen are
crowned at the start of their parade." The watchdog sense at the back of his mind stirred uneasily again,
and he looked around, probing the surrounding shadows almost without volition.
"So they use it to amplify and spread the spirit of Mardi Gras. Like we were doin' back at the club. An'
they do it every year."
He squeezed Zeke's hand. "It's part of what makes New Orleans, well, such a magical city. It's in the air
all year round, of course you know that but it's especially strong at Mardi Gras, thanks to the Loa's
gift to their worshippers and the Voudoun gift, in turn, to New Orleans."
"So, is there a catch?"
Culéoin shook his head. "Only that we must renew it each year. Should the treaty expire, much of the [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]
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chestnut curls, deep cinnamon eyes, and rich café-au-lait skin, no one could blame him if it were.
Peace; that was it. Sometimes Culéoin felt as uptight as any human, given his duties to Prince and Hame.
Zeke held the peace of deep waters, peace that accepted even Zeke's own inevitable aging and death.
The trumpet laughed, and he caught the phrase, echoing it back in another octave. Another part of
Zeke's magic: Zeke was fun. They played together, and not just musically. Then there was the sheer
delight Zeke took in simple things, making age-old beauties come alive again.
So now, once a year, Culéoin defied his own convictions about the unwisdom of elf-human relationships
and met his lover for the final two days of Mardi Gras. Surely no great harm would come from spending
just a little time with this particular butterfly. He asked no other time away from his duties, and Prince
Irindilel always granted his request with no more than a raised eyebrow and an amused smile. Until this
year.
Norenlod, you idiot.
* * *
A few blocks from the club, Culéoin laced his fingers with Zeke's. The streets of the French Quarter
were crowded here. They were to meet the Loa, the Voudoun gods to whom the spellstone should have
been delivered, at ten, giving them time to walk.
After the ease of the music, the burdens of the moment weighed even heavier. Perhaps I shouldn't bring
Zeke along, but something is definitely not right. If there's trouble, I want him where I can protect him. I
want him with me anyhow. Maybe it's time he learned who I am. At least some of who I am. Culéoin
looked around and felt himself tighten as all his senses returned to his familiar hyper-even-for-a-Sidhe
alert state.
Something's different.
Zeke is worried about you; best say something. Their emotions run so close to the surface, burn
so hot . . .
"I am sorry,muirnín ." He brought Zeke's hand, still laced with his own, up to his lips and kissed it. "I
promise I'll take care of business as quickly as I can."
"Business." Zeke's drawl, a combination of his native North Carolina and the local N'awlins accent,
made music of the word. "Never knew an elf had much I'd call business."
Behind the words, Colin could hear his own silent question.Some of what I am, no more. "I perform
various diplomatic and foreign affairs functions for Prince Irindilel."
"Didn't figure on goin' to an embassy ball tonight." The Bard raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his
mouth crinkled. "You elves in the UN or somethin'?"
"A power at court has this nephew," Culéoin began, then stopped, wondering how best to describe
Norenlod's latest ineptitude. "I could give you a lesson in diplomatic history, but what it comes down to is
that one should let a defeated enemy keep his pride. So we give the Loa a ceremonial, yet very complex,
piece of magick every year in acknowledgment of the continued peace between us."
Then as quickly as possible, he summarized Norenlod's disastrous encounter with an allegedly
decaffeinated version of the fabled chicory coffee of New Orleans, finishing, "He passed out after one
sip, thank Danu, so he took no serious harm. When he awoke, the stone was gone. So, thanks to that
idiot Norenlod, we're out looking for it instead of . . ." He smiled, a bit wistfully, and Zeke finished for
him.
"Instead of jus' bein' us. You doin' all this to look good to your Prince?"
"Indeed not." Colin chuckled. "I've only told you about the diplomatic end. It gets a bit more
complicated. Think of the stone as a great big psychic energy amplifier tucked into the center of a magical
Mardi Gras bomb."Something's different, something's different, something's different. . . .
"So what does Mardi Gras have to do with it?"
"The local Voudoun run the Krewe of Oblata and set the spellstone off when the king and queen are
crowned at the start of their parade." The watchdog sense at the back of his mind stirred uneasily again,
and he looked around, probing the surrounding shadows almost without volition.
"So they use it to amplify and spread the spirit of Mardi Gras. Like we were doin' back at the club. An'
they do it every year."
He squeezed Zeke's hand. "It's part of what makes New Orleans, well, such a magical city. It's in the air
all year round, of course you know that but it's especially strong at Mardi Gras, thanks to the Loa's
gift to their worshippers and the Voudoun gift, in turn, to New Orleans."
"So, is there a catch?"
Culéoin shook his head. "Only that we must renew it each year. Should the treaty expire, much of the [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]