Brute (36 page)

It was as good an endearment as any.

B
Y
THE
next day, Brute felt recovered enough to stand and even walk. When he wanted to use the latrine instead of a chamber pot, Gray insisted on accompanying him, with Brute’s arm across his shoulders in case he should stumble.

“It’s a sad day when a giant needs guidance from a blind man so he can take a piss,” Gray said, but he didn’t sound sad at all. In fact, there was a certain spring in his steps, a confidence Brute hadn’t seen before.

“I could go by myself,” Brute pointed out.

“Yes, but why, when you don’t have to?”

Which was an excellent point. “Did you really heal me with lullabies?” Brute asked.

“I couldn’t remember the damned chants very well. They were too long ago. But you used to sing those songs—back when you first came to the tower. They were like a balm on my soul. I thought maybe they’d help you too. And they did.” He shook his head in wonder. “A few days ago I thought you were dead, and here you are, up and stomping about.”

“I’m not stomping,” Brute protested, at which point he finally realized that his feet were bare. “My boots! Where are my boots?”

“Ashes, or very nearly so. Your cloak too. If it wasn’t for the fact that your high-quality clothing helped protect you, you’d be ashes too.”

“Oh.”

Brute managed to use the latrine without incident, but he wasn’t ready yet to return to the hut. The warm sun felt good on his face, the air smelled sweet, and the ground was soft underfoot. With his arm around Gray’s shoulders, they walked a slow circuit, pausing every now and then for Brute to admire the view of the tree-covered hills on either side of the Vale. But as they rounded the row of huts, Brute caught sight of a horse being tended by a man in scarlet and cream, and he sighed unhappily. “Lord Maudit.”

“He’s not well enough yet to ride, but Kashta tells me he will be soon. One of the other priests is a healer too.”

Brute was pleased that the man had survived, but the subject raised other matters as well. “Are you going to be all right staying here in the Vale? It’s better than that cell by far, but it’s really just another prison.”

“Aric, I’d live in a cave or a dungeon or… on the damned moon if it meant I could be with you. This place is fine. I can probably earn my way by helping with the healing—Kashta says a lot of the pilgrims who come here are ill or injured. And I bet they’ll find some work for a giant to do.”

“A one-handed giant.”

“You’ve accomplished plenty with that one hand.”

Brute had to smile because Gray was right. And it was a comforting thought, that they might stay in the Vale and remain safe and maybe even do some good. But still he worried. What if the king came after them anyway? He was the supreme authority, after all—couldn’t he do things like that? Or what if Gray grew tired of living in such isolation, or the priests grew tired of extending their hospitality? Another voice whispered, too, that Brute would miss his friends at the palace.

But Brute didn’t voice these concerns. Instead, he allowed Gray to take him back to their hut—and he silently admired how well Gray was getting around a new location without his sight—and then he was tired and had to lie down. But Gray lay down with him, and for the first time since Brute was injured, they made love. A little furtively, a little carefully due to Brute’s continuing recovery, but tenderly and sweetly and very, very well.

T
HE
priests of the Vale of the Gods did not own a bath. But they had something even better: a natural hot spring feeding a stone pool large enough for several people to soak in comfort. It was tucked among some trees that provided a little privacy. It wasn’t used for cleansing—in fact, Brute and Gray were instructed to wash themselves first. Kashta said the hot spring was intended for meditation and purification, but by the merry way his eyes sparkled and the way his mouth curled into a grin, Brute suspected that even the priests enjoyed the warm waters mostly for their wonderfully soothing effects.

By the time Brute and Gray emerged from the pool, pink-skinned and melty-muscled, Brute felt as if they’d finally soaked away the odor of smoke and burnt wood that had clung to them for nearly two weeks. Still a little damp, they laughingly struggled into their clothing and started back toward their hut. Gray had been spending a lot of time in the sun over the past days, and his pale skin had gained some color. His hair had lightened a shade or two, and if it hadn’t made Brute feel ridiculous, he would have compared it to spun gold.

“Kashta said he was going to make that fruit soup again tonight,” Brute said happily as they walked back along the springy grass.

“Really? I thought you depleted the supply of fruit after the gallons you downed last time.”

“You did pretty well yourself, for a little man,” replied Brute, poking at his lover’s belly. Gray wasn’t fat, not by any stretch of the imagination, but with good food and exercise, he’d filled out beautifully, and his muscles were sleek under his smooth skin.

“I am not little,” protested Gray.

“Not where it counts, anyway,” said Brute, earning himself a surprisingly well-aimed slap on the ass. Gods, as much as he loved seeing Gray able to move about freely and enjoy some of life’s comforts, what truly made Brute’s heart sing was seeing the other man’s playfulness emerge. Gray’s sleep was easy now—deep and untroubled—and he woke up smiling, ready to rouse Brute in all senses of the word. He teased and joked and made even the oldest priest laugh, and somehow managed to charm them all without making Brute feel clumsy or excluded. Brute fell a little bit more in love with him every day.

They found Kashta sitting on a felled log not far from the huts. He’d pulled his robes down to his waist, exposing his arms and torso, and was tilting his smiling face up to the sky. He looked back down and opened his eyes as the other men neared, and his face remained full of happiness. “You enjoyed your meditation?” he asked.

“I don’t know how to meditate,” Brute answered. “We just sat and soaked.”

“Ah, but that is the best form of meditation: to live simply in the moment and enjoy it.”

Gray flopped down on the grass with his back resting against Kashta’s log. When Kashta didn’t seem to mind, Brute joined them, lowering himself ungracefully next to Gray. His hips and legs still gave him an uncomfortable pull now and then. He hadn’t mentioned it to Gray, but he was fairly certain his beloved knew anyway because he insisted on massaging Brute every night before they slept. Of course, it may have been simply the pleasant aftereffects of the massage that truly motivated Gray, because inevitably the therapeutic touching turned more intimate, until both of them were moaning their pleasure.

Gray interrupted Brute’s agreeable reverie with a head-bump to the shoulder, then said to Kashta, “I thought meditation was supposed to be all about thinking how wonderful the gods are and how grateful we are to them.”

Kashta was nearly imperturbable, even when Gray’s comments became irreverent. Now, the priest only grinned. “There are many ways to meditate. One of them is enjoying the gifts the gods have given us. That is why they give them, after all. Suppose you had a child and you gave her a doll. What would please you most—her rote appreciation or the hours she spent playing with it? The true thanks is the happiness of the recipient.”

Gray nodded thoughtfully, which spurred Kashta to continue. Sometimes Brute thought that the priest would have made a very good schoolmaster, much more patient and pleasant to look at than Sighard. “We meditate when we enjoy the gifts of nature,” Kashta said, “such as good food or pretty scenery or pools for soaking. And we meditate when we enjoy our own gifts. My colleague Parvel, for example, is a very fine woodworker. He keeps all the buildings and furniture in good repair, and he even carves pretty ornaments that we sell to pilgrims as souvenirs. It is how we pay for our food. When he is working, the delight is plain on his face, and that is meditation as well.”

Brute thought he understood. “So Gray meditates when he heals, doesn’t he?”

“Precisely.”

“But what about me? I don’t do anything well.”

Gray poked him hard in the arm, and Kashta rolled his eyes. “You, my friend, carry a burden better than any man I have met.”

Brute squinted at him. “But… I haven’t hauled loads since I lost my hand.”

“Not that sort of burden,” the priest said, waving his hand dismissively. “Nearly anyone can carry a rock, although I imagine you carried bigger ones than most could manage. I mean the burden of caring. You care deeply for those around you. Even those who might do you harm.” He gestured in the general direction of the hut where Lord Maudit still lay in recovery.

“Oh. But I don’t
mean
to do things like that. I don’t plan it.”

“And Parvel didn’t mean to be a woodworker. He just is. He told me once that when he was a very small child his parents would hide their knives from him because they were afraid he would hurt himself, but he was never content until he found those knives and began to whittle away.”

Gray nodded in agreement. “Kashta’s right. What you did for me… even in the very beginning, when I was filthy and couldn’t speak and was probably scaring the hell out of you with those damned dreams… you were reminding me in all these tiny ways that I was human. You talked to me and gave me a quilt and….” He made a choked sound deep in his throat and ducked his head. But when he raised it a moment later he was smiling. He leaned his weight against Brute and sighed. “Mine.”

This was a nice enough sentiment that for a long time the three of them sat silently, listening to birds warble and insects chirp, and a muted
thunk-thunk
that Brute realized was probably Parvel hacking away at a chunk of wood. But Kashta’s words were still bumping around in Brute’s skull, and eventually they bumped into a worry he’d been trying to ignore for days.

“Should I expect to lose something important soon?” he asked quietly.

Although he’d spoken to the priest, it was Gray who answered, voice sharpened with concern. “What do you mean?”

“I owe the gods a price. I thought… when I was buried under the inn, I thought my life was the price, and that was all right with me. I mean, I’d offered myself, and I couldn’t really complain that they’d accepted. I was just sad that I’d never see you again, never know if you were really safe.” It was his turn to have a thick throat, so he cleared it. “But I
didn’t
die, of course, so now I’m wondering what the price will be.”

Gray looked concerned and a little angry—he was sometimes impatient with the gods, for pretty good reason, Brute thought—but Kashta stood and then knelt on the grass in front of Brute. He took Brute’s big, calloused hand in his own soft ones and squeezed. “You have paid, my friend.”

“How have I paid? I’m alive, and I have Gray and a place to live, and… and I have everything. I haven’t given the gods a thing.”

“I told you. This place is sacred to Ebra and Ismundo. He used all his strength to heal her when she was wounded by demons, and she gave up her immortality to keep him with her as long as possible. You offered everything you had—even your life—for the benefit of the man you love. And because you gave freely and unselfishly out of love, the only price the gods will expect of you is that the two of you continue to cherish one another and care for each other. That is payment enough.”

Kashta’s words seemed too good to be true, but they sent a deep and abiding peace through Brute, all the way to his core. “Thank you,” he said, and even he wasn’t sure whether he was thanking the priest or the gods.

P
ILGRIMS
arrived at the Vale almost daily, sometimes even several in one day. They usually gave Gray and Brute curious looks, but most were intent on their own concerns and quickly turned away. For their part, Gray and Brute stayed out of the pilgrims’ way. They were content for the time being, just the two of them in their own little universe, with occasional visits from Kashta.

Usually, the pilgrims would arrive late in the day and be shown to one of the huts, where the priests would feed them and help them settle down. And in the mornings, the guests would eat again and then spend their time strolling the Vale or sitting on one of the strategically placed logs. Meditating, Brute supposed. Giving thanks to the gods or praying or simply satisfying themselves with having visited. A very few chose to drink from the pool, and the priests always tried to warn them away first. None of them looked happier or more relieved when they left the pool, which led Brute to wonder whether it was ever a good idea to bargain with the gods. It seemed to him that most people would be happier simply settling for whatever the gods chose to give them, and letting it go at that.

Whether they visited the pool or not, the visitors would spend a second night, and in the morning return to Racinas. Although the priests never asked for money, some of the pilgrims left copper or silver coins. Many of them bought Parvel’s carvings of animals or people, which really were wonderfully detailed. And some left other gifts—food or clothing, cookware, baskets, even chickens or ducks. Whatever the priests couldn’t use, they traded for food during their infrequent trips to the city.