Stone Rose by Megan Derr Page B

did not reply, and Dario stifled a sigh. He hated religion—it ruined everything. "So to judge by your beliefs, you are part of the Brotherhood. That means our kidnappers are not, though I hadn't thought so anyway. This is not how the Brotherhood of the Black Rose behaves."
    "No, they're not Brothers," Fidel said. "But you're right in that I am—was, actually. I left the order shortly after Cortez."
    That was interesting. "My impression of the Brotherhood was that they do not simply let people go."
    "The circumstances were unique," Fidel said quietly, an unmistakable note of sadness in his voice. "Father Yago let her go, and when I could not live without her, he let me go as well. I'm sure he will call in the debt someday, but I'll pay any price if I can just get back to Cortez."
    "That, I can understand," Dario said quietly.
    Fidel shifted slightly to lie on his back, his tied arm stretched up and his injured arm cradled on his chest. "They are not of the Order either, I do not think. This is not how the Order behaves. They grabbed me at the border when I was returning from Verde after trying to find Cortez there. I thought they were Order at first, and I think they tried to pass for them, but they just do not do it well. I have no idea who they are; if they have a name, they've not mentioned it. I shudder to think what will happen if a new cult has formed. They've already managed to kidnap his highness, which is more than anyone has done in centuries."
    Dario did not reply, lost in brooding. He wished, more than ever, that Granito was still alive. Thinking of his brother was still like thrusting a knife into his own chest. For as long as he could remember, they were all they had. Their father had been gone long before they were born, and their mother had died when Granito was fourteen, he twelve. They never should have been left alone, but they'd been self-sufficient long before that.
    Their mother had kept them alive long enough for them to survive on their own, but barely. Once Granito was old enough to keep the household functioning, she had drowned herself in wine. Dario had resented her for it—until he found himself doing the same thing.
    If that was the despair his mother had felt ... well, it was not enough to forgive her, because she'd had two sons who tried so hard to love her, but he understood better.
    No matter the years that passed, he still remembered the first time he'd kissed his older brother. Dario had been sixteen and furious when Granito returned home smelling as if he'd rolled in the hay with the village trollop.
    Granito belonged to him, he remembered thinking that very clearly. He remembered feeling like his heart was going to pop. He remembered his hands trembling right before he balled them up and punched Granito in the face. He remembered the fight:  every hit, kick, pull, tear, scratch, and bruise. And oh, how he remembered when he'd slammed Granito to the floor and kissed him. It had been a terrible kiss because he'd had no idea what he was doing and being angry and terrified hadn't helped.
    But Granito had kissed him back, and after that the kisses—everything—had vastly improved.
    Wrong or right, they'd never really been brothers. Family, yes. But the brotherly barrier that should have been there simply wasn't, and Dario hadn't been sorry. He knew better than to question when a good thing came along. It was the very same reason they'd had no hesitations about pursuing Culebra.
    Gods, he wished he had Granito right then. He might have been the patient one, the ruthless one, but Granito had been the clever one. Better still, he wished Granito was with Culebra. But it had been Granito who had saved Culebra out at sea, Dario believed that with all his heart. He wished they'd both lived, but he was glad he had not lost them both—though, he sort of had, in the end.
    "You look as though you swallowed sour wine," Fidel said.
    "Huh? Oh," Dario said, and shrugged—or tried to, anyway. He could