Slash; T for some language and violence. He made an instinctive effort to use magic, barking the words of a spell. Kastor cut him again. For a moment it looked like the white Mara would just stand there and let himself be sliced to pieces, but as Kastor whirled his swords theatrically overhead, Stiaan finally backed up. He said something in that ancient language, which caused the two Mara by the wall to stiffen and glance around.
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Slash; T for some language and violence. Kastor had to clear his throat twice before she deigned to notice him. Strong enough to plant a flag in. And breakfast. Do make it hot, though, will you? Those are the copper ones, boy. He counted the pennies onto the counter. He was hoping to get farther north before summer. He piled his armor on the next chair over and busied himself with checking it. He ate quickly, gulping down the whole pot of tea; as its wakefulness spread through him, he put the armor on.
That got him a few odd glances from the others, and a scowl from the innkeeper, but he ignored them. When he buckled on his swords and knives, though, they stopped staring. Good; it would give him time to compose his mind. A little wine would help with that, too. Just a little, though. He ordered a bottle. He poured a beaker and sipped it.
Then he pushed it away and took a battered journey-book and a grease-pencil from his pack. Checked it over. Allowed himself another sip, pushed the wine away again. He drew a little picture of a dragon eating a chair. He drew a bee. Checked the time again. Sipped the wine. The door banged. Kastor glanced up, and felt the world spin under him. The pencil broke between his fingers.
Why is he here? And how? Then the newcomer gave him a cheerful smile, and the sheer insanity of smiling at a time like this filled Kastor with pure, clean anger. He growled, "Oh, sweet mercy -- not you again. He unclenched his teeth just enough to speak. Like a peasant?
He would not embarrass himself. But he would stay angry. He gulped wine, no longer caring whether it made him drunk. What do you want, Mikah?
Just near enough that you could get complacent dealing with him. The Mara rested his elbows on the table conspiratorially, clasping his long-fingered hands beneath his chin. Whatever it is, I have it in my power to give it to you. What do you say? I know damn well you can if you want to. He spoke in a theatrical whisper. Simple concepts just failed to get through to him. For querulous old ladies and tender virgins. Who get to swoon under the protection of a tall-and-handsome without fear of ravishment.
Trust you to make a profit from your perversion. End of discussion. Of discussion. He shook his head pityingly. Looks terrible. Kastor had to jam his teeth shut to keep from calling after him. The conversation had gone by so fast. Did I just send him away? Did I just have the chance to tell him exactly what I think of him, and let the chance go?
I should congratulate myself on my goddamned forbearance, I suppose. Scowling, Kastor looked into his wine cup. It had taken him all morning to nerve himself up for his job, to be polite to a stranger for days on end, to feign fearlessness while waiting for beast or bandit to attack his charge, and now it was all blown away.
He probably did it on purpose. Kastor snorted. Their strange manipulations of mortal heroes had made them seem desirable, a thing to be discovered and basked in. And all the while, they were passing for human, and mad to the last man. At least, if Mikah could be believed. He might look like a handsome young man, might come across as a cheerful rogue, but he was a monster. Nevertheless Kastor found his hand creeping toward the place where Mikah had touched him. Useless sentimentalism. Besides, it had only been the tip of a fingernail, and the gesture an insulting one.
He touched his ear, and gave a short cry of surprised anger. One of his diamond earrings was gone. She continued to wrap precious hand-copied volumes in oilcloth and set them in a trunk. But if you wish to hurry the man out of our courtyard, you may send Sister Hope to help me pack. She had not thought how the sight of a male would disturb her sisters in contemplation. The vow of celibacy was not so easy for most as it was for Magda.
Now she found that letter in her travel satchel and reread it, considering whether it would be better to make it public. He is male, but something in the nature of a eunuch, and absolutely trustworthy. I pray you look past his rough demeanor and allow him to protect you on your way. The roads are not safe anymore, dear Sister, and your cargo is precious to me, as is your life. It was not like her to be vague.
Magda concluded that the matter was so delicate that even Chime had detected the need for discretion. She would not tell. A heavy tread in the hall told of the arrival of Sister Hope. One of the four warrior-nuns resident to protect the convent, Hope would normally have been the one to escort Magda and her irreplaceable baggage. True to her name, she expected the best from every event; in this case, she trusted Magda to have chosen rightly.
Nor was she stupid. However cowlike her placidity, it was the result of long meditation, not lack of intelligence. Magda had looked to Hope for solidity since arriving as a novice six years ago. She smiled her thanks as she indicated the trunk, and Hope returned a cheerful nod.
She gestured for Hope to preceed her. As they walked, she dared to open the subject that troubled her. Strikes me as a man in search of peace. Looked at me the same as at Sister Hirilyn, if that means anything to you. Sister Hirilyn, named for a virgin martyr, was unfortunately beautiful. She had joined the convent to escape the endless, sordid carnality of the world, which would not otherwise leave her alone. That the lovely nun would even show herself to the man implied that she sensed he was not a threat.
Magda began to relax, chastising herself as she did so for having to be reassured. Perhaps the solidly centered Hope and the sensitive Hirilyn were not worried, but the gallery thronged with women who were not so sure. Whispers clustered and bloomed. She felt her face set into the expression of gentle distress it assumed when she caught one of her students carving on the desks.
She forged through a cluster of novices toward the mule that would carry the books.
The Forge of Dawn
One Brookings Drive St. He has taught numerous courses on the presidency, ranging from first-year programs to senior seminars. Peter Kastor is particularly interested in the ways that the diverse peoples of North America--governing officials of the United States and European empires, Euro-American settlers, Indians, slaves, free people of color, and people of mixed-race ancestry--imagined what the United States should be and how best to construct public life within that polity. Of particular interest to me are the functional realities of governance.
Akinosida You know like Aggybird does on her LJ? They had, apparently, but the Twins had not helped them either. Preview — Kastor Chronicles 1 by Jesse Hajicek. It had crossed her mind to stay in Gare, to assist one of the temples there, but carrying word of the disaster to Corathy would be more useful. But I felt it necess 4. She looked up, and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Kastor Chronicles Series
He is seen first with his brother helping the strawberry plants grow, then at dinner he is seen at table Percy notices that Dionysus only has two boys in his cabin, Castor and his twin brother Pollux. However, their names are not yet mentioned. The Battle of the Labyrinth Castor fights bravely for the camp, but dies during the Battle of the Labyrinth by the hands of an enemy demigod stabbed in the arm and hit on the head. Pollux then lights the funeral pyre and sobs.