The Arrogance of Youth (21)

The gatekeeper's disapproval hung in the air like smoke, but there was nothing he could say about it.

Go back to the INDEX.

My brother and I celebrated our 18th birthday by getting outrageously drunk, the purview of the young, the stupidest of impulses. The arrogance of youth to squander our vigor on such frivolous things.

We spent the evening at The Mother of Light, because of its proximity to the main square, neutral territory for some of his friends, some of mine, and some we shared. We rarely shared anything, especially people.

One of these few was Aine.

She had eyes for neither of us, and we both heaped our attentions upon her anyway. She took it all as a game, the same way we portrayed it, but no interaction between me and my brother was ever a mere game, always something more.

She had eyes only for Estawa, a red-headed befreckled cur from the far west of Pachana. He was the rare thing that could unite us, brothers in arms against a common foe. Even my brother joked about Estawa's presumed Vereth heritage.

This may have been our invention, maliciously spread for many years at this point, but we knew it held no particular truth. Estawa was fully human, as human as any of us. But the idea of his difference made his victory more palatable, somehow.

Aine and Estawa were lovers, because of, or despite, our efforts (I could never decide), and so he was here, celebrating with us, pretending that our jokes were, and always had been, good natured and built upon camaraderie and shared experience.

The party went on into the night and ended with two very drunk brothers staggering home to Azillan, unwilling to trust their own considerable farsending abilities over even such a short distance. 

The gatekeeper's disapproval hung in the air like smoke, but there was nothing he could say about it. Perhaps he did speak, but I don't remember it.

I remember what happened next.

In my chambers, not his, because I'd been rambling about something I wanted to show him, some surprise, and while I tried to find the thing I was looking for, rummaging in drawers, cupboards, and along high shelves.

My mind was too addled to remember where the thing was, and I grumbled to myself, my ire rising. I'm stubborn, I confess. I didn't find the trinket until my annoyance had sobered me up a little. "Ah, finally! Here —"

And there he was, asleep in the armchair by the fire, as vulnerable as a newborn.

The thing I'd found was no longer important, and I put it to one side without even paying attention.

This was something I'd daydreamed about, fantasized over — getting my brother to my rooms without arousing his suspicion, and somehow tricking him into going along with my plan.

Prone, and drunk, he wasn't in any position to resist. It was the perfect moment. 

Sober with focus, I drew my Art close and began forming a certain shape with it around him. Even drunk, a mage might wake. And a drunken mage often proved unpredictable.

I took care during the parts of the magick that required our proximity, and the rest was simpler to achieve. 

It was done.

A line of power lay across the floor in front of the chair. He had only to step over that line, and a magical noose would tighten around him, connecting him to me forever.

I just need to wake him up.

I sat on the low stool beside the fire and affected to be tending the crackling logs. Whether mending it or putting it out made no difference — I just needed to be fiddling about with it. 

"Alariyon," I said. "ALARIYON!"

He stirred.

"You drunken fool, you've come to the wrong rooms! Go to bed! Sleep beside your own fire, in your own rooms, and stop snoring in mine!"

"Snoring?" He seemed confused, half asleep, and looked around. "Oh. Sorry. Goodnight, brother." He closed his eyes again.

"Alariyon! OUT!" I quite enjoyed yelling at him.

"What?" He jumped awake. "Oh!" He finally seemed to realize he was in the wrong place and pushed himself out of the chair.

And over the line.

I had him, and I tightened the ethereal noose as he turned from me, staggered across the room, and mumbled, "Good night."

"Happy Birthday, Alariyon."

He replied with a mumble that might have been, "Happy Birthday," and then he was gone.

"Thank you for the gift," I said, but the words weren't really for him. I just wanted to relish my victory.

I tested the invisible tether. My brother had made it to his own bed. 

I thought it the best birthday gift I'd ever received.

Alariyon had no recollection of the conversation in my rooms, or even of the walk home. He never asked about any aspect of it, about any thing that I'd wanted to show him, or why it took me so long to find it, or how long he had waited patiently, humoring me, or what I'd been doing while he slept. He remembered vomiting in an alley, and again, in the night, beside his bed. That was something I could tease him about, and it served as a useful distraction for some time. 

Also useful, I now knew when he was near or far, and easily avoided him when I wanted to, and just as easily met him unexpectedly whenever that suited my purpose. More importantly, I knew where he travelled to, and then he kept a number of things from me.

In time I'd understand why, but, at the time, it merely fueled my resentment.

Continue reading with Part 22.