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Silent, he backed away from his brother. He would go for a walk, think about what had happened and what he should do next.
"Puck--"
He strode out of the tent, never once glancing back.
2
Centuries passed. The exact number escaped Puck. He didn't care to keep count.
He didn't return to his brother or clan, even when he heard rumors of Sin's brutality. Apparently his brother had morphed into the most bloodthirsty tyrant in Amaranthian history. He destroyed half a forest--one of only two--to build a fortress. He made slaves of the Connachts and any other clansmen he captured, and killed anyone who "plotted his downfall."
He believed thousands of people plotted his downfall.
In reality, Puck knew the truth. Sin's black soul had finally come out to play.
Aimless, Puck wandered from one end of Amaranthia to the other. Those who got in his way died. If he came across something necessary for his survival, he took it. Food. Weapons. A night's lodging. Sometimes he accepted a lover. He could harden, and a female could ride herself to satisfaction, but he cared nothing about her pleasure--and could not achieve his own. Though he felt a physiological need for release, no one had the power to make him come. Not even himself.
He remembered how he'd once secretly dreamed of being with the same woman over and over again. When he actually did it, he found the experience lacking.
As Puck grew used to Indifference, he realized the demon did not--could not--steal or erase his emotions, only bury and hide them. Which the demon no longer preferred to do; he'd developed a taste for issuing punishment whenever Puck felt too much for too long.
Never indifferent about that, are you, fiend?
Even now, the creature prowled through his mind, every step like the swing of a sledgehammer as he waited for Puck to misstep.
He had to learn to bury and hide his emotions all on his own, and cover them with thick layers of mystical ice, summoned by magic he made sure he always had on tap. The kind of magic he could wield anywhere, anytime. With ice came numbness, with numbness, peace.
A necessary process. A well of fury, hate, pain, concern and hope still seethed inside him. He was a powder keg, and one day he would blow.
When that happened...
Would Indifference kill him? Would Puck welcome death, or fight?
At least the demon cautioned him anytime an emotion slipped free. Snarls equaled a slap on the wrist. Roars meant Puck trod upon dangerous ground. When he heard purring, he'd felt too much for too long, and hell was about to be unleashed--upon him.
The demon would deplete him of strength, leaving him immobile for days. Practically comatose.
To circumvent punishment, Puck created rules he followed without fail.
Trust no one, ever. Remember everyone lies.
Kill anyone who threatens my survival, and always retaliate for the minutest slight.
Eat three meals a day, and acquire clothes and weapons whenever possible.
Always follow through.
At some point, Puck came across Princess Alannah of Daingean. She screamed and ran away from him, terrified of the monster he'd become. Oh, well.
Though magic still swirled inside Puck, he'd lost his ability to shapeshift. The horns remained atop his head, two ivory towers of shame. The fur on his legs and the hooves on his feet remained, as well; no matter how many times he hacked them off, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could free his mind of Indifference if he freed his body of its beastly attributes.
As time passed, different males attacked him, determined to kill the disgraced Connacht prince. Puck was stabbed, staked and hung, drawn and quartered, and set on fire. Whenever possible, he fought back. And if he couldn't fight back because of the demon, he waited until his body healed, then meted retribution ruthlessly, mercilessly, overcome by a rage he couldn't control.
Of course, Indifference always penalized him afterward.
One morning, as Puck walked the sand dunes he'd once adored, his feet throbbed. Or rather, his hooves. A quick glance down proved he had sustained multiple injuries, leaving a river of blood in his wake. He needed to steal and magically alter a pair of shoes. And clothing. He'd forgotten to dress.
Two golden suns highlighted a small camp in the distance. Perfect. Different garments swung from a rope anchored to the tops of two side-by-side tents. The scent of meat wafted on the breeze as a coinin roasted above a fire pit.
No one waited outside, though voices seeped from one of the tents.
"--announced this morning. Prince Taliesin of Connacht killed his father in his sleep."
"Guess that means Taliesin is king now," was the grumbled reply. "Prince Neale was to be the successor, but he's dead, I think."
Puck stopped in his tracks. Sin had killed their father?
They'd both despised the male, but cold-blooded murder while the Connacht slept? That was low.
Puck waited for a punch of surprise...disgust...rage...something. Not a single hint of emotion seeped past his ice. As he pulled on a pair of too-tight sheepskin pants, he wondered what he should feel. All of the above, perhaps? A need to stop his brother, definitely.
"If Prince Neale isn't dead," one of the men said, "he's still a beast."
Neale--Puck.
"Would you rather have Taliesin or a beast ruling over your family?" the other male asked.
"Beast," both men said in unison.
The fact that anyone would want Puck over Sin...the Connachts must be desperate.
Can I really walk away and leave my clan in danger?
And what if Sin married a woman who loved him, killed Puck, and united the clans? Amaranthia would surely collapse.
Sin had to die.
Always follow through.
Well, all right, then. Puck would save the Connachts from a madman and the entire realm from devastation--and finally mete vengeance against his brother. And deep in his heart of hearts, Puck did want vengeance. For the bright future he'd lost, and the love Sin had so coldly destroyed.
Puck deserved to rage against the male. He'd earned the right.
Indifference snarled a warning. Puck summone
d a tendril of magic to cloak his heart and mind with more ice.
As glacial logic returned, realization set in: if the demon managed to drain him of strength, Sin would best him.
He knows my weaknesses already...
Puck's hands curled into fists. He needed to find Sin's weakness.
No one offered better direction than the Oracles.
Puck ate every bite of coinin--rules were rules--found, magically altered and donned a pair of boots, then headed east. The Oracles lived in the most dangerous part of Amaranthia, where potent magic thickened the air, creating rifts that led to other realms, endless pits, the center of a volcano and even the bottom of an ocean. Only the most desperate citizens dared to venture here. Those who sought to save themselves or a loved one, kings who needed guidance when choosing an heir, or people like Puck, with nothing to lose.
The three-day journey took a toll on him. No campsites, no food or water. At least he managed to avoid the rifts.
Finally, he reached the realm's tallest sand tower. The Oracles lived up top, with a view of...everything. Too weak to climb, Puck used the last of his magic to create a sand staircase.
He needed to acquire more magic, which meant he would have to kill someone, and soon.
Should he slay one of the Oracles? History claimed the trio created Amaranthia as a safe haven for anyone with magical inclinations. Their supply of magic must be limitless, even unending.
At one time, the thought of harming a female would have disgusted him. Now? Bring it. A source was a source.
Business first. As he stepped onto the upper level without rails or walls he discovered three females standing together, each draped from breast to thigh in colorful scarfs. A fine, dark mist obscured their faces.
In lieu of a greeting, he said, "You know why I'm here." They must. "How do I regain what's mine? Freedom from the demon. The Connacht crown. Unification for the clans. Protection for my realm. Sin's black heart on a golden platter. Princess Alannah."
He would take her as his due.
As winds grew more violent, the women asked in unison, "What is our credo, Puck the Undefeated?"
All of Amaranthia learned their credo from the crib. Nothing given, nothing gained. The more personal the gift, the more detailed the answer.
What was more personal than his blackened heart?
