Innocuous looking enough at first glance, the taller youth was a dangerous foe at the second. Whipcord thin, he appeared no physical challenge until moving. Every action, even such a simple action as walking, was preformed with the grace of a master swordsman, though few hailed it as that.

Even with such a warning, the sword in a sheath stiff with jewels could easily be misconstrued as a status symbol. No one ever seemed to notice that, though pure gold wire wrapped it, the unadorned hilt was well used. Further investigation would have revealed at least six daggers secreted about his person, but only if he allowed you to get that close.

Deep, dark eyes were offset by longish black hair pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck, and, despite a languid grace, the face it framed was surprisingly kind and thoughtful when not schooled into careful boredom. Surprisingly most folk ignored all this, their attention held by a thin silver circlet resting on his head and by the black and silver of the royal house. He didn’t mind, it made it easier to surprise those who took the crown prince to be a witless lapdog, trotted out for parties and balls.

He was Prince Valentine de Hydrel, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Jubal, and Ledya have mercy on you if you called him Valentine.

It was he, Val, Prince of Swords as much as Prince Heir, who had spoken first.

The second speaker, though still much taller than average, trailed Val by a hand-span. Dressed in an absurd fashion, a deep red velvet dressing gown with a pair of rumpled silver hose, a red silk fan stuck into the silken cord of the gown added to the disparity between clothing and appearance.

The polar opposite of Val, he looked like a statue of Apollo come alive. A warrior’s build did not disguise the spirit of fun that lingered around his person like the subtle perfume of a rose. Golden red hair stood out in a messy halo about a grinning face that was as ready to laugh at itself as at others.

It was only when you looked into eyes the color of finely tempered steel that you saw something looking out older than most could sanely comprehend, though he appeared to be Val’s age, a young man in his early twenties.

Ordinarily the two were the best of friends despite, or possibly because of, their complete differences, but you likely wouldn’t be able to tell, the way they fought.

Of course, reflected Val, that's always the way of it. Even as he stood there fuming at Kerrill, he wasn’t really mad, not really, just irritated. Stand together on the important issues and squabble over every unimportant trifle.

Kerrill had been his fast friend ever since he, Val, had been six. They’d grown up together, though in Kerrill’s case growth was a relative term. When Val had been six, so had Kerrill, but when Val had been two, Kerrill had been twenty-two. This was not surprising as Kerrill had been dead for seven centuries, and could pretty much look however he wished.

“Look Kerrill, I had four magicians lined up to question you! You know how they get when they’re bored. One of the cats won’t reappear for a week! You agreed, as a favor to me, to answer all the questions they could ask about ‘the physical manifestation of a non-corporeal being.’ Just once, to get them off my back for a while.”

“Why would they bother you? It’s your father’s castle I’m haunting. That’s beside the point, what was wrong with my performance?”

“To answer your first question, I’m known for being around you, more's the pity. Second, you know Father does very little anymore. All his real work is delegated to advisors or to me. And third, you were two hours late! When you finally did appear, it was in that ridiculous outfit. What possessed you?”

“You could say I possessed myself.”

“Kerrill! You were supposed to appear in your Hallows Eve outfit, not in that laughingstock! The black and silver bloodstained leathers you died in, not some pranced up bathrobe!”

“Why did you think I was late? I looked for that thing for two bloody hours! I think one of the new maids took it to be washed. I thought this robe looked quite regal, as benefiting the former Prince Heir.”

“Kerri, you look like a prat.”

“You should talk.”

Val grimaced as he looked down at himself, Kerri had a point; calf high black suede boots with the tops turned down, black silk hose, and a black velvet tunic shot through with threads of silver bullion. In the very summit of courtly fashion, his face was dusted with powdered pearl and his lips painted with silver grease.

In Valentine’s opinion it was stunning and on the very cutting edge of fashion. In Val’s opinion it was disgusting. He hated every second he played the fop and dandy, he hated wearing the gaudy sheath, he hated wrapping his sword-hilt in gold wire, he hated the fripperies, he hated making inane conversation, he hated it all.

But he probably would have hated being dead even more. Only he, along with a few friends who could literally be trusted beyond death, knew that the blade he carried made him one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom.

Certainly some twenty odd assassins knew, but they’d never tell anyone. It was a matter of professional honor, and pride. Many were the men who came back to report to the Guild house that not only had they failed to kill Valentine de Hydrel, but he had bested them with his own blade. Assassins never spied or leaked information, they took their code of honor very seriously, so as more and more men were sent back in disgrace, the price of any contract involving the Prince Heir grew accordingly. It was eventually so high that only the extravagantly wealthy could afford to even think about employing an assassin. Not only that, but, for reasons unknown to the patrons, even if they were willing to shell out the gold, there not many men who were willing to take the assignment.

Kerrill saw his friend’s face as Val contemplated all this and hurt for him. He knew what it was like to play a part, hide his self and conform to others’ image of him. A famous war leader during his time, Kerrill was forced into a role he would never have chosen himself, in fact, he would rather have stayed at home with his wife, children, and people, fighting at their sides rather than leading them in a far away land.

But it was not to be. Triumphant and strong, Jubal had survived and added more than five hundred leagues of land to its already encompassing borders and Kerrill had been ready to settle down and rule at home, replacing his father who had died while Kerrill was away.

During a feast in tiny village less than a hundred leagues from the castle, Kerrill had been playfully drawn into a game of fan dance, a game involving timing, coordination, and grace as the brightly colored fans were tossed from player to player in complex, ever quickening patterns. Kerrill had been drinking and his reflexes were slowed almost imperceptibly, but it had been enough to kill him.

A lady whose husband, son, and father had all been taken by the war slipped into the dance and tossed a fan directly at his throat.

Normally, in lighthearted play, plain folding fans were used, such as a lady would carry to cool herself on a summer’s day, but in competition the fans were reinforced with steel spines instead of wood, and the edge of the fabric had a segmented razor wire attached to it, as deadly as a sword or dagger in its own way. Competitions often ended in injuries, when not outright death, if one of the members of a team was a trifle slow or clumsy.

This was the type of fan that had been thrown at Kerrill. Needless to say, he had bled to death by dawn, his surgeons unable to repair the damage and his magician unconscious from a blow to the head in the last day of battle.

When he’d awoken again, it was as a ghost, physically present and clothed in bloody battle leathers that would never wash clean, but not bound by the conventions laid on the living.

Other things had changed as well; he was unable to leave the castle grounds unless in the presence of one of the royal family, he had to obey their every command, and he was unable to rid himself of the fan that had killed him.

Bound to obey without will and answer to any member of the royal family, Kerrill had suffered more over seven centuries of half-life than any living person could and still maintain sanity. Many masters had beaten him, or forced him to do things he would never have done if not compelled so, but the compulsion could not be fought.

He knew, he’d tried more than once, and he’d fought his hardest the first time. He saw her face again, beautiful and terrified. Terrified of him. He hadn’t even been able to apologize.

But that was why he guarded Val so. Val had been his first true friend in over five centuries. Five long centuries reduced to no more than a family retainer in some cases, in others …

He shuddered. He couldn’t forget what he had done at the command of others, but he also knew he was fortunate in having someone with which to grieve, someone who had forgiven him all his deeds and had not been afraid of the mad ghost of Raheinlein Castle. That someone had been Val, with the clear logic only the truly innocent can use.

‘Did you want to hurt them?’ the young Val had asked. ‘Did you try to fight?’ Even at that young age, Val had known more than many twice his age about how the world worked. With those two questions Val had washed away centuries of pain and guilt. And he had made himself a friend that would love him through life and beyond.

It was Val’s turn to note the blankness present on his usually jovial friend’s face, the blankness which Kerrill had displayed when Val first met him.

He knew what Kerri was thinking about, and internally wept for him. He’d heard all of Kerrill’s stories, and accepted him for what he was, a slave to any of the royal blood whose actions were controlled by those same members, and a man who had strength enough to endure centuries under tyrannical and sadistic lords alike and still retain his sense of honor and humor.

No more, Val thought, no more. It will end this Hallows Eve night. He will be freed.

hõg

An hour later found them relaxing in Val’s room with a game of cards and laughing over the looks on the magicians’ faces when Kerrill had appeared.

“That fat one looked like a frog about to explode, what with his eyes all bugging out and his cheeks puffed out,” Val imitated the face, to Kerrill’s immense amusement. “Honestly, I though he was going to have a convulsion. I mean… well hello Tabby!”

This last was in response to the arrival of another of Val’s fast friends, a jackalope from the forest surrounding the castle.

She had appeared one night in Val’s room and seemed disinclined to leave, so Val had kept her. In fact, she trailed him constantly, never seen due to the innate magic that all wild things in the kingdom’s forests seemed to posses.

Kerrill was taken with her and she with him, so there had never been any conflict in that sector, but she shed on all Val’s clothing, and the fop Valentine could hardly be seen with rabbit fur all over his clothing.

That was when Val discovered something he had not known before, that he had some small magical ability, seemingly innate as Tabby’s. One day he was bemoaning the coat of fur all over the wine red tunic he’d been planning to wear to a court party when suddenly all the fur had disappeared from the outfit.

He’d tried it again with similar success and found that if he was touching Tabby it was much easier. The only thing he could figure was that Tabby’s innate magical abilities brought out his and amplified them.

Since then, his sword had never dulled, nor had it picked up any nicks. On another occasion, he’d been possessed of a blinding headache at a court affair and had slipped his food to one of the mongrel dogs that surrounded the table. The dog had suffered convulsions and died within two minutes. Val never again ignored a headache.

As he stroked Tabby, he carefully started a conversation with Kerrill. “Tonight is Hallows Eve, you know.”

“Really? I’d almost forgotten, I suppose I must find that outfit and attend the midnight ceremony. Isn’t it strange that most people consider only the hour of twelve to be powerful? Any multiple of three does it, three’s a special number you know.”

“Yes, I know. Say, would you like to meet in the garden at nine for a special Hallows Eve surprise?” Val tried to remain casual; he knew Kerrill would be suspicious if he showed even the slightest worry.

Kerrill looked hard at Val and then broke into a wide grin. “I can’t wait!”

Nor can I, Val thought, nor can I.

hõg

The clock stuck nine. It was dark in the castle’s garden and abandoned except for one lone figure. Val. A smaller, rabbit shaped shadow by his heel trembled. Tabby.

As the last chime died out, Kerrill appeared right on schedule, beaming and ready for his surprise. Well, Val thought grimly, I’ll give him one. Kerrill please forgive me.

“Kerrill de Hydrel, heed my words. Stand right there and do not move no matter what I do or say.” It was the only time Val had purposely commanded Kerrill in his life, and the look on Kerrill’s face nearly split his heart in twain.

“Val,” Kerrill’s voice was thick with pain, “what are you doing?”

“Kerrill, my brother and my friend, I’m doing what should have been done long ago,” Val replied softly, the love in his voice shocking Kerrill into the blankness of confusion. As Kerrill was silent, pondering what was to be done, Val’s voice rose, beginning the ritual.

“Ledya, this man has suffered sorely for time without end. Let my sacrifice end his suffering and let us be together in Your holy arms. Let my blood break his bonds forever to those of that same blood. And let him forgive me for what I do out of love.”

A pale glow lit the garden, and illuminated Val’s face, bare of any cosmetics. His last words were scarcely loud enough to be heard as he drew his sword with a silken swish.

Kerrill at last realized what Val was about to do, and fought his compulsion with all his might. The old scar on his neck started to open and bleed, and hurt. Tabby ran to him and nudged him with her antlers as he collapsed, too weak to yell at Val about what a damned fool he was being.

Still as graceful as ever, Val slit his wrists with his sword and proceeded to allow himself to bleed to death, a trade for the freedom of Kerrill. Tabby squealed and instinctively Val ran over to Kerrill’s side. Horrified he stared at Kerrill’s neck and so was able to hear him when he spoke.

“Val you bastard, why? I’ll die of a broken heart.”

“I certainly hope you won’t. You want me to have stained my best court outfit with all this nasty blood for nothing?”

Kerrill laughed weakly, it was a type of humor he appreciated. A hangman’s humor.

“Val, I want you to hold my head before you die. I want to say goodbye.”

“Ledya willing, it won’t be goodbye. I hope to join you on your side of the fence,” Val’s voice was weakening and Tabby pushed up against him.

“Shut up and just hold my head up.”

“Yes Kerrill.” Val’s voice was nearly nothing. He wrapped his arms around Kerrill’s neck, their blood mingling. With a flash Val blacked out, and as he did his last thought was, So this is dying. It’s not as bad as they cut it out to be.

hõg

When Val awoke, it was to the unpleasant prodding of jackalope antlers in his side.

“Damn it Tabby, I’m dead, can’t you give me any peace?”

He sat up and promptly decided that was a bad idea. The world whirled around him, and it was no better for being completely dark. Had anyone discovered his body yet? Kerrill told him that it was not until after his funeral that he’d ‘awoken.’ Tabby whistled.

“Val, you halfwit, lie back down.”

“I’m fine Kerrill. I…yow!” Val looked down at his wrists and saw two angry red lines threatening to bleed.

“It works two ways now. Lie down and let me explain why your bloody fool idea left you alive.”

Val lie down. “I’m alive? That makes sense. I thought my head hurt too much to be dead.”

“Ha ha. Now listen up. That ritual you went though last night should have worked, and should have left you dead as I am. But I had a glimmer of hope. As you started the ritual, I went through the ways that I could save you. The only thing I could think of was an obscure spell, involving the sharing of blood to abate a geis. But only a magician could perform it. I hoped that the power of the hour would allow me to give up my ‘life’ to save yours. When Tabby shrieked tonight I’d almost lost consciousness, but touching her revived me enough to talk to you. I had hoped that sharing blood would allow me to transfer my life force to you, so you wouldn’t die. So I told you to hold my head. Something happened that neither of us expected, instead of being bound to the whole royal line, I’m only bound to you and you in return are bound to me in the same way. But I was supposed to fade out and move on to full spirit-hood, I couldn’t figure out why the bond had transferred. Then I put two and two together. You dolt, Tabby’s a familiar! She never lets you out of her sight, your magic is amplified when you’re in contact with her, and she seems much smarter than the average animal. By that token, it means you’re a magician! Tabby guided you tonight, in transferring the geis and life force evenly through our blood. If your idea had worked, I’d no longer be bound, but you’d be dead. If my idea had worked, I’d have moved on to the spirit world, leaving you alive. Neither would have made me very happy. The combination of the two resulted in this two way bond. I assume that when you die, I’ll follow you into the spirit world. You’re stuck with me forever!”

Val beamed, “Kerrill my friend, I wouldn’t have it any other way!”

hõg

The End

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