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  Red hot fury coursed through him again at the thought that his watersons had been attacked in what should have been a safe place. Other than the battle fought on The Gorgon against the would-be pirates, he could not remember the last time any of the princes had been physically injured in a fight beyond bruising. Prince Mestor, especially. He was more hotheaded than Prince Azaes or Prince Zeus, but instead of his temper being a liability, he channeled his anger, becoming one of the most ruthless fighters Sohm’lan had ever trained. Whatever attacked them had to be powerful indeed. Not that it mattered. When he discovered who had dared touch Prince Mestor, he would conduct a hunt, and there would be a reckoning unlike anything the being had ever experienced.

  Chapter Four

  Sohm’lan

  * * *

  “Come.” Prince Azaes motioned to Sohm’lan. He had missed the final exchange between Prince Zeus and his brothers. He swallowed back his embarrassment, abashed by his inattentiveness.

  “I am hungry, but we need to shower before first-meal,” Prince Mestor grumbled as he limped along next to his brother.

  Sohm’lan signaled for half the Elite Honor Guard to lead the way while he remained one step behind the twins. He did not offer to help them. Any suggestion that they were impaired would be met with demands for a physical challenge in the fighting ring. Nevertheless, he watched them, ready to come to their aid if one or both fell. The metallic scent of their blood clung to Sohm’lan’s nostrils. He would need to shower as well to rid himself of the disturbing odor.

  “It is peculiar that our advanced medical devices cannot mend these wounds,” Prince Azaes mused aloud, but not as if he expected an answer.

  “I have been thinking about that,” Sohm’lan said hesitantly. When Prince Azaes merely glanced at him questioningly, he continued. “There is a story my father tells about the first Mar’Sani—or in the old tongue, the Meirsonoi, the fruit of the land—who set foot on land, following the son of Poseidon, Pegasus the Explorer.”

  “I have never heard it,” Prince Mestor replied limping stiffly down Oethra 7’s ramp to the docking bay of The Gorgon.

  Sohm’lan did not believe the story would help them, but it would distract the princes from the pain. They had a long way to go before they reached their quarters, and with how slowly the two walked, the trek would become more painful with each step, unless their minds were occupied.

  “It is an old story, originally written in the ancient tongue we use nowadays for prayers and war chants. Father translated a copy when he was apprenticing with the famous Bard Stahan Tan.” Sohm’lan’s father, now known as Bard Echo, spent summers under the mentorship of Bard Stahan. Once he graduated, he had instantly been in high demand. Sohm’lan could not have been prouder.

  “Ah! I vaguely remember Bard Stahan.” Prince Azaes playfully swatted Prince Mestor on the arm. “Father still speaks of him on occasion. Do you remember?”

  “I do.” Prince Mestor glanced at Sohm’lan out of the corner of his eye.

  It was then that Sohm’lan realized the twins had dropped back, pacing next to him. Sohm’lan thought the action wildly inappropriate. They should not show him such favor in public. Even though he was their waterfather, they were far above his station, but he could not bring himself to chastise them. He was still reeling from the fact that they had been injured and being this close to them helped to cool the strong urge to protect them.

  “Father also said Bard Echo had surpassed Bard Stahan long before his master officially released him,” said Prince Azaes.

  “Now that I think back on it, I believe Meme had something to do with that.” Prince Mestor chuckled, his shoulder casually brushing against Sohm’lan’s, causing his scales to tighten.

  “She could never stand by while others took advantage of those in their care,” Prince Azaes said with pride. “I was very young but present when Meme summoned Bard Stahan that last time he performed at the palace. She was not in a forgiving mood.”

  “The next day it was announced that Bard Echo had received his master’s endorsement.” Prince Mestor brushed against Sohm’lan again, this time catching Sohm’lan’s gaze. “I have never heard a Bard better than your father.”

  Heat flared in Sohm’lan’s stomach at the compliment. His family came from humble origins. As a youngling, Sohm’lan had vowed he would do everything he could to better his family’s circumstances, working diligently to become one of the best warlords on Atlainticia. There were few ways to gain status. Growing up on the streets of Thrace, he had used his natural aggression to protect what was his. It was his only worthwhile asset and he utilized it ruthlessly, becoming a soldier of great acclaim at an early age. Later, due to his unsurpassed skills, he was selected to be a royal warlord at a mere twenty-two summers. As he prospered, he had funneled credits back to his family. His baby sister married a wealthy merchant but not before Sohm’lan had thoroughly researched him. When the bull sought the family’s permission to take Sohm’lan’s sister as his lifemate, Sohm’lan scared the fear of Poseidon into him, before agreeing.

  Since then, Sohm’lan’s parents had changed occupations, as people of growing status did every forty to fifty summers. That was when Sohm’lan’s father threw himself into his secret passion, apprenticing to become a Bard. Now his parents’ status had increased through their own endeavors and Sohm’lan was immensely proud.

  “What is this story you mentioned?” Prince Azaes asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

  Sohm’lan twitched his tail in embarrassment. “My apologies.” He cleared his throat like his father usually did before relating a new tale. “The tome was about the Numina, a people who lived in the time before the Mar’Sani followed Pegasus the Explorer and left the Waters of Poseidon. All that we know of the Numina comes from the old, bound books stored in the royal library.” Emperor Valdor hand selected a few trusted bards to translate the tomes so the stories and histories would not be lost to the people. “In the latest translation my father is working on, the Numina sometimes fought in an arena of standing stones within the Waters of Poseidon called the gyre circle. Scholars believe the stones could sense which opponent was in the right and would sap energy from the one in the wrong. Afterward, the fighters were hauled to the shoreline by their family pods and there they would tend to the fighters’ wounds.”

  “That is an interesting story,” Prince Mestor said. “I would be curious to discover if it is history or merely a fable, but I do not see a correlation between that and our wounds.”

  The lift doors opened, and everyone entered, Prince Azaes and Prince Mestor still keeping Sohm’lan close. He was well aware Prince Mestor had not taken his eyes off him. In turn, he directed his attention to Prince Azaes, not wanting to give Prince Mestor a false impression, especially after last evening. Before Prince Zeus called him for help, Sohm’lan had decided to speak to Prince Mestor, had he not? He would once and for all stamp out this crush Prince Mestor held and encourage him to look for someone who was free to return his affections. But Sohm’lan was afraid that if he met those large golden eyes, he would falter in his resolve.

  Sohm’lan swallowed hard. “The story mentioned that the wounds could not be healed by conventional means. Something about the stone’s residual energies interfering with technology. The Numina resorted to one of their ancient remedies.” He opened his mouth to tell them what it was and hesitated, assailed by images of him on the beach and Prince Mestor lying next to him, wounded… naked with his black scales gleaming in the sunlight. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he had trouble forcing the image away.

  “What did they do?” Prince Mestor prompted, his gaze expectant.

  Without meaning to, Sohm’lan met Prince Mestor’s eyes, and he found he could not look away. Abruptly his throat was parched, and the lift was too hot. Sun kissing the horizon… gleaming scales under his hand…

  “Sohm’lan?” Prince Azaes encouraged.

  “Their saliva…” he rasped. Pausing, he cleared his t
hroat wishing for water, or better yet, a stiff drink. “Their saliva had special properties. Their pod would take turns licking the wounds until the person was healed,” he finished in a rush.

  Prince Mestor’s eyes widened and a sexy smirk twisted his dark lips. “Huh.”

  The lift doors opened, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He was relieved this floor only housed the royal family. He would retreat to his own quarters where he could… he could… Poseidon help him, his clothes were too tight.

  “I think we should try it,” Prince Azaes announced into the silence.

  “What?” Sohm’lan exclaimed, then coughed as he choked on his tongue.

  “Yes!” Prince Mestor hissed before pressing his fist to his mouth. Prince Azaes turned to stare at his brother, a suspicious glint in his sunrise-yellow eyes. “I mean,” Prince Mestor stammered. “We are still younglings of Poseidon and, though we do not live in the waters, should we not retain the same abilities, in theory?”

  Sohm’lan thought for sure Prince Azaes would call Prince Mestor out on the utter skink shit he just spewed but was disappointed when Prince Azaes only nodded his head. “My thoughts exactly. Father believes the Mar’Sani were once the Numina. Our people lived in the Waters of Poseidon before we made the land our home. It would explain why we have young born with the Longing. Our family has lost two people to the lure of the waters. Considering we are the direct descendants of Poseidon’s son, Pegasus the Explorer, I suspect we have a strong connection to that ancient people as well.”

  Sohm’lan threw up his hands, an uncharacteristic gesture for him, and even more, with the Elite Honor Guard watching. “It is a story that only has similarities in regard to your injuries. The Numina were some of the first young of Poseidon. They were fabled to have abilities we are simply not capable of. They could cross the galaxy without the aid of a starship. The strongest of them moved whole armies from the Waters of Poseidon to another planet’s ocean. They used the Siren’s Song, could heal others with saliva, obviously, and some had the gift of foresight.”

  Instead of Sohm’lan’s argument dissuading them, the twins became more convinced with his every word. What were they thinking?

  “Not all of the Numina’s abilities have been lost. Our family is strong in farseeing. It could not hurt to try. Perhaps the Monticore would volunteer.” Prince Mestor’s glowing smile caused alarm bells to go off, and Sohm’lan scowled at the surrounding honor guard as they nodded. The thought of one of them putting their mouth on Prince Mestor’s upper thigh caused him to clench his jaw. He flexed his claws, shifting his stance as he readied to slash.

  “If it works, then we have an emergency procedure for our people if they do not have immediate access to medics.” Prince Azaes glanced at the Monticore who were eagerly agreeing.

  “Sohm’lan, you tend to Mestor and I will take one of the volunteers,” Prince Azaes said as his cabin door swished open.

  He went from ready to attack the Monticore selected to alarm in the blink of an eye. His heart sped and he was barely able to hide his reaction. “Wait. You cannot be serious,” he argued. “It was just a story.”

  Prince Mestor continue down the corridor, moving faster than he had when they first left Captain Dargon’s quarters.

  “Was it?” Prince Azaes countered as one of the guards slipped into his room. “It will not hurt to find out. You had better catch up to him.” Prince Azaes pointed to where Prince Mestor was entering the security code for his rooms.

  Sohm’lan did not want to catch up. This wasn’t a good idea at all, but it would look suspicious if he backed out or ordered another to take his place. He would not shame Prince Mestor, or make others believe he found the princeling lacking, by refusing to attend him.

  Three guards arranged themselves outside of Prince Azaes’ door and the other four beat Sohm’lan to Prince Mestor’s cabin. Prince Mestor stood in the doorway, watching him with eager anticipation. His scales pulled tight again, the inappropriate sexual response aggravating him. He could have sworn he heard a death knell sounding when he finally crossed the threshold into the private cabin.

  He quickly took in the luxuriously appointed greeting room. There were a couple of doorways, one undoubtedly led to the sleeping chamber and the other to the lavatory. The greeting room was dominated by a comfortable-looking seating arrangement with a bar for private social gatherings. He frowned at the thought of Prince Mestor entertaining lovers here. He inhaled deeply, looking for other scents but found only Prince Mestor’s. The vibrant murals that adorned the walls caught his undivided attention and he stepped closer, entranced by the artist’s rendering of the underwater citiplex, Seuth. The panels depicted sections of the city where the People of the Longing went about their daily lives. The many shades of blue were highlighted by the wavering sunbeams that kissed the rounded spires. The windows were pops of red and orange coral.

  He jumped when hot air ghosted along his spine. Soldiers like him, who had retractable barbs, wore specially-made uniforms. The material along the spines was designed to allow the barbs to release without tearing and destroying the integrity of the uniform. But that same cloth left Sohm’lan’s scales more open to sensation than the rest of his body that was covered with the military-grade hydes. Prince Mestor’s warm breath skirted along the upper portion of that panel, arousing him in a way he did not believe possible. He yearned for more even though he knew the desire was unwise. With great determination, he concentrated hard on keeping his body under control. When Prince Mestor suddenly nuzzled his back through the panel, Sohm’lan’s knees wobbled as if he were a youngling on the cusp of becoming a bull.

  “First, I need your help to shower,” Mestor said, his voice a sultry husk that made him want to grab his prince by the tail and drag him to the nearest sleeping platform.

  Shaking himself out of his lust-filled stupor, he spun to say, absolutely not… only to be confronted with Prince Mestor holding the bandages over his abdomen, his pinched expression telegraphing the agony he would adamantly deny if asked. Though Sohm’lan was proud when his watersons pushed through pain, something about Prince Mestor’s condition brought out the protector in him.

  Biting back the angry snarl, he spun on his heel and headed to the lavatory. “I will ready the water,” he barked over his shoulder, needing a moment to himself.

  How many times did he have to remind himself Prince Mestor was his waterson, given into his care to groom and protect? What was it about the youngest twin that brought out this side of himself that desired to hold and protect him as a lover and partner? The emotions the princeling stirred in Sohm’lan terrified him. He had adored Prince Mestor since the day Empress Ashari had laid the youngling in his arms. But this sudden lusty need… He looked at his trembling fingers, hardly recognizing them. He wanted to use them on Mestor, and not in a waterfather way either.

  “Niobe, please forgive me,” Sohm’lan whispered as he methodically removed his uniform jacket, determined to do his duty while keeping an emotional distance from his prince.

  Not once since her death had he thought about another with any kind of sexual longing. He had been content to be alone, but this last summer, with Prince Mestor stalking him like a lizard on the hunt, Sohm’lan found himself wanting so much more, and at the same time, filled with guilt for this need he thought long buried with his mate.

  Of course, there were widows who found other mates. On average, Mar’Sani lived to be three hundred or so. Losing a mate at a young age… well, a couple hundred summers alone was too much for most. But there were a few who did not find another to share their life with, choosing to go through the rest of their days living a solitary existence. He had always believed he would be one of those individuals. He was seventy-six and well on his way to middle age. Then Prince Mestor, who was forty-three summers his junior, made him question what he thought he knew about himself, what he believed his future would hold.

  Hissing in frustration, Sohm’lan switched the controls of the shower f
rom sonic to water. The cleansing gel from the sonic shower would aggravate the wounds. He typed in the temperature and set the device to preheat. If Niobe had lived through birthing, then Sohm’lan’s youngling would only be three summers older than the twins. He was old enough to be Prince Mestor’s parent, and the thought only served to upset him more. When he was the twins’ age, he had already been mated for three summers. Prince Mestor did not need him. He needed someone his own age who was interested in exploring and making new discoveries, not grateful to relax at home away from the hustle and bustle of crowds and city nightlife. He would rather lay on the beach at evening tide and watch the moons cross the sky than take a date to the most popular eating establishment.

  As he returned to Prince Mestor, he counted all the ways in which he and the prince were different. As soon as Prince Mestor understood this, then they both could get on with their lives.

  Stepping into the greeting room, Sohm’lan spied Prince Mestor accepting a uniform from the guards in the corridor. How long had he been in the lavatory distracted by his inner turmoil? Wait. Was that one of his uniforms?

  When Prince Mestor turned, noticing Sohm’lan staring at him, he grinned almost sheepishly. “There is no reason for you to return to your cabin when you could easily change here.”

  “Nothing is wrong with the uniform I wore here.” Sohm’lan snapped, frowning suspiciously.

  The prince draped the garments over the armor stand. “It is simply a precaution.” Why did Sohm’lan think the princeling was blowing hot air at him? What secret plans did he have up his sleeve?

  “Come, the water will be warm by now.” He hesitated to offer help, curling his hands into fists as Prince Mestor slowly shrugged off his uniform jacket. When the foot of Prince Mestor’s injured leg dragged, causing him to hiss and stumble, Sohm’lan shot forward and caught him before he fell. Prince Mestor released a pained sigh and leaned heavily into him.