The Deathless. Peter Newman

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      Vasin Sapphire had risen long before the three suns, unable to sleep nor act, waiting, like the rest of the castle, for the drums of the hunt to begin.

      He wished it were otherwise, that experience had taught him how to be calm, allowed him to conserve his strength, but it was always the same, his nerves as much a part of the ritual as everything else. How many times had he participated in the hunt? How many lifetimes? To his surprise, he was hazy on the exact number.

      But his body knew. An instinct made him tense, the muscles bunching as he held his breath. And sure enough, on the next beat of his heart, the first drum was played, a single, thunderous strike. Housed at the very centre of the sprawling castle, its reverberations were felt at every corner, through the stone and in the guts, echoing throughout as the note faded to make way for the next. This was the deepest drum of the set, and its beat would steadily quicken as time passed, signalling all to prepare for the hunt.

      Vasin exhaled. Some of the tension he had been holding in his limbs released. He kept looking out of the window. The darkness remained, starless and black, a greater emptiness that echoed the one inside.

      Clearly he should be getting ready now, but the motivation simply wasn’t there. It was all he could do to resist lighting some Tack and inhaling its aroma of sweet oblivion. He’d been eking out his dwindling supply over the last year, taking just enough to bury his troubles.

      But for all of his lack of motivation he didn’t dare. The honour of House Sapphire was in his hands, and no matter his misery, no matter how far he had fallen, he was a Sapphire, blood, bones, and soul.

      The deep drum sounded a second time. Servants would be flowing down corridors, their measured steps at odds with their excited faces.

      Hunting was at the heart of everything. The road-born supplied the castles of the Deathless, and the Deathless kept them safe from the demons of the Wild. If the hunt failed, then all Vasin’s people would suffer, the road-born from attack and the sky-born from starvation.

      Though only he and his hunters would take flight, the whole castle would be present: the quality of the send off, it was believed, affected the hunt’s chances of success. Everyone had their part to play, especially Vasin.

      But am I ready? It was a question he asked each time he led a hunt, but rarely with such uncertainty. A memory of his first life arose, him in another body, younger, nervous, his mother coming to his rooms to—

      He dismissed it with a growl. He would not think of his mother. Not now and especially not today.

      One set of feet stopped outside his open door and a man’s voice began singing for permission to enter. Without turning from the window, Vasin waved him in.

      ‘May I, my lord?’

      ‘Yes,’ replied Vasin.

      A moment later, he felt the teeth of a brush in his hair. It started low, at the small of his back, banishing tangles from the tips, and worked up, each pull of the brush growing longer. There was a symmetry between the brush strokes and the drum beats that pleased Vasin.

      ‘I didn’t send for you,’ he mused aloud, and the brush hesitated halfway down his back. ‘Continue. I’m not displeased. Who sent you?’ he asked, curious. Who would know he had not requested assistance, and come to the conclusion that he needed some?

      ‘Your brother, my lord. Lord Gada bade me aid your preparations and tell you that he is on his way.’

      It was unusual to meet before a hunt. Whatever was bringing him here it was unlikely to be good. They’d barely spoken in the last year, but clearly his brother was still keeping an eye on him, enough to know that he wasn’t grooming himself as he used to anyway. Vasin wondered what else Gada had seen and felt a twinge of shame as he regarded his room. The knowledge that a member of his family was arriving shortly threw the state of his quarters, and himself, into stark relief.

      Vasin groaned, his brother always thought he knew best. ‘How long do I have?’

      The servant, who looked familiar in a way that suggested Vasin had seen him before, and if not him, some ancestor who looked similar, chose his words carefully.

      ‘Lord Gada did not share that information with me, my lord.’ The servant made an apologetic face. ‘But if I were to guess, I would say he has already left his quarters.’

      ‘In that case we had best get to work. There is no time to bathe, but I must be scented and dressed before Gada arrives, and all of this clutter must be gone.’

      The servant looked about the room, dismayed. ‘My lord.’

      In the end it took the two of them to get everything straight, and Vasin had to spray the scented water over himself, then bind silk around his own chest, arms, and thighs, which was difficult, but by the time Gada entered, the illusion of serenity and cleanliness was established, betrayed only by the glistening sweat on the servant’s brow.

      The body his brother had taken in this incarnation was classic Gada. Tall, thin, lightly muscled, as if exercise was something to be sampled but not indulged in. The thick eyebrows and beard, both neatly trimmed, suited, adding weight to an otherwise ephemeral appearance.

      Like all Deathless, Lord Gada Sapphire held his own castle and looked after his own settlements. Despite this, he had become a regular fixture of Vasin’s life since their mother’s exile. Gada was still playing the game, fighting to keep them both in High Lord Sapphire’s favour. It was a fight he seemed destined to lose.

      A slight flick of Gada’s finger dismissed the servant. They were alone.

      Gada’s smile of greeting lacked sincerity, but then, it always had. It was why few trusted him and fewer warmed to him. If blood didn’t tie them, Vasin doubted he’d be very fond of the other man either. It wasn’t fair, because Gada had always looked after him, had taken his duties as elder brother seriously. Perhaps that was the problem. He’d always felt more like a duty to Gada than a loved one.

      Vasin stood there, his habitual social ease failing him after years of disuse. Gada seemed afflicted by the same problem and so the brothers simply stared at one another, Gada’s smile looking like it could flee the scene at any moment.

      Meanwhile, adding to the tension, the space between each beat of the great drum grew steadily shorter. Soon, the second drummer would begin, and Vasin would have to leave.

      ‘You look well,’ said Gada.

      ‘No I don’t.’

      Gada’s smile faded away. ‘No.’

      ‘If you have something to say …’

      ‘Yes.’ He contradicted himself by pausing and Vasin felt frustration well up. His brother’s surprise visit was stirring up feelings he’d worked hard to bury. Grief stirred within him like a beast coming out of hibernation. He’d isolated himself on purpose, hiding behind his walls, refusing to see people. And when that hadn’t been enough, he’d used Tack, smoking himself into oblivion. Bad enough that he had to face the outside world today, but must he face the past as well? Why couldn’t his brother just say whatever it was and leave?

      Gada closed the space between them, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder as he did so. ‘I was surprised to hear you had volunteered to lead the hunt.’

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