She needed to figure out what the Order had to do with it all, or if Yago had learned anything new. She also needed to be done with the cursed job as quickly as possible.
"How do you plan to travel with me and go unnoticed? I do not know what I look like, but I know I stand out. Where are you taking me? How do you plan to avoid being seen? You do realize that they'll send men after me, right?"
"So many questions, highness. You're like a child tugging at his mother's apron. I am not going to give you answers, however. I have been paid to take you to a particular location, and the price is worth the extra care I must take to avoid having you seen by anyone."
"What do these men want with me?"
Cortez stifled a sigh. "I don't know. I did not ask. Stop asking questions, highness. Even if I wanted to answer them, I cannot. Do not make me gag you."
Culebra subsided, and Cortez sighed softly in relief. She fetched a flask from her saddlebag and, sitting by the fire again, drank a healthy swallow.
"The Order has tried to take me in the past to attempt experiments at restoring me. In all my past lives where the Order killed me, it was an attempt to restore the Basilisk," Culebra said quietly. "The Brotherhood wants me dead because they fear that someday I may once more bring destruction down upon Piedre. I can respect both those reasons, even if I have no desire to die. But I cannot understand why anyone would want me dead, would want anyone dead, simply for money. Coin is a poor reason to end a life."
"I never said I was doing it for money, highness," Cortez said, annoyed that the prince's words had hit their mark. "I said the price was worth it, that is all."
"You smell like death," Culebra said. "Not the same way as the dead men, more like death is close to you, something you know well. Soldiers have it, those who come after me often have it. You must have killed many people, to smell so strongly of death."
Cortez flinched. "One hundred and eleven men have died by my hand, highness. More than that, really. I did not count them back when I was younger. Once, I was very good at killing. Sometimes for a lofty cause, sometimes only because somebody needed to die and other people were willing to pay well to ensure it got done."
"No one deserves to die to line the pockets of another," Culebra replied.
"Some people deserve to die," Cortez replied, "and I was willing to do the deed for a price. Most of those men who died trying to kill you were desperate, hungry. You might be surprised how unpopular a job it is to try and kill the Basilisk Prince. Yet the prize for doing it is handsome, and those who are going to die anyway will do anything to avoid that death. Do not judge, highness, until you are starving and afraid and have no other options. I do not recall you ever staying your hand against those who tried to kill you."
"Killing in self-defense is acceptable. Everyone has the right to defend their own life. But even killing for the sake of killing seems more honorable than killing for money."
Why was she even having such a conversation? She should gag him or knock him out and be done with it. "Killing for money is a way to stay alive," she said. "I doubt there has been a time in your life when you truly faced death, highness. Surrounded by your guards and your snakes and your palace, what is so dangerous about that? If I had not thought to find you in your snake room, then I would probably be dead as well."
"You don't know anything about me," Culebra said.
"You don't know anything about me," Cortez threw back at him. "I guess we shall simply have to agree never to get along, highness."
Culebra did not reply, merely finished his food and lay down on the hard ground. Cortez expected him to start complaining about sleeping arrangements and was astonished when, instead, she saw him relax, heard his breathing even out, and realized he had gone to sleep.
She sighed and went to fetch the bedrolls, laying out her own before she went and set one up beside Culebra. When it was ready, she heaved and shoved him onto it and then wrapped a heavy cloak around him. All the while, Culebra slept on, snuffling softly but not stirring.
Returning to her own bed roll, adding some wood to the fire, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking long pulls and breathing the smoke out slowly. The smell always made her think of Fidel, who rarely did not have a lit cigarette in his fingers. She had not been able to smoke them or stand the smell of them for a very long time.
But lately they kept her going, kept her motivated. Stupidly, they fed her hope that Fidel was alive. If he was not, she would kill them all in the most painful ways she knew.
Would his highness approve of killing for revenge? Probably. Their brief argument seemed to indicate that he approved of everything except killing for money.
Finishing her cigarette, she threw the stub in the fire and pulled her cloak up around her, settling in to sleep.
The sound of someone screaming jerked her awake some time later, and Cortez had her sword and dagger out before she realized that no one was attacking. Dropping her blades, she went around the fire and knelt to shake Culebra awake. He was sweating and trembling, choking back sobs as he jerked awake. "Are you all right, highness?"
"Fine," Culebra choked out. "I—I think recent events have brought back my nightmares. I am sorry to alarm you."
Cortez wondered what in the world gave a spoiled brat noble nightmares, especially someone as feared and nigh-on worshiped as the Basilisk Prince. "What nightmares?"
"What do you care?" Culebra asked.
A fair question, and Cortez was annoyed with herself for even asking. She didn't care—but Fidel had woken like that for many nights after having seen his parents brutally murdered.
Even in the dark, she could see Culebra was still tense, his hands shaking. Stifling a sigh, Cortez pulled out her cigarettes and lit one, pressed it into his hands. "Here, you look like you could stand to relax." She started to explain how to smoke, but to her astonishment he did it with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. "You smoke, highness?"
"Not—not for a long time and never that often. I had—had friends who liked to smoke and sometimes I smoked with them. But it's not something I can do alone, since I won't know until too late that a stray ember has caught something on fire and I would have no way to put it out."
Huh. Cortez had never thought of that. She wondered what else she had never thought of about being blind. Not that it mattered. Once she handed off Culebra and retrieved Fidel, her part in the matter was done. She would never see Culebra again.
If Fidel was dead ... well, no sense in worrying about that until she knew. Whatever the case, she did not care about a slip of a prince. It was the fate of royalty to be glorified pawns.
When Culebra finished the cigarette, Cortez took the stub from him and threw it in the fire. "Would you like some brandy, highness? I have a bit still."
"No, thank you," Culebra said. "You need not fuss over me, I'll be fine."
In Cortez's opinion, the phrase 'I'll be fine' was the most common lie in the world. She had never heard anyone mean it when they said it. "You should try to go back to sleep, though I know that is what people with nightmares like least to hear."
Culebra gave a dry laugh. "Indeed. I'm too awake to go back to sleep. But I promise I shall not run off if you want to get some more rest yourself."
"Somehow, I did not think you would," Cortez said dryly. "We are both awake, and to judge from the sky, sunrise is close. We may as well break camp and be on our way. I have some new clothes for you, highness, as well as some dye for your face and hair."
"The dyes won't hold," Culebra said. "Believe me, they have all been tried. Nobody would like for me to look normal more than my family. You will have to help me dress."
Cortez nodded and then rolled her eyes at herself. "Yes, highness. Remove your shoes and stand." He obeyed, and she went to fetch the bundle of clothes lying with her saddlebag.
The fancy clothes Culebra wore took some effort, but she finally got it all off and threw the clothes into the fire. Naked, he was even more beautiful, the black bandages around his eyes like some sort of brand or mark of evil. Cortez slowly, awkwardly, got him into new stocking and breeches, lacing up a black shirt and pulling on a cheap, black wool jacket with bone buttons. "There, highness. If not for your godly skin you would look like a merc who suffered an unfortunate accident in battle."
"Somehow, I don't think anyone would ever believe I'm a merc, skin or not," Culebra replied.
"Sit while I pack up camp," Cortez said, and she quickly set to work saddling her horse, packing the bags, and adjusting them slightly to settle the weight evenly before putting them in place. Next she took care of the fire, putting it out and burying it.
When all was done and no obvious signs of the camp remained, she took Culebra's hand and led him to the horse. "Do you ride, highness?"
"Only when I must and never alone," Culebra replied.
Cortez nodded—then sighed at herself in irritation. "Alright, come here and I'll help you mount. I'm sure I do not need to tell you not to try anything should we see others."
"I won't have to say anything," Culebra said. "I am, to the best of my knowledge, the only one who looks like me. If I did not have to cover my eyes, I might almost pass for a White Beast, but sadly my eyes must remain covered. If I can see even a little bit, then my gaze is strong enough to kill."
The words made Cortez shiver. She had always wondered why he did not simply wear a veil or some such so that he could see without being seen. "So even if I cannot see your eyes clearly, they can still kill me?"
"Yes," Culebra said. "If I can meet someone's gaze, even the slightest bit, then I can kill him. Experiments were done back in earlier centuries to test the limits of my eyes. Nothing can ease the power of my eyes, the same way no dye will take to my skin or hair. The priests and healers who recorded their tests theorized that it is because I am not a perfect incarnation—no human could be. Until I am a god again, whatever incarnation or century where that finally occurs, I am imperfect. So my skin and hair stay white and my eyes stay bound."
Somehow, that seemed unbearably sad to Cortez. It seemed unfair, like giving a man a broken sword and expecting him to fight with it against a world with good swords, bows and arrows, and armor.
"So my original point remains," Culebra said. "I won't need to cry out for help. Anyone who sees me will know me, and there is nothing I can do about that."
"The hood of your cloak and those gloves I gave you will take care of immediate problems; the weather is cool enough it will not be odd to see a slip of a lad like you bundled up against it. That aside, people know better than to anger me. If I tell them to back off, they will, and keep their mouths shut lest I hear about it."
Culebra said nothing, merely reached out cautiously to touch the horse. "Help me mount, then. The sooner you deliver me, the sooner I figure out who has me. You never did tell me about those three men you killed."
"They wanted to take you from me and learn more about the men who wanted me to kidnap you."
"Were they from the Order? The Brotherhood simply would have killed me, but the Order prefers to keep me alive. Makes me wonder all over again who is paying you to kidnap me."
Cortez sighed and got him into the saddle after some fumbling and grappling. She swung up behind him, and gave the campsite one last look over. Finally, she replied, "How do you know it's not the Order or the Brotherhood behind it?"
"Not their style," Culebra said. "The Roses are never shy about announcing themselves or their involvement. This is something different, which troubles me. Not that you care, because the price is worth it."
To that, Cortez could make no reply because it was very true. Culebra echoed her own concerns. So she said nothing and instead just wrapped one arm more firmly around Culebra's waist and signaled her horse to go, riding off into the Black Woods, bound for Belmonte.
There seemed to be seven men in total, which was a manageable number. Only three of them were mercenaries, or possibly ex-soldiers. Of the remaining four, two were possibly priests, though he did not know if they were of the Brotherhood, the Order, or the government-sanctioned Church. The remaining two men were civilians, and he suspected they owned the house where Dario and Fidel were being held; whether they helped by choice or force, however, he could not determine. The mercs were too smart to let the civilians anywhere near the prisoners.
It was entirely possible there were more somewhere, but they weren't in the house. No doubt they would show when it was time to move again. They'd been in their current location, a dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, for three days. He was curious as to why they would stay so long in such an empty location, but asking anyone was obviously pointless, and he'd not been able to discern any clues.
But if he had to guess, their captors were waiting for something. Culebra? Possibly, though Dario did not think so. What little he had gleaned made him think they were meeting up with Culebra in Belmonte.
Dario sighed and flexed his fingers, tired of having one arm constantly attached to the wall and his feet chained together when they did not let him loose to piss. He had been tempted a time or two to use that as his chance to make a run for it, but he did not want to go anywhere until he saw Culebra. Fidel was not so patient, and his current battered state made Dario all the more grateful that patience was a lesson he had learned well.
A soldier walked in bearing two bowls of food, and he set one next to each of them. The man kicked him lightly in the thigh, clearly just hoping to provoke a reaction, and said, "Eat up. You'll be needing your strength soon."
"Oh? Why is that?" Dario asked.
"You'll find out, won't you?"
Dario rolled his eyes and picked up his food. Ignoring the harder kick that got him, he kept his head down and ate until the man finally left in a huff. Honestly, he'd been a royal bodyguard. They would have to try harder if they wanted to provoke a reaction.