oye como va, mi ritmo
bueno pa gozar, mulata
Mallos rubbed his arm absently where the scratches caused his familiar’s claws were automatically healing over with the usual tingling sensation. Beneath his fingers, the tiny holes in the shirt’s black fabric repaired themselves with such efficiency that, within seconds, it was as though it had never been ripped in the first place. As if to counteract the restoration, Sperantia gripped his shoulder with her claws and became very still and quiet, her whiskers tickling the side of his chin. The wilderness did not suit the exotic house-cat, and she had always seemed smugly comfortable whenever she had settled on a plush chair in Arthur’s office during the king’s meetings with her fairy. If cats considered themselves the equivalent of royalty (and it would not surprise anyone to discover that Sperantia did), then there could be no more suitable home than the palace.
It was easy, too, to visualise the other deities’ reactions. Zed’s face would light up in a genuine, encouraging smile, and when he returned Tsi would sink into his office chair with a sigh of relief. It was logical and reassuring to everyone involved to keep Mallos quietly tucked away, deliberately at distance from the other originals and with Tristan ever-present to keep him distracted. Very neat.
Mallos half-turned for a moment as though to check that they were alone, although in reality the intent was to buy a little time to answer. Even so, the hesitation was obvious. Ordinarily the cat was more expressive than the fairy, but presently their roles reversed for a brief period: Mallos adopted a generic sympathetic expression which admittedly gave away little, and Sperantia’s face became enigmatically unreadable.
“Yes,” he stated gently, “there will be more monsters, and they will… get worse.”
That wasn’t exactly going to help his case, but at least it bought him a few more seconds and, in any case, Mallos didn’t believe in lying to children.
As to the implied request, what could he say? Suggesting that Tristan ask his father before proceeding any further would only delay the inevitable, since Mallos had no doubt that Arthur would agree. He didn’t know Nimueh well enough to accurately gauge her response, but given everything he did know of her she would also, out of politeness or out of concern for her grandson, provide her consent. People put aside their fears for the ones they loved, however vivid those fears were. Mallos could still recall, with awful clarity, the expression on Nimueh’s face and the way she had shied away from him on both of their only two previous meetings. And who could blame her, really? Nobody wanted to live with the face of the man who had physically and emotionally torn them apart.
‘You could change your face,’ Sperantia suggested in the privacy of their shared mind, but it was half-hearted and without hope. She sympathised with the reasons why Mallos had chosen to keep the same face that Gwythr had stolen for so long: it was his. He had already given up enough to Gwythr; his physical identity should be his to keep. Besides which, with time and dedication and generation after generation, new associations would eventually be built. Perhaps not in Tristan’s lifetime, or even in Tristan’s grandchildren’s lifetime, but one day people would look at Mallos and see Mallos, not Gwythr.
It was not a wholly selfless reason for wanting to avoid Nimueh and many of the other women in the royal court. Other than to unstable villains, there could be no comfort in being regarded as the physical embodiment of horror. But did he really have a right to be selfish, when right here in front of him his own grandson was pleading reassurance of safety?
Sperantia leapt lightly onto the barrel beside Tristan, stepped onto his lap and began to paw his legs, purring loudly enough to drown out a motorbike. Mallos reached up and ran his hand through his hair in subconscious imitation of his companion.
“Don’t you think you’re already one of the safest people in Shaman? Did you see the way your father handled those monsters?” The corners of his mouth curled into a slightly sly smile. “Providing you don’t go looking for trouble, nobody and nothing is going to get past your dad – or the entire royal army, for that matter.”
The smile dropped away as he studied Tristan’s face, and was replaced with a grim, serious expression. Sperantia settled silently down onto the prince’s lap and rested her chin on his leg, watching the conversation with her sharp blue eyes. Mallos bent down slightly so that he was on Tristan’s level and placed his hands on the barrel, one on either side of the prince.
“You’re too young to really remember the horrors of the civil war, but you’re old enough now to need to understand the effect it still has on people,” he added quietly. “The way you feel about monsters is the way some people in the castle feel about me.”
“Or in the light of a common enemy, they may feel safer with a deity around,” Sperantia pointed out annoyingly.
‘Whose side are you on?’ Mallos demanded of her silently, before adding out loud, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea, Tristan – and you don’t really need me, do you?”
