Chronicles of Ylandre 02 - Hallowed Bond(1)
Autor: Neni Burelli | Publicado: 2016-11-20T09:25:00-08:00









Hallowed
Bond









Chronicles
of Ylandre Book Two









Eressë









Published
2010





ISBN
978-1-59578-735-4









Published
by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509
Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2010,
Eressë. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the author.





Manufactured
in the United States of America





Liquid
Silver Books





http://LSbooks.com





Email:





raven@LSbooks.com









Editor





Devin
Govaere





Cover
Artist





Anne
Cain





This
is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this
book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
completely coincidental.

Blurb

Time
and circumstances may force true lovers apart but the tie that binds
them can never be fully severed.

When
Dylen Teris and Riodan Leyhar meet one harsh winter in the
dual-gendered realm of Ylandre, neither expects the encounter to lead
to a fast friendship and abiding love. For a chasm of vastly
dissimilar social stations lies between them, and not all Deira could
imagine, let alone accept, such a relationship.





Circumstances
eventually separate them for what seems forever only to conspire to
bring them together once more in the most unlikely of places—at the
court of Rohyr Essendri, Ylandre’s powerful monarch. Complicating
their situation is the attraction that still lingers between them,
waiting to flare once more into love. But when one is

unwilling
to venture his heart again or wholly forgive its breaker, it may take
a king’s interference to reunite these star-crossed lovers for
good.

*





There
is a glossary after the last page of the story.









Prologue









Advent









Ylandre,
in the 2953rd year of the Common Age





“Sweet
Veres, what a beauty!” “Who sired him? Do tell us!”





“Yes,
tell us! How did so gorgeous a Deir manage to elude our notice?”





Hirlen
Teris grinned in amusement as his friends oohed and aahed over his
infant son. With his thick raven locks and limpid earth green eyes,
their irises delicately rimmed with dark grey, three-month-old Dylen
was indeed a beauteous child.





“Thank
you. He is lovely, isn’t he?” Hirlen said. “But as to his sire,
that’s for me alone to know.”

Eldran
looked at him in surprise. “Why the secrecy? It’s not as if we
blackmail folk for a living!”

Hirlen
laughed. “Nay, I am not suggesting that. But the Deir in question
is, shall we say, in a sensitive position. It wouldn’t do if his
indiscretion were to become public knowledge.”





“Ah,
is it someone high in government?” Liave guessed. “You might say
that.”

“Then
we shall badger you no more,” Miqar decided. “Though if you ever
choose to share your secret with us, you know our lips will be
forever sealed.”

Again
Hirlen laughed. Miqar spoke the truth. The hethare
would not have lasted for as long as they had if any of their number
were known to tell tales. After all, one of the reasons well-born
Deira patronized the famous fraternity of companions—whose
services, convivial or carnal, could be had for the highest of
prices—was that they could count on the hethare’s
utmost discretion.

After
his friends left, Hirlen settled himself comfortably by the window
with his child, leaving his faithful attendant Tarqin to unpack his
belongings. He observed the activity on the street below—the
comings and goings of the city folk as they went about their
business. How he had missed the hustle and bustle of the capital of
Ylandre.





He
had retired to a remote village in the fief of Ilmaren to birth his
son. That in itself was not unusual. Hethare
routinely had their children away from wherever their sires resided.
Dissimulation was an effective way of ensuring that the products of
their liaisons were never traced back to the Deira who had begotten
them. It was the best protection for patrons whose reputations, for
whatever reasons, would suffer severely were it known they had sired
children on partners other than their mates or concubines.





What
was uncommon was the timing and length of Hirlen’s seclusion. Two
months before birthing was exceptionally early and three months after
was a long time for a hethar
not
to practice his profession. But if the object was to cover every
track that might
connect
a prominent Deir to his by-blow’s birth, some might even deem
Hirlen’s departure too late and his sojourn overly short.

Hirlen
looked at his son with pride. Liave was right. Dylen’s sire was a
gorgeous creature indeed and had passed his beauty to his child in
full. Not that Hirlen was plain of face—one who depended as much on
his physical attractions as on his social skills and sexual talents
had to be much more than pleasant-featured. But he could not compare
with the Deir who had acquired his exclusive services for several
months despite the exorbitant amount that exclusivity cost him. Not
in handsomeness or stature or brawn.





He
hoped all was well with his erstwhile patron. They had ended their
affair right after the Deir’s last visit. The night Dylen was
conceived.

Hirlen
sighed. The circumstances had been less than ideal. It was not the
way he had envisioned the conception of his first and likely only
son. Verily, he should have put up more of a struggle when he
realized what his patron wanted of him. But he’d never imagined the
latter would proceed even when told his desire was not permissible.
By the time Hirlen resisted in earnest, his lover’s alcohol-driven
lust had overcome all prudence and principle. Coupled with his
greater strength, he had subdued Hirlen and taken what he wanted.





Hirlen
firmly set the sordid memory aside. No matter, it was in the past.
And Dylen more than made up for that one unfortunate episode in what
had been a pleasant and mutually beneficial liaison.





The
bells of Rikara begin to toll. The two Deira glanced at each other
wonderingly. That indicated something of great import had occurred.

“Tarqin,
find out what has happened,” Hirlen said. “Yes, Teris-tyar.”





The
servant hurried out. Several minutes passed before he came back, his
face flushed with excitement.

“The
Ardis has conceived!” he exclaimed. “We shall finally have a
crown prince!” Hirlen shook his head. “So soon. Poor Dyrael.
Keldon certainly wasted no time





getting
him with child.”





“Well,
the Ardan was under pressure to sire an heir soonest, wasn’t he?”
Tarqin pointed out.

The
hethar
nodded. “Especially after he refused to name his brother his
successor. But they have only been wed a few months, and Dyrael
reached breeding age just before the turn of the year. Precious
little time to enjoy life before having duty thrust upon him.”





Tarqin
shrugged. “The wages of being born into the Royal House. And they
say Keldon loves him to distraction so he won’t be lacking in that
at least.”

“I
know, I know. Still, duty is duty even if softened by the attentions
of a loving spouse.” Hirlen glanced at his infant son and smiled.
“Look at me talk. For that reason as well must I keep my little
one’s sire ignorant of his birth.”

“Will
you tell Dylen the truth one day?” Tarqin asked.





Hirlen
nodded. “It’s his right to know. But only when he is old enough
to accept that it must remain our secret.”

Dylen
chose that moment to wet his diaper. Hirlen rose to his feet and
carried his fretting son to the bed.









Chapter
One









Unlooked-For









Rikara,
in the 2986th year of the Common Age





It
was always coldest in the wee hours of the night. This was especially
true at the height of a northern Ylandrin winter. Dylen Teris drew
his cloak closer around his tall frame as he made his way down the
narrow street to his house on the outskirts of the Quarter. As he
did, his hand passed over the left breast of his tunic. He briefly
patted it, pleased with the thick wad of banknotes secreted in the
hidden pocket sewn into the lining of the tunic.





The
frosty weather did not discourage patrons from visiting the Seralye.
If anything, more Deira were drawn to the establishment and the
services it offered during this season. After all, what could drive
away the cold more effectively than lively conversation before a
roaring fire with good wine or fine ale to loosen the tongue? And for
those with deeper purses, a torrid tryst with a skilled hethar
was more than enough to banish any remnants of the winter chill and
fortify the spirit for the short trip home. Perhaps to an empty bed
or a lukewarm partner in a frigid one.





With
the cold fiercer than usual, the sight of the small porch of his
townhouse was a welcome sight especially with the oil lamp over the
front door bravely flickering in the gloom. He quickened his pace,
eager for the warmth of his home. It was fortunate that he grabbed
hold of the balustrade as he hurried up the steps else he might have
pitched forward on his face when he tripped over an unexpected
obstacle.

Dylen
glared down at what looked like a large bundle of clothing in the dim
light. Who
in heyas
left their trash at his doorstep,
he thought in irritation. A faint movement
caught
his eye. He bent to take a closer look.





“Holy
Veres!” he softly exclaimed and turned the bundle over. He stared
into a face whitened by the cold and gleaming hair flecked with ice
crystals.

A
hasty sweep of the unconscious Deir’s attire told him this was no
homeless beggar who had sought shelter for the night. His crushed
velvet tunic was of a style the most expensive clothiers alone
provided, and his cloak was of finest wool. And only the best
shoemakers fashioned boots of such quality and fashion. But warm as
the Deir’s garments were, they were not equal to the freezing
weather.

Dylen
hurriedly unlocked the door then returned to the Deir and lifted him
in his arms—despite being a dead weight, the Deir was not all that
heavy. Dylen carried him into the foyer and kicked the door shut
behind him. The tread of feet on the stairs followed the door’s
closing.





Tarqin’s
eyes widened when he descried Dylen standing in the foyer with an
insensate stranger in his arms. The elderly servant hastened forward.

“Who
in Aisen—?” he started to say.





Dylen
shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But we have to warm
him up quickly. He’s all but frozen stiff.”

Tarqin
nodded and turned to hurry back up the stairs. “I’ll draw a hot
bath!” he said over his shoulder.

“And
tell Adda
we have a guest!” Dylen called after him, carefully mounting the
steps to the second story.

Dylen
bore the Deir to his bedchamber and laid him on his bed. He stripped
him swiftly, alarmed by the iciness of his hands and the pallor of
his skin. He frowned when he noticed a fresh welt on his temple and
wondered if it had aught to do with the Deir winding up unconscious
on his front steps. Dylen also realized that the other was younger
than he’d originally thought. Close to his own thirty-three years,
he guessed. The earring at his left ear—pearlescent milkstone set
in ley-silver—confirmed his assumption that the latter hailed
either from the lesser aristocracy or the landed gentry.





He
carried the Deir into the bathing chamber where Tarqin had filled the
tub with warm water. Dylen eased his charge in, careful to keep his
head above the water.





The
door opened, and Hirlen Teris entered the room. He took in the
stranger’s appearance and instructed Tarqin to reheat the soup from
dinner. He knelt beside his son and placed his hand on the Deir’s
neck, feeling for a pulse.





“Weak
but steady,” he murmured. “Where did you find him?”





“I
stumbled over him,” Dylen replied. “Literally. He was huddled on
the front steps. Adda,
he must be well-born. Look at his earring.”

Hirlen
nodded, examining the Deir’s right hand. Palm and fingers were only
slightly calloused. “I wonder what circumstances drove him into the
cold?”

Dylen
shrugged. “What impels some patrons into our parlors rather than
our beds? Not all of them come to us to tend their bodies’ needs.”

“True,”
Hirlen conceded. “But it must have been something calamitous for
him to brave such weather.”

The
Deir suddenly wheezed then began to cough. Dylen slipped an arm
around him to keep him from sliding farther into the water. His color
was better, and his lips were no longer this side of blue, Dylen
noted with relief. At last, bronze-hued lashes fluttered before
lifting to reveal startlingly dark irises. Dylen could not recall
seeing eyes of a brown so deep, they were almost black.

They
widened in confusion and alarm. The Deir began to flounder weakly.





Dylen
quickly restrained him. “Don’t be afraid!” he said, imbuing his
voice with just enough authority to compel the Deir to listen to him
without overly intimidating him. “Be still and let the water warm
you.”





The
Deir drew a shuddery breath then leaned back and rested his head
against the back of the tub. But his eyes flicked about fearfully
nonetheless.

“What
is your name?” Hirlen kindly asked. The Deir swallowed.
“Ri-Riodan,” he stuttered. “How long were you out on our
porch?” “I-I’m not sure… An hour, I think.”





Dylen
stared at him. “You’re very lucky I found you. Any longer and
you’d have frozen to death.”





Riodan
sighed. “I know,” he mumbled. “I thought I was going to die
when it got so cold.” He caught his breath and looked at Dylen. “My
deepest thanks, uh…?”

“Dylen
Teris at your service. This is my adda,
Hirlen. And you’re welcome, Riodan-tyar.”

“Just
Riodan will do,” the Deir said, sitting up. “How can I insist on
formality when you saved my life?”

He
groaned when stiff muscles protested movement. He paused to give his
surroundings a once-over. Curiosity replaced some of the fear in his
eyes as he took note of the bathing chamber’s modern fixtures and
plumbing replete with a commode and hot and cold water taps. And the
chamber was located on the house’s second story rather than the
traditional ground floor as evidenced by a glimpse of two bedrooms
through the connecting doors. Such amenities were costly and
generally accessible only to the affluent.

“Can
I come out now?” Riodan asked. “I feel warm enough.”

Dylen
grabbed the thick robe Tarqin had prepared. Helping Riodan to his
feet, he guided him out of the tub and into the folds of the robe.

“Thank
you again,” Riodan murmured.





Hirlen
shook his head. “There’s no need to thank us for something any
decent soul would do. Come, have some hot soup. It will warm you
further.”





*
* * *





“He
isn’t just well-born,” Hirlen murmured.





He
looked once more at the cloak clasp Dylen thoughtfully fingered. With
its engraving of a beaked delphinid in mid leap over waves of water,
the clasp identified their guest as a member of the diplomatic corps
or, judging from his age and the lack of the official insignia of an
Ylandrin ambassador on the clasp, possibly the son of one. Above the
delphinid, a name was engraved in the ancient alphabet of the Deira’s
distant ancestors, the Naere. But neither Dylen nor his father knew
how to read the runic symbols and could not decipher their guest’s
name.





“I
wager he’s being groomed to succeed a parent,” Dylen remarked.
“Yes. Which makes his presence here all the more puzzling.”





They
ceased their hushed conversation when Riodan stepped out of Dylen’s
bedroom clad in one of Dylen’s flannel shirts and loose
bed-trousers. The Deir shyly smiled at them when they beckoned to him
to join them before the fireplace. Dylen reappraised him now that
Riodan’s coloring was back to normal and his hair neatly brushed.





By
Veres, he’s quite beautiful,
he mused.





Hirlen
sank into his great chair while Dylen and Riodan settled side by side
on the couch. They had all slept in late to make up for staying up
nigh until daybreak. Now it was almost noon and the aroma of the food
Tarqin was cooking for the midday meal wafted faintly from
downstairs.





“Sleep
well?” Dylen asked.





“Yes,”
Riodan replied. “Thank you for lending me your bed. I didn’t
expect such kindness.”

Dylen
simply shrugged.





“Do
your parents know you ventured out last night?” Hirlen inquired. “I
can send word to them that you’re safe.”

Riodan
reddened slightly. His mouth tightened. “They’re the reason I was
out in the cold,” he quietly explained. “We quarreled, and I
decided to leave rather than be forced into something I didn’t care
for.” He hesitated then said, “They tried to betroth me to a Deir
I heartily detest.”

He
leaned back with a hint of defiance in his face, obviously expecting
either of his companions to chide him for acting with foolhardy
impulsiveness. After all, it was not unusual for the upper classes to
arrange their children’s marriages.





“Why
do you detest him?” Dylen asked.





Riodan
looked at him in some surprise. “Because he’s a cold and
avaricious bastard who has no compunction about destroying the lives
of others to get what he wants,” he replied with blunt honesty.





“He’s
not alone in that,” Dylen pointed out. “Especially amongst your
class.” Riodan bristled slightly at the mildly critical allusion to
his social station. “But I





would
have to live out my life bearing witness to his cruelty,” he
countered. “Bad enough to know that such Deira exist. But to marry
one of them?”

“Surely
he isn’t that terrible if your parents chose him,” Hirlen gently
suggested. Riodan snorted. “My sire is blinded by ambition. If he
deems association with a Deir





advantageous,
he will ignore whatever flaws he possesses however egregious.” He
sighed unhappily. “He’s not uncaring. I don’t want you to think
that of him. Indeed he wishes only the best for me. But he doesn’t
always consider the feelings of others before deciding their lives
for them. I try to be obedient, but there are times I simply cannot
abide his choices.”

“Be
that as it may, you have naught with you but the clothes on your
back,” Dylen said. “What are your plans? Surely you didn’t
intend to stay away longer than a day.”

“Actually,
I did,” Riodan answered with some embarrassment. “I didn’t
travel here from Sidona just to spend the night.”





Dylen
blinked. Sidona was some twenty leagues southwest of Rikara. “You
came all the way here with no money or clothing?”

“Nay,
I am not such a lackwit to travel so far without any provisions!”
Riodan said a little indignantly. “I had money and some clothes.
And I intended to draw funds as soon as I arrived—I have an account
with Bank Cordona. But the wheel of my hired carriage broke, and I
arrived well after dark.”





Dylen
exchanged a glance with his father. Either Riodan was not gifted
enough to journey by translocation or he had not received adequate
training to create the mind-generated corridors that allowed
travellers to cover vast distances in a matter of minutes.





“And
your belongings? What became of them?” Hirlen asked.





Riodan
gingerly touched the welt on his forehead. “I was looking for a
decent inn, but I got lost very quickly. I’ve only been to Rikara a
few times and never so late or in this part of town. I was set upon a
few blocks from here. Some scoundrel shoved me into an alley. When I
fought back, he hit me hard enough to knock me down.” Riodan looked
quite forlorn. “He took my money and bag.”

“You’re
lucky that’s all he took,” Dylen dryly commented. “The cold
saved your virtue.” He gestured apologetically when Riodan paled.
“How did you wind up at our door?”





“I’m
not sure. I think I stayed in that alley for a while. But when it
began to snow, I tried to look for help. The next thing I knew I was
lying at your doorstep—I must have blundered my way here. It just
got colder, and I suppose I lost consciousness then.”





“So
you intend to stay in Rikara a while,” Hirlen murmured. “Wherefore?
What do you hope to accomplish by not returning home soonest?”

“It
will make my sire realize that I seriously oppose the match he is
trying to arrange

for
me.”





“And
how long do you intend to stay away?”





“Until
he comes for me.” At Hirlen’s frown, Riodan explained, “He
likely thinks I will return with my tail between my legs. I wager it
will be months before he starts to doubt that assumption. Only then
will he search Sidona for me. It will probably take even longer
before he realizes that I have gone farther afield.”





“And
what if he doesn’t come to Rikara?” Hirlen asked a touch
reprovingly. “Are you that determined to make him suffer?”

Riodan
shook his head. “He will think of Rikara eventually. It’s the
only place I have visited outside of Sidona.”

Dylen
looked at him curiously, “You’re quite sheltered for a diplomat’s
son,” he commented, handing the cloak clasp to Riodan.





Riodan
stared at the clasp then clenched his fingers around it. “Not for
much longer. I was to finish my collegiate studies at the State
University then train at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”





“Who
is your sire, Riodan?” Hirlen questioned. “Ambassador Theron
Leyhar.”





Hirlen
shook his head. “The name is not familiar. But that only means he
likely doesn’t frequent the Quarter when he comes to town.”

“The
Quarter?” Riodan noticed Dylen’s earring for the first time. A
deep red heartsfire stone set within a thin gold hoop. He looked
wonderingly at Dylen. “You’re a hethar?”

“Yes.”





“I
see.” Riodan glanced uncertainly at Hirlen, his eyes widening when
he espied a similar earring at the older Deir’s left ear.

“I’m
not as active as before,” the elder Teris smilingly said.





Riodan
was spared making a response when Tarqin appeared bearing a pot of
steaming stew. Hirlen stood and gestured to the younger Deira to do
likewise.

“Come,
let us eat. Riodan, set your problems aside for now. But rest assured
Dylen and I will help you as much as we are able.”

Riodan
murmured his thanks and followed his benefactors to the adjacent
dining room.









Chapter
Two









Acquaintance









“When
did you begin, um…?”





Dylen
glanced at Riodan with some amusement. “Plying my profession?”
“Er, yes.” Riodan had the grace to look embarrassed.

He
was seated on the edge of Dylen’s bed, watching the other Deir
dress for an evening at his hethare
club.

“When
I reached my thirtieth summer.”





Riodan
stared at him. “You didn’t wait for your majority?” “I
haven’t reached it yet,” Dylen informed him.





He
pulled a tunic out of his closet. Its sea green hue further
emphasized the color of his eyes. Following enyran
fashion, the sword arm sleeve was cut above the elbow, the hem
reached the knees, and the tunic was slit at the sides and up front
to mid thigh for ease of movement.





The
majority of hethare
were considered sedyra
or Half Bloods even when they were not wholly so. Many were the
products of illicit unions where an enyran
or True Blood sire had not acknowledged his paternity. Very rare was
the hethar
who was accounted an enyr
by
virtue of recognition by his sire or sire’s family of their blood
kinship.
Nevertheless,
the hethare
dressed in the manner of the ruling class regardless of their caste
designation, thus setting themselves apart from their lesser
brethren, the overwhelming number of whom hailed from the lowest
rungs of society.





“It’s
the custom for a hethar
to begin his training at twenty-four summers and receive his first
patron once he reaches the age of thirty,” Dylen said as he shook
out the wrinkles in the tunic. “It isn’t necessary for us to wait
for our majority as long as we’ve attained the age of consent. So
until I turn thirty-five, Adda
acts as administrator of my affairs.”

“So
an orphan can’t become a hethar.”





“Not
unless he has a legal guardian. It’s the reason most street urchins
turn to prostitution if they are unable to find other means of
livelihood.” The corners of his mouth quirked upward at Riodan’s
uncomfortable silence. “You wonder what differentiates me from a
common whore.”





Riodan
caught his breath. “What? Nay, that isn’t—! I mean…”





He
flushed deeply. Dylen wondered if Riodan had blushed as often before
as he had done this first day of acquaintance with the Terises. He
donned the tunic and started to fasten it.





“I
took no offense,” he assured the younger Deir. “Not everyone
understands the distinctions between hethare
and felkar.”

Riodan
shifted uncomfortably on the bed. “I’m sorry.”





“For
what? For not knowing?” Dylen snorted. “Besides, hethare
do not abide in all cities. Just the largest ones. Sidona’s capital
is lovely and progressive, but it still has a long way to go before
it attains Rikara’s sophistication.”

“You’ve
been to Nivare?”





“A
few times. At the invitation of one of my patrons.” “Oh… Well,
how different is a hethar
from a felka?”





“Aside
from the assurance that dalliance with us won’t result in assault,
theft or disease? A whole world. A felka’s
sole function is to spread himself for any Deir willing to pay his
price. Whether he has a brain between his ears or a heart in his
breast is irrelevant.” Dylen checked himself in the mirror, running
his hand over the tunic to smooth out any remaining wrinkles.

“Hethare
do more than provide sexual release,” he continued. “We entertain
in areas other than bed, and sometimes that is all that’s asked of
us.” On went a fine leather belt. “Otherwise, how could Adda
continue in this profession at his age? And why think you must we
begin training ourselves so young? It’s not only the gratification
of the body that we address.”

He
brought out a flat jewelry box and studied its contents. “We are
taught to comport ourselves properly in society and schooled in the
politics and cultures of nations whose citizens we may find ourselves
providing with our company. Many of our guests come from the High
Houses or work in government and expect more than lewd banter from
us. For that reason, hethare
must also finish secondary schooling to gain admittance into the
fraternity. Many take collegiate studies as well.”

“Did
you?”

“I’ve
completed the basic course. I plan to resume my studies next year.”
Riodan blew his breath out. “Fascinating. It’s beyond anything I
imagined.”

“It
isn’t common knowledge outside of our circle,” Dylen admitted. He
selected several wristlets of leather and silver and slipped them on.

“You
don’t have to answer this,” Riodan hesitantly said. “I’m just
curious. But can you choose your patrons?”

“For
the most part,” Dylen replied. “But if my club master assigns a
guest to me, I must take him on unless I have a valid reason to
refuse. That’s still far more choice than a prostitute has.”





Riodan
nodded. “And I suppose your club master doesn’t accept just
anyone off the street.”

“No
indeed. It’s to his benefit to protect us. Obviously,
brothel-keepers aren’t as discerning.” Dylen picked up his
fur-lined cloak and drew it on. “Furthermore, a prostitute can’t
refuse to couple in whatever manner a client demands. Hethare
may and often do.”





“I
don’t understand.”





“Genital
penetration is permissible only if a hethar
agrees to it,” he calmly explained. “Very rarely, one might be
persuaded to yield if his patron offers to pay through the nose for
the privilege. Or if one desires a child. Otherwise, it’s strictly
up the arse for us.”





Dylen
grinned. The mirror showed Riodan gaping at him. His frankness had
obviously impressed him. He turned around and slipped a finger under
the other Deir’s chin. With a smart tap, he compelled Riodan to
close his mouth.





“Don’t
wait up for me,” Dylen said. “I’m seldom home before midnight.”
When Riodan did not speak but only stared at him with wide eyes, he
tilted his head questioningly. “What is it? Have I a smudge on my
face or something?”

Riodan
started. “Nay, of course not!” “Then why are you staring?”

Once
again, brilliant color blossomed in Riodan’s cheeks. He abashedly
replied, “I was only so stunned. I haven’t met anyone as
beautiful as you.”

Dylen
raised an eyebrow. A small smile followed.

“Thank
you,” Dylen softly said. With a nod at Riodan, he left the room.





*
* * *





He
had ample time to think about Riodan Leyhar as he made his way to the
Seralye. An afternoon’s worth of the youth’s company had yielded
enough information for Dylen to make a fairly accurate assessment of
his background.





His
sire was not a blueblood but a very wealthy member of the upper
gentry. However, Theron Leyhar was not satisfied with mere affluence.
He also craved higher social status and worked assiduously toward
gaining it, clawing his way up the ranks of the diplomatic corps.
That neither Dylen nor his father recognized the name did not mean
the Deir was of no importance. Indeed, Riodan could not hide his
pride that his sire was one of Ylandre’s foremost ambassadors.
Rather, it was probably as Hirlen had surmised. Theron Leyhar likely
did not care to avail of the hethare’s
many talents, even the purely social ones.





That
was unusual in that diplomats were very urbane as a rule and most
made it a point to sample the more sophisticated offerings of the
societies to which they were posted. Virtually every bachelor envoy
of note frequented the Quarter. Furthermore, they oft hosted social
gatherings, and one sure way to guarantee the enjoyment of one’s
guests was to have a hethar
or two around to enliven the proceedings with witty banter, erudite
discussion and skillfully performed music. Assignations were very
rarely part of such arrangements, especially when there were names to
protect and reputations to preserve.





Dylen
cast his speculation aside. Useless to wonder about a Deir he only
knew secondhand. He turned onto the main street of the Quarter and
walked into its very heart.





Located
in the largely commercial west district, the Quarter was the place to
go if one wished to indulge one’s self in entertainment and
recreational activity. Here were the venerable theaters and music
halls of Rikara. Here, too, were the great artisans’ studios and
elegant hethare
clubs, far removed from the dingy shops and bawdy houses that
littered the seedy south district. The bulk of the capital’s
various performers resided in the Quarter as well as many a writer
and artist both accomplished and merely aspiring, all seeking
inspiration from the colorful folk and their goings on.





The
Seralye was not on the main street but on a road just off it. It was
a three-story edifice with a tasteful but unassuming façade. It
could have passed for an expensive inn were it not for the red and
black border framing the sign above the slightly recessed door.

There
was nothing obvious about the establishment. A liveried doorkeeper
quietly welcomed guests when they entered the premises. Unlike in a
brothel, no companions loitered in the foyer or on the stairs in
various states of undress. The décor was understated and reminiscent
of a stylish townhouse.





Uniformed
attendants conducted guests up the stairs to the cozy reception room
where they had a drink or two while they awaited their hethar
of choice. Newcomers who looked likely to frequent the club were
appraised by Zarael Thanar, the Seralye’s proprietor and club
master, himself a hethar
once upon a long time ago.

Guests
who came for social companionship were entertained in any of the
club’s many parlors. There were also four spacious taprooms where
groups of Deira could party or unwind after a day’s toil. Contrary
to popular misconception, carnal activity was not a matter of course
among the hethare,
and it was not uncommon for a companion to pass the night without
coupling with any of his patrons.





If
desired, however, those particular needs were met in the elegant
bedchambers on the third story of the building. Deira who availed of
these services were strictly vetted first. Indeed, a guest had to be
a regular visitor at the Seralye before Zarael would even consider
allowing him to progress to the status of patron. And, more often
than not, Zarael gave his hethare
the option to accept or decline requests for sexual service except
when the patron in question was not one he could refuse. The former
companion was not about to imperil either his establishment’s good
name or his hethare’s
health and general safety by being lax about his rules or standards.





Almost
as soon as Dylen stepped into the reception room to let Zarael’s
secretary Keon know he had arrived, a handsome Deir of middle years
rose from his seat before the fire. He smiled expectantly. Dylen
smiled back.





The
Deir was a wealthy financier who came to the Seralye when the
pressures of his profession and the tediousness of his mate’s
company wore him down. Dylen glanced at Keon. A slight shake of the
secretary’s head indicated the financier only sought convivial
company. Of course, that could change in the course of the evening
but, as he was a well-liked patron, seeing to that need should it
arise would be no problem for Dylen.

He
was one of the least sexually available of the Seralye’s
companions, preferring to entertain guests in the parlors and
taprooms. But when he did accept a patron’s proposition, he made
certain that he pleased the latter so well, a request for another
visit was inevitable. As he had told Riodan, he took on guests at
Zarael’s behest who were not of his choosing, but these instances
were few and far in between, and Dylen had no qualms about bedding
them, particularly if their patronage proved beneficial in the long
run.





After
bidding Keon to have more substantial refreshments sent up, Dylen
warmly greeted the Deir and ushered him to one of the parlors. If the
visit remained purely social, he would be available to entertain
another guest in an hour or so.





*
* * *





Dylen
stepped out of the communal bath into the large dressing room,
toweling himself briskly. It was a little past midnight, and he had
entertained his last guest of the day, a thein
of ancient lineage. The baron had also been the only one of his four
patrons to ask for sexual service. Dylen idly wondered if the Deir’s
consort was aware of the former’s proclivity for playing the mare.
Then again, if he knew which hethar
his lord-spouse frequented, it was likely he did. Many of Dylen’s
bed partners sought him out because they desired domination at his
hands.

As
he dressed, another companion, Veanthe by name, sauntered in. He was
a favorite taproom host due to his raconteur’s eloquence and
knowledge of the bawdiest songs this side of the Samaran Sea. He was
also Dylen’s senior by some sixteen years and a veteran of their
club.





After
they greeted each other, Dylen thought to ask, “Do you know aught
about an ambassador by the name of Theron Leyhar?”

Veanthe
rolled his eyes theatrically. “Enough to keep a wide berth around
him.” Dylen frowned. “Why?”

“He
detests our kind. He deems us little better than the strumpets who
walk the streets. And he isn’t shy about saying so.”

“You
witnessed this?”

“I
should say so. It was at a come-of-age party last year for Minister
Pelar’s son. He wasn’t the only diplomat in attendance, mind you.
Jareth Hadrana was there, and he’s the highest-ranking ambassador
in the land. But that didn’t stop that stick-in-the-mud Leyhar from
making a fuss about our presence.” Veanthe scowled. “He even
embarrassed poor Almerin after he sang at a guest’s request. He
said it was a shame that so venerable a song had been performed by a
mere trollop.”





“Sweet
Veres,” Dylen muttered. “In front of everyone?”





“Oh
yes! A good thing Hadrana-tyar
saw fit to chide him for his rudeness. That shut him up quickly
enough. But he kept glaring at us for the rest of the evening.
Really, is that any way for a grown Deir to behave? And he a diplomat
to boot!”





“Hmm,
that doesn’t seem like a general dislike for hethare,”
Dylen remarked. “More like a personal encounter with one companion
that blackened his outlook on the rest of the fraternity.”





Veanthe
humphed. “That’s no reason to be impolite. He should know better
than to judge a whole basket by one questionable cranapple!” He
looked at Dylen questioningly. “Why so curious about him? It’s
highly unlikely that he’ll ever set foot in this club.”

Dylen
shrugged. “I know someone who doesn’t hold the highest opinion of
him, that’s all. But he does believe Leyhar is good at his
profession.”

“I
dare say your friend is right,” Veanthe grudgingly conceded. “Else
Leyhar would never have made ambassador. I understand the evaluation
process is quite brutal. Nonetheless, he has the manners of a
burhog!”





Dylen
grinned and said no more. However, as he departed, he felt a twinge
of unease.

It
was difficult to reconcile the impression he had formed of Theron
Leyhar with what he knew of his son. Riodan did not seem to possess
his sire’s condescending attitude. Indeed, he showed naught but
respect for Hirlen and grateful amicability toward Dylen. It was
possible he was behaving thusly only because of his present
dependence on the Terises, but Dylen thought it improbable. He was
quite accurate in discerning people’s characters, and Riodan’s
geniality and lack of arrogance rang true.





*
* * *





“Student
lodgings will likely be full,” Hirlen said over breakfast three
days later. By now the nasty welt on Riodan’s forehead had faded to
a bruise, and the youth had already learned his way around the west
district and also ventured into the finance section of the capital in
the central district to draw funds from his bank savings. “I doubt
there will be vacancies until the end of the academic year. Have you
finished first term?”





Riodan
nodded. “I was supposed to complete this year in Sidona then
transfer to the University next year. But Aba
would have hounded me without cease to go through with the betrothal
and that I couldn’t bear. So I came here forthwith.”





“Then
you will stay with us until a vacancy opens up,” Hirlen decided.

“I
can’t do that!” Riodan protested. “Surely there are other rooms
available.”

“Not
for your purpose,” Dylen put in. “There’s a reason non-local
students seldom look farther than the University boarding houses.
Beyond those enclaves, their safety is not as ensured, not even in
the better located ones.”





Riodan
shrugged. “I may not have travelled much outside of Sidona, but I
oft moved about on my own within the fief. I can fend for myself. And
I don’t mind less ideal accommodations so long as they’re clean
and reasonably secure.”





Dylen
opened his mouth to scoff, but a glance from Hirlen shushed him.





“You
should avoid the south district,” Hirlen counselled. “It’s the
poorest and most unsavory section of the city. The north district, on
the other hand, is rich, well guarded and close to the University.
But you will find only townhouses and large apartments for
rent—hardly what you have in mind I dare say. Now the east and west
districts are quite safe during daytime and have a good number of
decent lodgings. Dy will help you find something suitable. Until
then, you will stay with us. Do keep in mind, however, that Sidona
can’t compare to Rikara, neither its beauties nor its dangers. That
you were assaulted almost as soon as you arrived is testament to
that. Don’t be so quick to trust new acquaintances either. Not even
the likes of us.”





Riodan
stared at him. “But you saved me!”





“How
do you know we’re not just fattening you for the slaughter?”
Dylen dryly pointed out. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes when
Riodan gaped in obvious shock. “All Adda
is saying is that, hereabouts, it’s best to be overly cautious with
strangers. You don’t know enough just yet to separate the wheat
from the chaff, and that may prove your undoing. Now, what say I take
you to our tailor? I have more than enough to clothe us both, and I
don’t mind sharing with you. But I don’t think you wish to go
about in ill-fitting garments that tell one and all at a glance that
they’re borrowed.”





A
grimace of embarrassment replaced Riodan’s burgeoning scowl. He
mumbled his agreement and kept his attention on his porridge for the
rest of the meal. Afterward, he went to Dylen’s bedroom to dress
for a day out in the cold.

“So
naïve,” Dylen murmured when Riodan was out of earshot.





Hirlen
agreed. “Hopefully, he will overcome that soonest. But do be
gentler with him, Dy. Your much vaunted tact seems to have gone
missing.”

“He
isn’t a patron, Adda.”
“But he could be a friend.”





“Not
if he remains infatuated with me.” “Ah, you noticed.”

Dylen
snorted. “I’d have to be deaf and blind not to. He told me he’s
never met a Deir as beautiful as I. And he keeps staring at me when
he thinks I’m not aware. He also blushes quite prettily whenever I
address him, even for the most trivial of matters.”





Hirlen
laughed. “Many of our guests react likewise when you pay them more
than due attention, and they’re mostly full-grown Deira. You can’t
fault one as young as Riodan for doing the same.” He eyed his son
cannily. “Or is it that you appreciate him far more than you like
and wish he didn’t feel as you do?”





Faint
color warmed Dylen’s cheeks, a charming effect due to the rarity of
its occurrence. “Wherefore indulging in something that is forbidden
to the fraternity and might lead to expulsion from its ranks?” he
softly said.





His
father shook his head. “You know full well that love isn’t
forbidden to us; only wedlock.”

“But
the first oft leads to the second. And, even if it doesn’t, how can
anyone ask it of his partner to look the other way whilst he
continues to share himself with others? It’s no wonder marriage is
proscribed. It isn’t just to keep us focused on our patrons but
also to prevent jealous spouses from wrecking the peace.”

“Not
every love is meant to culminate in wedlock,” Hirlen pointed out.
“If you do come to know such a love, I’ll be the first to
encourage you to leave the fraternity and bind yourself in matrimony.
But there is no certitude that it will happen. In which case, I see
no reason why you shouldn’t indulge in a romantic interlude now and
then. I did and came out the richer for having known the affection
and concern of those precious few I called lovers.” Again he
regarded his son with keen interest. “Are you so drawn to him that
you think he will lead you to the marriage bed?”





This
time, Dylen went still. He mutely stared at his father for the
longest while. At length he said, “Even were I to desire that, one
such as he would hardly want the same thing. A one-night tumble, a
brief affair, yes, he might propose either arrangement to a hethar.
But wedlock? Our profession, even if I leave it, will likely get in
the way given
that
I have entertained many Deira he will eventually associate with and
even bedded a fair number of them.”





“And
that’s your real fear,” Hirlen mused. “You’re afraid to fall
in love with someone to whom your past might prove an obstacle too
great to overcome.”





Dylen
shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? If love comes
a-looking, it will find me. I’ll just have to cope with the
consequences the best I can.” He warned Hirlen of Riodan’s return
with a slight tilt of his head. “Nonetheless, it’s good to get
that off my chest, Adda,”
he said as he rose to his feet. “Thank you for knowing me so well.”





Hirlen
smiled. He glanced up at Riodan who looked from him to Dylen with
equal parts curiosity and wariness.

He’s
naïve but not obtuse,
Hirlen thought. Aloud he said, “You might as well make
inquiries
at the University, Riodan. No sense waiting until the start of second
term and risking all the student slots being filled.”





“Yes,
I’ll do that,” Riodan replied. “Thank you, Teris-dyhar.”





Hirlen’s
eyebrows rose at his use of the high honorific. “To what does this
humble commoner owe such esteem?”

“You
opened your home to me, a stranger in need, and took me under your
wing,” Riodan earnestly explained. “You are noble in heart if not
in blood, and I count that the more worthy of praise.”





Dylen
averted his eyes, but Hirlen espied the gleam of pleasure in them.
Hirlen inwardly sighed.

And
what will my gallant Dylen be to you, Riodan Leyhar? A mere bed treat
as he fears? Or a true desire?









Chapter
Three









Progression









Three
months, Dylen thought as he readied himself for his next guest. Three
months and still Riodan Leyhar remained with them. He had started
second term at the State University but, as expected, there were no
vacancies among the decent student lodgings in the city this time of
the year. And so, the young Sidonan continued to make the Teris abode
his home. And Dylen’s bedchamber his quarters.





Riodan
had persuaded Dylen to return to his room and declared himself happy
with the divan beneath the window, claiming it was as comfortable as
any bed. Dylen had given in, but suspected it wasn’t just his room
that Riodan wished to share.





He
strove to put the thought out of his mind. He suspected, but he had
no concrete proof, that his roommate wanted more than friendship
between them. Indeed, his misgivings might very well be merely a
reflection of his own mixed feelings about the situation rather than
anything Riodan truly felt about him. Better to focus on his duties
than engage in speculation.

Dylen
chose a subtly aromatic soap from the Seralye’s collection and
stepped into a bath stall. He thoroughly scrubbed his body, ridding
himself of all signs of the just concluded encounter with his second
guest of the evening. It was deemed highly unprofessional to present
one’s self to a guest still smelling of another Deir’s scent.
That was the province of the bawds whose lot it was to take on as
many partners as they could in any given day and therefore did not
waste much time washing away the evidence of each tumble. When Dylen
headed for the reception room a quarter of an hour later, he looked
as if he had just arrived for the night.





The
guest who’d requested his company was seated on the couch before
the fire, speaking to Keon. The secretary straightened when he saw
Dylen. Excusing himself, he went to the hethar.





“This
is his first time here,” he murmured. “He’s much younger than
your usual guests.”

“So
long as he’s of age,” Dylen replied. “He specifically asked for
me?” “Most insistently in fact. He said if you weren’t
available he would come back





another
day.”





“Did
he? Interesting.”





Curving
his mouth into a welcoming smile, Dylen approached the Deir. About to
speak, he hesitated when he got a closer look at his guest. There was
something familiar about him. The Deir suddenly turned his fair head.





Dylen’s
eyebrows all but flew upwards. “What are you doing here?” he
asked somewhat warily as Riodan rose to his feet and faced him.





Riodan
grinned and said, “I watched Molave’s latest play and realized
your club was nearby. So I thought to pay you a visit.”

Dylen
stared at him, a little taken aback not so much by the unexpected
visit as by Riodan’s appearance. He had helped the other Deir put
together a wardrobe sufficient for

his
needs. But he had not seen him attired for an evening out until now.
Clad in a black dress tunic over a silky white shirt, dark grey long
breeches and fine leather boots, Riodan looked stunning to say the
least and more sophisticated than Dylen knew him to be.

He
firmly suppressed his reaction to the other’s beauty. “Rio, we’re
not allowed personal visits during working hours.”

“Oh,
I paid for the pleasure of your company,” Riodan airily answered.
“So I was told. I hope you mean that in the strictest sense of the
term.”

Riodan
flashed him a sweet, entreating smile. “Don’t be angry, Dy. I
only offered when I found out that visitors weren’t permitted.”

Dylen
sighed. “Very well, you might as well get your money’s worth.”
Before ushering Riodan to one of the parlors, he spoke to Keon. “Have
refreshments brought to the blue parlor.”





Keon
glanced at Riodan who was gazing quite avidly at Dylen. “Should I
have one of the bedchambers readied?” he softly inquired.

“He
isn’t a patron,” Dylen pointed out. “Zarael hasn’t vetted him
yet.” The secretary snorted. “As if he needs to if you vouch for
him.”





Dylen
shook his head, “Just the refreshments, Keon. No more, no less.”
Keon shrugged. “As you wish.”





*
* * *





As
soon as the attendant who brought in the refreshments left the
parlor, Dylen settled himself on the couch beside Riodan. He served
his friend wine and spiced haronuts. There were also crisp vegetable
fritters, slivers of fried boar meat with the rind left on, and raw
shellfish drizzled with a piquant herb sauce. Riodan appreciatively
tasted each dish, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure at the
toothsome delicacies. Dylen had to smile at his guileless demeanor.





“So,
did you watch the play alone?” he asked after taking a sip of his
wine. “Nay, Ithan came with me.”

Dylen
frowned. Riodan had made the acquaintance of a number of schoolmates
since he started at the University but none he yet counted as close
friends. Save perhaps for Ithan Soleri. He was the only one Riodan
had introduced to Dylen, and the meeting had not been intended but
came by way of a chance encounter on the street. Ithan was only a few
months older than Riodan and was studying to be a banker like his
sire. He did not share many classes with the young Sidonan. Still,
Riodan spent more time in Ithan’s company than any of his other
schoolmates.





“I
hope you always maintain some caution with him,” Dylen warned.





Riodan
leaned back, his expression one of amusement. “He’s never made an
overture of any kind. I think you’re mistaken about him.”

“I
don’t think so. I’ve seen that look in his eyes many a time
amongst the Seralye’s guests.”

“Well,
even if he does feel some attraction toward me, it won’t matter if
he knows I don’t feel likewise toward him.”





“But
does he know? Have you made it clear that all you desire is
friendship?” “I’ve never given him any indication that I wish
for more.”

“Which
could easily be construed as mere hesitation to go one step further,”
Dylen

countered.
“Ithan didn’t strike me as particularly sensitive to subtlety.”





Riodan
looked at him disbelievingly. “And you picked all that up in the
span of one short meeting.”

Dylen
hesitated, unsure how to explain the source of his misgivings about
Ithan without revealing too much. He liked Riodan and thought him a
trustworthy person, but there were certain secrets he did not feel
comfortable sharing with anyone other than his father. Perhaps he
would eventually tell Riodan, but now was not yet the time.





“One
short meeting with any guest can spell the difference between a
pleasant evening and a harrowing one,” he finally said. “I just
want you to be prudent.”

“I
am! Really, you shouldn’t worry so about me.” Riodan pouted.
“Besides, I’m not that much younger than you.”

“In
years,” Dylen agreed. “But, in experience, there’s much I have
seen that I hope you never will.”

“I
thought your club master protected you,” Riodan gibed.





“Zarael
does his best,” Dylen shot back a shade reproachfully. “He’s
very careful but even he can be fooled by a kind demeanor now and
then. Not every guest I’ve entertained proved as benevolent as they
looked.”

“You’re
not saying… “ Riodan paled. “Veres! Have you been—?”





Dylen
placed a reassuring hand on Riodan’s arm. “Nay, though I’ve
come close enough times to make me wary of new guests. And I know
hethare
who weren’t so lucky, rare as those cases have been. Rape is not
limited in place or victims.”





Riodan
shuddered slightly, probably remembering his own brush with the
possibility his first night in town. “I’m glad you’ve never
been hurt that way,” he murmured. “And I’m sorry for making
light of your situation.”





Dylen
gestured dismissively. He poured them both more wine. They spent the
next few minutes in light conversation while finishing off the
shellfish.

At
length, Riodan regarded Dylen curiously and asked, “Do you ever
have guests who change their minds and decide they want to sleep with
you as well?”

The
abrupt shift of topic surprised Dylen, but he answered nonetheless.
“Of course, but only patrons of long standing may avail of that
privilege.”

“Only?”
Riodan repeated skeptically. “What if an important Deir wishes to
sample this club’s more personal services? Like a Herun for
example. Or the Ardan himself. Would Zarael dare reject them?”





Dylen
shrugged. “It hasn’t come to that yet. At least, not since I
started here. But I imagine Zarael would make an exception for Rohyr
Essendri if he deigned to grace the Seralye with his patronage. It
isn’t politic to turn down one’s own king.”





“And
what of guests you already know and can vouch for?” Dylen keenly
looked at him. “Like yourself?”

Riodan
boldly met his gaze. “Perhaps.” “Would this be your first
time?”





“It
would. To couple that is. I’m not that
innocent.”





Given
Riodan’s fairly sheltered upbringing, Dylen was not surprised when
the youth admitted most of his previous forays into carnality had
been with Deira as inexperienced as he or with household servants who
were only too willing to accommodate the heir of the house.





“I
know it matters little to others, but I
don’t care to tup folk in my family’s service,”

Riodan
said. “It’s simply not meet. And I don’t dare entrust myself to
others who know little more about rutting than I do. I should think
that would only prove disastrous; maybe even put me off the whole
business for life!”





“But
surely you know Deira who are seasoned lovers,” Dylen pointed out.
“Well, of course, but I can hardly accept their invitations to warm
their beds if I

don’t
trust their motives, now can I?”





Dylen
could not disagree. “You could have paid for the experience,” he
murmured. “Quite a number do.”

“You
mean prostitutes?” Riodan snorted. “Call me maudlin, but I’m
too much of a romantic to want my very first bedding to be a mere
transaction. I want an emotional connection at the very least, Dy.”
He leaned back, smiling wryly. “So there you are. I’ve never gone
further than let others use their hands or mouth on me. I dare say
it’s quite satisfying, but I don’t like how it leaves me feeling,
well, discontented. Here.” He pressed his fist to his breast.





“So
you want me to teach you more,” Dylen cautiously said. Riodan
grinned. “I want you to teach me everything.”

Dylen
frowned. “Why, Rio? Why would you want your first bedding to be
with someone like me?”

“I
wouldn’t were it anyone other than you,” Riodan said. “I like
you, Dy. Indeed, I…” He hesitated then forged on. “I’m in
love with you.”

Dylen
stared at him. He shook his head. “You know that lovers are
forbidden to us.” “Your father had a number of lovers in his
youth,” Riodan reminded him. “Your sire

was
one of them.”





“They
were brief affairs, and none of Adda’s
lovers expected more. But you do. You would want me to yourself,
Rio.”

“Yes,
I would,” Riodan promptly agreed. “And why shouldn’t I? It’s
only natural that I would want my beloved to belong to me alone.”

“Which
I can’t do for you even if I returned your affections.”





Riodan
snorted. “Say rather that you could only if you returned my love.
I’m no fool, Dy. I know that I can’t ask that of you. But it
doesn’t change how I feel about you. Nor does it change my wish to
experience my first coupling with you.”





“Rio—”





“I’m
not demanding you comply this very night. I only ask that you
consider my request.”

Dylen
looked away to pensively stare at the fire.

The
majority of his bed partners were long time patrons of the Seralye
who desired the thrill or release of reversed sexual roles. But he’d
also had his share of patrons who enjoyed the challenge of bedding
someone equal in strength to or even stronger than themselves. Seldom
however were innocents among these. In their inexperience, they were
easily intimidated by a partner with Dylen’s confidence and
commanding personality. Unless they wished to play the sheath their
first time, most neophytes to the love arts chose to be initiated by
the gentler and more submissive of Dylen’s peers.

A
Deir of Riodan’s social stature, and one who was an only child as
well, would be averse to spreading himself for another of lesser
station, let alone doing so on his first bedding. Indeed, if Riodan
ran true to form, he would yield himself only to his lawful spouse.
Therefore, were Dylen to give in to the youth’s wishes, he would
likely do the

yielding.
Dylen flinched at the thought.





He
very rarely engaged in sexual communion and the sharing of his body
for any reason other than as a service rendered for the right price.
Casual couplings were few and far between, and he always dictated the
nature and pace of those encounters. Surrendering himself to Riodan
would alter the dynamics of their present relationship— an easy,
affectionate one founded on trust and respect. What if the change was
not for the better?

“Dy?”

Dylen
started then stared at his companion. Riodan in turn gazed at him
unhappily. “You truly don’t want to lie with me,” he muttered.
“Am I that repugnant?” His





voice
quivered as he finished speaking.





Dylen
caught his breath at Riodan’s dejected mien. “Nay! Never deem
yourself less than desirable, Rio.”

“Except
to you,” Riodan despondently replied.





“That
isn’t so,” Dylen said. ”You are beautiful and sweet and kind
besides. No Deir could possibly wish for more in a partner.”

“Yet
you obviously do.” “Rio—”

“I
will leave now. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“You
didn’t.” Dylen rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, let me
explain.”

The
younger Deir laughed mirthlessly. “Explain what? That I’m not to
your taste? There’s no explaining that, Dy. It simply is.”

“But
you are
to my taste, confound it!” Dylen blurted. “Too much in fact.”





Riodan
gazed at him in confusion. “Then why do you resist me? I don’t
understand.” “Because I don’t want to ruin what we have,”
Dylen admitted. When Riodan looked





even
more befuddled, he sighed and said, “I would have you as my friend,
Rio. Sleeping with you would only damage what we do share.”





Riodan
visibly flinched. “Meaning you could never love me as I do you,”
he whispered.

After
a moment’s hesitation, Dylen said, “On the contrary, I could.”

Shocked,
Riodan gaped at him. Then comprehension dawned in his eyes. “But
you don’t want to.”





Dylen
gestured with his hand to encompass the room. “This is what I do
nearly every day of my life. I service Deira who can pay my price. Do
you truly think anything more than our bodies’ sating can come out
of an affair with me? Yet, I will not leave my profession for
anything less, Rio. I can’t.” He gripped Riodan’s hands. “I
care for you— more than I’ve ever dared feel for anyone. I don’t
want to lose the love that we can
share just to slake your lust or mine.”





Riodan
lifted bright eyes to him. His lips curved in a crooked smile. The
sight nigh broke Dylen’s resolve.

“I
think it’s best I move out of your house,” he said, his voice
breaking as he struggled not to reveal the extent of his hurt. He
lifted a hand to forestall Dylen’s protest. “I didn’t tell you
because I’d hoped staying on would—” He shook his head. “A
vain dream and a foolish one.” He drew a shaky breath. “I found
lodgings in the east district two weeks ago. Paid six months rent on
it as a matter of fact. It’s time I stopped imposing on you and
your adda.”

Dylen
stared at him, the implications of Riodan’s decision rapidly
sinking in. “You’re saying goodbye,” he gasped.

“Yes.”





“Rio…”





“I
love you,” Riodan thickly said. “I can’t make do with less.”
“Why not?”

Riodan
bitterly chuckled. “You might as well ask me why I can’t stop
breathing.” He rose, pulling Dylen to his feet as he did. “I’m
glad I met you, Dy. I only wish we could have ended our acquaintance
on a happier note.”





He
seemed to hesitate then drew something from inside his tunic. He
silently handed Dylen a tiny parcel covered with gold tissue and
gestured to him to unwrap it.

Dylen
opened the parcel and winced. A wristlet of beaten gold and woven
leather with a heartsfire clasp nested within the delicate wrapper.
The significance of the deep red gem struck him hard.





Heartsfire
was the stone of lust and passion. The meaning behind the hethare’s
earring of a heartsfire within a gold loop was readily evident given
the nature of the profession. And a young Deir upon reaching the age
of consent signaled his intention to begin sexual exploration by
wearing a heartsfire stud on his left ear. But heartsfire was also
the stone of intimacy and commitment. The gem set in gold was
indication that the bearer was betrothed or in a long-term liaison.
Coupling it with another precious stone signified either of two
things: that the wearer belonged to the gentry or aristocracy or was
the concubine of a member of the upper class.





The
presence of the stone on any other piece of jewelry was the giver’s
unspoken request for permission to commence courtship and, if he wore
it, the recipient’s acceptance of the giver’s intentions. Dylen
looked at Riodan in consternation.





Correctly
divining the hethar’s
expression, Riodan softly said, “I don’t expect you to wear it. I
know it would be highly inappropriate for you to do so now. And
you’re not one to offer false hope either. But I had it made
especially for you, and I can’t imagine giving it to anyone else.
So please accept it. Even if you never wear it, I will find comfort
in the thought that you care enough to keep this gift of mine.”

Dylen
bit his lip. Swallowing hard, he nodded and pocketed the parcel.
Riodan suddenly pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face for a
moment in the crook of Dylen’s neck. And then he let go and,
without a word, hurried out of the parlor.

Dylen
felt the weight of loss keenly. He knew Riodan would be gone by the
time he got home. He sank down on the couch once more, his eyes
stinging from unshed tears.





It
was unlikely he would see Riodan again.









Chapter
Four









Offense









“Do
you regret your decision?” Hirlen softly asked.





Dylen
paused in the midst of sorting through freshly laundered clothing. He
stared at the shirt in his hand without really seeing it. At length,
he tossed it to one side and turned to face his father. Behind them,
the late morning sun streamed in through the bedroom window to gather
in a pool of light on the now vacant divan.





“I
regret it,” he readily admitted. “But not because I think I’m
wrong. Only that in doing so I have lost a friend.” He sighed
dolefully. “I won’t deny I miss him terribly, Adda.
But I did what I believe will serve both of us best.”





Hirlen
frowned. “There are times you must think of your own needs, Dy. Of
what your heart tells you.”

“And
listen to it?” Dylen said skeptically.





“Oh
yes. It’s only rarely that the heart has anything to say. We live
by our reason more oft than not. Therefore, when the heart speaks,
it’s best to hearken to it. It mayn’t happen a second time.”
Hirlen shook his head. “The chance to love may pass us by and never
come our way again.”

Dylen
paused in his sorting. “You speak as if…”

“As
if I
know something of it? Don’t we all to some degree?” Hirlen placed
a hand on Dylen’s, stopping him from continuing with his chore. He
pulled Dylen down to sit by him on the edge of the bed. “I did
become very fond of someone a long while ago. But, like you, I
thought there was no place for love in our world. Or the likes of me
in his. So I let him go. Do I regret it?” Hirlen shrugged.
“Sometimes. When I long for the company of a good Deir. But then,
what I felt for him hadn’t become a true and mature love yet. And I
wouldn’t have had you in any case if I had taken the chance then.”





“Then
why do you urge me to do as you didn’t?” Dylen challenged.





Hirlen
said, “Because I feel you have given your heart as I never fully
did.” He lifted his hand and stroked Dylen’s raven locks.
“Whether you wish it or not, Riodan owns it, and none will ever be
able to take it from him.” Hirlen tenderly regarded Dylen. “Am I
right?”





Dylen
looked away. “Would that I could claim otherwise,” he murmured.





*
* * *





“And,
if you like, we can then go to my—Rio, are you listening?”





Riodan
looked at his companion guiltily. Ithan was regarding him none too
patiently. He could not blame the other Deir. He had been paying only
half a mind to him since they met for the midday meal in the
University dining hall. Now they were supposed to be discussing what
they would do after classes.





It
was the end of the week and the last day of the midterm examinations
of the summer term. There were only the oral examinations to endure
the following week.

“I’m
sorry, Ithan,” Riodan murmured. “What did you say?”

Ithan
pouted. “You’re leagues away again. What in Aisen are you
thinking of? Ah, it’s that hethar
you introduced me to, isn’t it?”

Riodan
reluctantly nodded. “I can’t help it. I keep wishing we’d
parted on a better note. As it is…” He sighed. “I spotted him
the other day. He was on his way back from the market with his
father. I smiled at him when he saw me and he smiled back but, well,
he didn’t look very happy.”





“Not
happy to see you?” Ithan pressed. “I’m not sure,” Riodan
said. “I hope not.”

Ithan
threw an arm around his shoulders. “You have to put him out of your
head, Rio. You can’t go about in a fog all day on account of him!”

Riodan
offered him a lopsided grin. “You’re right, I can’t.”





He
tried to focus his full attention on Ithan. The latter was quite
good-looking with his light brown hair and pale heavy-lidded eyes.
And he was warm and amicable, almost brashly so. It was not his fault
that neither his looks nor personality could compare to Dylen’s
dark beauty or his subtly seductive amiability. But, really, who
could? Riodan strove to be more appreciative of his friend.

“What
was it you were saying we could do later?” he asked. Ithan smiled,
mollified by the interest shown in his suggestions.





“I
thought we might watch the mummers perform in Temple Square then have
dinner at the tavern near my boarding house. The food is quite good
and cheap besides and the servings hearty. And the ale is wonderful.
Strong and nutty I tell you.”





“That
sounds well enough.” “Afterwards we can go to my rooms.” Riodan
hesitated. “Your rooms?”





“Yes.
You haven’t visited my quarters yet. And I have some good wine I’d
like to share with you.” Ithan smiled at him entreatingly. “Do
say you’ll come, Rio.”

Riodan
experienced a frisson of unease. But he could think of no reason for
it or a decent refusal of Ithan’s invitation. Besides, what harm
was there in spending a few hours at the latter’s lodgings?

“All
right then,” he agreed. “I’ll meet you in the square at five
bells.”





*
* * *





Hirlen
asked one more time, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”





Dylen
had to smile at his father’s display of protectiveness. “It isn’t
as if this will be the first time I shall be by myself,” he pointed
out.

“But
never longer than a fortnight. And with no one to serve you.”
“Tarqin needs a holiday as much as you. I’ll be fine, Adda.”

He
gently pushed Hirlen out the door and urged him down the steps and
toward the waiting coach. Tarqin was already seated up front beside
the coach driver. Dylen assisted his father into the conveyance and
waited until he had settled himself within.





“Now,
go and enjoy yourself. But not so much that you forget to write!”
Hirlen chuckled. “And you take care, Dy.”

“I
will. Veres keep you, Adda.”





Dylen
watched the vehicle as it lumbered down the street, bearing Hirlen
and faithful Tarqin away. His father would be on holiday for three
weeks in Belthin, a resort town in the north of the seaside fief of
Glanthar. Since it took three days to travel to Belthin and

another
three to return to Rikara, Hirlen would be away for a month at the
very least. Dylen sighed heavily as he returned to the house.

It
would be a long and lonely month.





*
* * *





Riodan
wondered why he had agreed to accompany Ithan to his student quarters
after dinner. Truth be told, all he wanted was to go home to his own
lodgings and sleep off the effects of the ale they’d consumed in
copious quantity to offset the lackluster quality of their meal.

The
tavern Ithan had recommended turned out to be a tad more disreputable
than Riodan was used to. The food had been neither as cheap nor
hearty as Ithan had made it out to be, and the music and japery
favored by the establishment’s clientele were of the prurient
variety aimed at raising the baser instincts of the susceptible of
libido. Riodan had departed the establishment in much relief and
determined never to grace its premises ever again.





Sipping
Ithan’s idea of a good wine, he concluded his acquiescence was due
to lingering guilt over his general indifference to his friend’s
attempts to distract him from his melancholy. Riodan grimaced. The
wine was insipid and had an unpleasant aftertaste. It appeared that
Ithan was singularly lacking in discernment when it came to food and
drink.

The
other student dropped down beside him on the floor rugs. It was a
balmy evening, and there was no need for a fire. But the stone floor
of Ithan’s ground level rooms was too cool for comfortable sitting
without the protective skins.





“I
think I’ve drank too much already,” Riodan said, eyeing his cup
with little enthusiasm.

“It’s
only wine,” Ithan pointed out. “The ale was much stronger.”

Riodan
shrugged and took another sip. He shook his head and set the cup
down. “I’m sorry, I can’t take any more.”





He
felt Ithan’s hand on his shoulder, massaging it soothingly. Or was
it a caress? Riodan shivered and eased his shoulder out from under
his companion’s hand.





“I
think I’d better go,” he muttered. He attempted to rise, but then
his head seemed to spin, and he sat down again. “I feel strange.
Dizzy…” he complained.

Ithan
looked puzzled. “You do? Hmm, it shouldn’t have that effect.”
Riodan stared at him. “What shouldn’t have what effect?”

“Oh,
I gave you something for your nerves,” Ithan said with a grin. “For
my nerves?” Riodan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just
to help you relax. You’re much too tense, Rio.”





Suddenly
alarmed, Riodan eased away from Ithan. To his dismay, Ithan closed
the distance between them and ran his knuckles down his flushed
cheek. It was an intimate gesture that Riodan had never allowed
anyone save for his parents. He tried to jerk his face away, but the
sudden movement only made him giddier.





Before
he could get his bearings, he found himself down on his back with
Ithan half atop him. Frightened now, he pushed the other Deir off
him. But Ithan only chuckled and, reaching for Riodan’s collar,
began to unfasten his tunic.





Riodan
tried to stop him, but he found his every movement slowed by the
drug. Though his mind was in the here and now, it felt as if his
limbs were not a part of him,

and
he could scarcely make them obey his will.





“Wait,
I don’t—” His protest was cut off by an open-mouthed kiss.
Riodan thought he would retch. He shoved Ithan away. “Nay, I never
said…”

He
caught his breath when he felt his tunic open up. Ithan swiftly undid
his shirt as well, easily evading Riodan’s aimlessly flailing
hands.

“Stop
it, Ithan,” Riodan begged, his words slurring as the drug
relentlessly overtook his senses. “Please, stop.”





Ithan
snickered as he worked on the buttons of Riodan’s breeches. “So
shy even now. Just let go, Rio. Enjoy yourself.”

“Nay!”
Riodan gasped. He felt a downward tug on his breeches. “Leave me
alone!” He tried to pull away but only succeeded in aiding Ithan to
lower his trousers farther.





He
twisted about and landed on his belly. A mistake he realized to his
horror when Ithan laughed and yanked his drawers down, exposing his
buttocks.

“For
someone who doesn’t want this, you’re quite cooperative!” he
heard the other Deir say through the looming shadows over his
consciousness. There was a popping sound—as of a stopper eased out
of the mouth of a bottle.





As
he teetered on the edge of darkness, Riodan vaguely felt something
slip between the cheeks of his arse. He vainly struggled against it.
Then there was the pressure of entry and the burn of intrusion. With
his last ounce of strength, Riodan cried out in despair.

The
darkness overcame him at last, and everything faded to black.





*
* * *





Dylen
swore as he hurried down to the front door. Who in heyas
was all but hanging onto the doorbell chain? And why did whomever it
was choose to visit at this unholy hour?





He
unlocked the door and yanked it open, ready to bawl out his insistent
guest. The choice words died on his lips as soon as he saw Riodan.
Eyes red and cheeks raw, he stood forlornly before Dylen, shivering
quite violently despite the warmth of the night.





About
to speak, Dylen noticed the state of Riodan’s clothing. His rumpled
tunic and wrinkled shirt were both undone, revealing half-buttoned
breeches. As if stricken by Dylen’s examination, Riodan tremblingly
pulled his tunic close around him. A terrible suspicion struck Dylen.
He quickly ushered Riodan into the house and shut the door behind
him.

Dylen
turned and gazed intently at Riodan. “What happened?” he tersely
asked. Riodan’s eyes moistened with held-back tears, and he lowered
them in abject misery





and
obvious shame. His mouth quivered tellingly before he mastered
himself and mumbled the answer. Dylen swore again. He caught Riodan
by the shoulders and forced him to look at him.

“Who
did this to you, Rio?”









Chapter
Five









Reprisal









A
sense of foreboding hounded Ithan Soleri as he made his way down the
corridor to his room after a barely eaten lunch. The feeling had been
there all morning, almost from the moment he awakened, still affected
by his encounter with Riodan the previous eve. It had been a
lamentable lapse of judgment on his part, and he doubted his
relationship with the other Deir was salvageable. He shook his head
in self-reproach.





That
had been his mistake in the first place. He should have known better
than to presume that he had
a relationship with Riodan. Or that the handsome Sidonan would easily
get over his first heartbreak and take a lover soonest to salve his
frustration. Well, the opposite had become painfully clear last night
but only after—





Ithan
blew his breath out shakily. His meal felt like a leaden weight in
his belly. There was no excusing his actions no matter how much he
justified them to himself. Hard as he tried, he could not banish the
memory of a horror-stricken, tear-streaked face and dark eyes glaring
at him with distrust and abhorrence.





What
will come of it,
he wondered uneasily. Riodan was no mere student of ample
means
but the only son of a distinguished diplomat. Worse, the senior
Leyhar was a stiff-necked Deir who would be beyond infuriated by any
transgression against his family’s name or honor. At least, that
was the impression he’d gotten from Riodan’s descriptions of his
sire.

Wracked
by guilt and anxiety, Ithan fumblingly opened his door and stepped
into his quarters. So caught up was he in his thoughts that his
response proved slow when the door inexplicably closed on its own
behind him. He whirled around in belated alarm.





A
sharp blow to the jaw greeted him followed by the savage wrap of
fingers around his throat. He could not even draw enough breath to
cry out. Nigh choking in an unforgiving grip, he struggled for a
glimpse of his assailant. He found himself staring into a pair of
icy, grey-green eyes.





As
Dylen Teris’ grip tightened around his throat, Ithan frantically
clutched and clawed at the hethar’s
hands and arms. But instead of loosening his hold, Dylen slammed him
against the wall hard enough to set his teeth chattering.





He
moaned as pain exploded in his head, back and shoulders. Dylen
abruptly released him, and he nearly slid to the floor in a heap. He
managed to regain his footing but only precariously, his balance
compromised by the knock his head had taken.

Ithan
drew a ragged breath, his abused windpipe constricted and aching
abominably. He stared at Dylen in confusion and fear.

“What-what
do you want?” he shakily asked. “Retribution.”





Ithan’s
eyes widened. Preferring ignominious escape to a potentially lethal
confrontation with the irate hethar,
he darted for the door. But Dylen was faster. He barred the way,
grabbing Ithan by the wrist when the latter tried to strike him. He
flipped Ithan over on his stomach. Ithan landed hard, his nose and
chin connecting agonizingly

with
the floor.





Dylen
quickly straddled Ithan’s back and, grabbing his arms, twisted them
behind Ithan at a brutal angle.

“Heyas
spawn!” he snarled. “What part of stop
didn’t you comprehend?”





“Wait,
you don’t understand—!” Ithan yelped, spitting out the blood
that trickled into his mouth from his bleeding nose.

“What
don’t I understand?” Dylen seethed. “That he said don’t
and you still forced yourself on him?”

“Nay,
that isn’t—Aaahh!” Ithan looked over his shoulder pleadingly.
“You’ll break my arm!”

“I’ll
break more than your arm, dog,” Dylen told him venomously. “I’m
going to snap your spine and cripple you!”





“Nay!
Saints above, don’t!” Ithan screamed. “I didn’t do it! I
swear I didn’t!” “Didn’t do what?”

“I
didn’t rape him!” “Bollocks!”

“I
didn’t! I swear to Veres, I didn’t!” Ithan practically
blubbered. “You have to listen. Let me explain. Please!”

Dylen
glared down at him. He suddenly rose, hauling Ithan to his feet. He
dragged Ithan to the couch and roughly threw him onto it. Dylen sat
down on the low table before him.





“Talk,”
he growled.





Ithan
launched into his explanation without further ado, stuttering and
stumbling through it as fast as he could, acutely conscious of the
murderous gleam in Dylen’s eyes. When he was done, he was sobbing
uncontrollably. Dylen’s icy glare had not changed one whit, and he
was convinced that life as he knew it was about to end.





“You
had better be telling the truth,” Dylen coldly said.





“I
am!” Ithan yelled desperately. “You have to believe me. I swear
I’m not a rapist. I’m not!”

Dylen
continued to eye him malevolently.

Ithan
whimpered as a strange sensation came over him. His vision narrowed
until he thought he was going blind. A weight settled in his chest—he
found it hard to breathe, and his heart was virtually galloping. He
clutched at his throat, gasping, choking, terrified beyond belief.

*

Dylen
did not relent. He had learned long ago to use his gifts to help him
tell truth from lie. To know who was upfront and who was operating
from behind a wall of deceit. After all, his well-being sometimes
depended on his ability to distinguish the normal and harmless from
the sick of mind who gained pleasure from inflicting pain or worse on
others.

Not
that he made it a habit to force himself into another’s
consciousness. He neither enjoyed the experience nor sought to
exploit his ability. Indeed, if he could avoid inflicting such an
intrusion on anyone, he did and rarely regretted it. But this time,
he did not care. Riodan’s shame and anguish remained in the
forefront of his thoughts, and he would make the Deir who had done
this to the youth pay.

It
did not take long for him to summon Ithan’s memories of that night.
The Deir

could
not resist his command to yield his thoughts any more than he could
stop breathing though it felt as if he would any moment. Dylen
focused on the images and sounds that played out in Ithan’s mind.





He
saw Riodan as Ithan had—lying partly on his side on the skins
before the hearth, tunic and shirt undone, Ithan’s fingers
unbuttoning his breeches. Riodan pleaded with Ithan to stop as he
struggled against the hands that yanked his breeches to his knees.
Obviously slipping into a narcotic-induced haze, Riodan rolled onto
his belly in a desperate attempt to crawl away. But Ithan caught him
by the hips and pulled his drawers down.





The
bile rose in Dylen’s throat as the unseen Ithan prepared Riodan for
his taking. The urge to tear the Deir apart strengthened until Ithan
was writhing on the couch in agony, clawing at the invisible hand
around his throat that seemed to tighten as Dylen’s rage grew.





Before
he lost full awareness, Riodan cried out, his voice laden with such
grief and despair that Ithan’s hands stilled. His words were very
slurred but still quite comprehensible.





Help
me, Dylen! Help me! Please help me! Forgive me, Dy. Forgive me… Dy…
Dy… ariad… forgive me…

Dylen
swallowed hard. Ariad.
Riodan had called him beloved. He was startled when Ithan snatched
back his hands as if scalded. He watched the Deir shakily try to pull
Riodan’s breeches back up. And he heard Ithan’s disembodied
voice.





All
right, it’s all right. I won’t… Oh heyas… What am I doing?
I’m sorry, Riodan. I’m so sorry!

Next
Dylen saw was a wild-eyed Riodan sitting up and looking down at his
disheveled state in horror. The youth stumbled to his feet, yanking
up his breeches and fumbling with the buttons.





A
hand landed on his arm, and he jerked away and spun around. His
features contorted with rage, fear and loathing.

Don’t
touch me! Wait, I didn’t— Get away from me!

Riodan,
naught hap—





Face
streaked with tears and heartbreaking sobs spilling from him, Riodan
shoved Ithan away and lurched toward the door. He opened it
frantically and fled the apartment, ignoring Ithan’s pleas for him
to listen.





Dylen
abruptly withdrew from Ithan’s mind and released him from thrall.
The student slumped into a heap on the couch, gulping in air
greedily. He looked at Dylen with streaming eyes, wiping blood and
mucus from his nose with a shaking hand.

“Do
you believe me now?” he managed to croak.





Dylen
glowered at him. “You’re very fortunate that you were telling the
truth.” He ignored Ithan’s blanched countenance and rose to his
feet. “Stay away from him.”

The
student forced himself into an upright position. He dared to meet
Dylen’s eyes. “He wouldn’t have been with me in the first place
if you’d given him what he desired,” he mumbled.

Dylen
looked at Ithan incredulously. “What?”





Ithan
gulped but pressed on. “I tried to deny it to myself, but I knew I
was just a

substitute.
And not even for anything more than company. It’s you he really
wants. But if you don’t give in to him, this could happen again.
He’s fortunate it was I who was with him.”





Dylen
took a threatening step forward, prompting Ithan to back into the
corner of the couch in fright.

“You
have a lot of gall to paint yourself so favorably after abusing him,”
he snapped. “I did not—”





“Yes,
you did, blackguard. He told you to stop, but you continued to touch
him.” Ithan looked down, unable to refute the statement. “Stay
away from him,” Dylen repeated. “If you get close enough for him
to catch even a glimpse of your face, I’ll come for you. And I
won’t just break your back. I’ll make sure you have nothing left
to stick into anybody ever again.”

With
a final glare at the terror-stricken Deir, he strode to the door,
yanked it open and stalked out, slamming the door behind him so
forcefully it rattled in its frame.





*
* * *





It
was nearing sundown by the time Dylen returned home. He had passed by
the Seralye to inform Zarael that he would not come to work that
evening. To make amends for his absence, he’d helped Zarael screen
a number of guests who hoped to become full patrons of the club.
Afterward, he’d paid a visit to a regular patron of his. The Deir
was a member of the board of trustees of the State University.





Dylen
was certain he had convinced Ithan of the wisdom of staying out of
Riodan’s way. However, he was not above using whatever means at his
disposal to ensure that Riodan’s erstwhile friend never troubled
him again.





He
found Riodan anxiously waiting for him in the parlor. The younger
Deir rose to his feet when he heard Dylen mounting the stairs.

“Where
did you go?’ he asked fearfully.





Gesturing
to Riodan to reseat himself, Dylen joined him on the couch. “I paid
Ithan a visit,” he said.

Riodan
caught his breath. “Saints above,” he whispered. “What-what did
you do?” “I nearly strangled him,” Dylen readily admitted. “But
I thought that was too easy an

end
so I thought of beating him to death instead.” “You didn’t…”
Riodan half-bleated.

Dylen
shook his head. “I decided to give him a chance to explain his
side.” At Riodan’s incredulous gasp, he put a soothing arm around
his shoulders. “He admitted that he gave you a philter to make you
more receptive to his overtures. When you asked him to stop he
thought you were just stalling, that you were still too tense. And he
didn’t expect you to pass out. The drug was supposed to make you
amorous, not lose consciousness.”





He
held on to Riodan more tightly when the latter began to shake
violently and tried to rise from the couch. “You have to hear
this,” he insisted.

“What?”
Riodan said disbelievingly. “Listen to a detailed account of how he
violated me? I can’t believe that you
did!” His eyes beginning to tear, he averted them.





“I
almost didn’t,” Dylen said. “I was ready to tear his head off.”
He lifted a hand and cupped Riodan’s chin, compelling the youth to
look at him. “While he was preparing you, you began to weep and
plead for help. And then you fainted.”

“Which
is when he raped me,” Riodan spat out bitterly. “When I couldn’t
do anything to stop him.”

“But
he didn’t.”





Riodan
stared at him. “What?”





“He
didn’t go on, Rio,” Dylen said emphatically. “He couldn’t.
Not when he heard you crying for help and saying how sorry you were.
To
me.”
He paused to let the information sink in. “It struck him finally
that he was forcing himself on you. That you really didn’t want to
couple with him. And, that if he continued, it would make him a
rapist.”

“But
I felt something… enter me—inside me—” Riodan stuttered. He
took a deep breath. “How do you know he was telling the truth? He
was probably just so afraid of you.”





Dylen
shook his head. “I have my ways. Trust me when I say he didn’t
take you. And as for you feeling something… Well, he prepared you,
didn’t he? I think that’s what you remember—his fingers
stretching you.”





“But
it felt like more than that. Bigger.”





“How
would you know? You’ve never had anything up your arse before. One
finger is intrusive enough; what more two or three?” Riodan
considered this then slowly nodded in agreement. Dylen continued.
“But you can confirm this for yourself. I didn’t ask you at the
time because I assumed that he had
raped you. Now I want you to think back. When you woke up, were you
in pain? Was there any discomfort at all? Did anything leak out of
you?” When Riodan’s eyes widened in obvious contrary
recollection, Dylen smiled faintly. “The lack of seed aside, even
if you had been willing, you still would have felt something—an
ache or soreness. Anal penetration always leaves some discomfort, but
especially after the first time.”





Riodan
gazed at Dylen. “I didn’t feel anything,” he whispered. “No
pain, no discomfort. Not even the-the stretching. I was slippery from
the oil he used but there was no—Nothing leaked from me.” Riodan
gulped. “He did tell you the truth. He didn’t—I was not—”
He heaved a shuddery breath. “Merciful Veres…”





He
turned and buried his face in Dylen’s shoulder as sobs wracked his
body, the full import of his discovery hitting him with storm force.
Dylen held him, rubbing his back soothingly. He did not notice how
much time passed, and it was only when he felt his arm begin to cramp
that Dylen loosened his hold on the younger Deir. By now Riodan’s
sobs had subsided, and he seemed to be calming down at last. Dylen
squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.





“He
didn’t rape you,” he reaffirmed. “Thank the Maker for that. But
it doesn’t change the fact that he molested you. That he drugged
you to make you more compliant and went on doing things to you after
you told him to stop. Never go anywhere near him again.”

Riodan
shuddered. “I don’t even want to see him. Not ever.”

“You
won’t. I warned him not to show himself to you. I told him I would
geld him if you so much as complained that you’d caught a glimpse
of him.”

A
strangled laugh escaped Riodan. “Oh heyas,
you didn’t,” he sputtered.





“I
did,” Dylen said with a slight smile. “I was going to break his
back with my bare hands. What makes you think I wouldn’t castrate
him?”

Riodan
guffawed though it was clearly more an expression of intense relief
rather

than
humor. At length, he sobered and, drawing out of Dylen’s arms,
leaned back wearily.

“I
feel so drained,” he moaned. “So tired.”





“Of
course you do,” Dylen said, ruffling his hair. “Why don’t we
eat something?” He rose from the couch and headed for the stairs.
“Is soup fine with you?”

For
a moment, Riodan stared after him, startled by the sudden redirection
to so mundane a matter as dinner. But then the wisdom of grounding
themselves in practicalities after such a gut-wrenching discussion
registered.





“Yes,
it’s perfectly fine,” he agreed, following Dylen downstairs to
the kitchen. He busied himself toasting bread over the fire while
above, the flavorsome salted





meat
and vegetable soup from the midday meal slowly heated up once more.
Meanwhile, Dylen put together a simple salad of sliced fruit doused
with honey-sweetened cream.

They
did not bother to go up to the dining room but ate their meal at the
kitchen worktable. Riodan was still in a bit of a fugue and said very
little. Dylen let him be. It was only when they were done eating that
Dylen broached the subject once more.





Covering
Riodan’s hand reassuringly, he asked, “For what did you need my
forgiveness, Rio-min?”





Riodan
started then flushed. “Oh, that…” He bit his lip then mumbled,
“It was several things actually, not just one.” At Dylen’s
encouraging nod, he said,” I was sorry for not listening to you
about misleading Ithan. He called me a tease when I went home with
him.” He cringed a little when Dylen scowled then hurried on. “I
was sorry for stupidly putting myself in that situation after you’d
warned me about him.” He swallowed hard and looked down at the
tabletop. “And most of all, that it would be my first time and—it
wasn’t going to be with you.”





Dylen
did not reply. But he patted Riodan’s hand before getting up to
clear the table. “Let me do that,” Riodan quickly offered.

Dylen
regarded him hesitantly. “I think you should come back and live
here,” he said. When Riodan started to protest that he was fine, he
swiftly added, “It’s for my sake. I know you don’t want to be
coddled. But I can see how affected you are by what happened, and it
bothers me. So, until I feel more secure about you living by yourself
again, I would like you to stay here.”

Riodan
looked searchingly at him for a while. Finally, with a crooked grin,
he replied, “All right. For your
sake.”

Dylen
smiled back. “Well then, that’s settled. Now I need a good, long
soak,” he decided. “This is one day I want to forget.”

“Not
all of it,” Riodan muttered under his breath as he set about
putting the kitchen in order. But Dylen heard as he walked away.









Chapter
Six









Surrender









After
washing up, Riodan returned to the parlor and extinguished the lamps.
He then went to Dylen’s bedroom. He listened for sounds from the
bathing chamber, but it was quiet. Had Dylen fallen asleep in the
tub? He peeked into the chamber. Dylen turned his head almost as soon
as he did.

Riodan
blushed, abashed at being caught and affected by the glimpse of
Dylen’s nakedness. No matter how many times he had seen the hethar
in the nude, he had never gotten over his shyness. Even now, when
much of Dylen’s body was obscured by the bath foam, it still had
the power to discomfit him.





He
looked down in embarrassment. “I thought that perhaps you’d
fallen asleep,” he murmured by way of explanation.

Dylen
chuckled. “I’m not in the least bit sleepy.”





Riodan
dared to glance at him. “Still tense?” At Dylen’s nod, he said,
“Ah, I just realized, I didn’t thank you for what you did for
me.”

Dylen
gestured dismissively. “By the way, apology accepted,” he lightly
added. For a moment, Riodan was confused. And then he realized Dylen
was referring to

the
litany of apologies he’d mentioned earlier. “Which one?’’ he
asked with a crooked grin.

“All
of them.” Dylen waited for Riodan to recover from his surprise
before softly saying, “Care to join me?”

Riodan
caught his breath at the invitation. In that instant, he knew Dylen
was offering him more than a companionable soak. Suddenly feeling
dizzy, he began to strip nevertheless.





Blushing
brightly after he shed his drawers, he walked to the tub. Dylen held
out a beckoning hand, and he slipped his own into it. Dylen gently
pulled him into the tub and down between his legs. Riodan gasped
slightly as their limbs and other sundry body parts touched.





Half-cradled
in Dylen’s arms, he wondered what the other Deir would do next. He
did not wait long. A hand snaked behind his nape and pulled him
close. Their lips met for the first time. Riodan moaned almost upon
contact.





Never
before had he known the pleasure of the leisurely slip and slide of
bared bodies as they came together in love-play, the thrill of naked
limbs unashamedly entangling or the slow-burning build-up of
sensation where each and every burst of bliss could be savored to the
hilt. Least of all did he know just how potent a kiss could be, let
alone the titillating hot-tongued caress Dylen was treating him to
with the confident finesse of a practitioner of the love arts and the
thrilling passion of an eager lover.

To
his surprise, Dylen broke their kiss and slightly drew away. But,
even as he started to protest, Dylen smiled and gently shifted him
about to lean back against him. He caught his breath when he felt
Dylen’s shaft hard against his backside. Again he opened his mouth
to question the hethar,
but no sound issued save for a long, low groan. Dylen

had
reached down with both hands to cup his seed sac and take hold of his
shaft. Dylen proceeded to stroke his shaft to straining, thrumming
hardness and fondle the tender pouch beneath until it tingled and
tightened.





His
whole body shaken by pleasurable tremors, Riodan let his head fall
back onto Dylen’s shoulder. A moment later, he was moaning
helplessly as lips pressed against the side of his throat and Dylen
trailed searing kisses up and down its length. A hand smoothed over
his abdomen, kneading the firm flesh before it continued its upward
journey toward his chest. Riodan’s trembling increased as agile
fingers rubbed and pinched his nipples until they tensed into little
rose-brown peaks.





With
sensation threatening to overwhelm him, he wriggled in an unconscious
bid to escape. But Dylen held him fast while he continued to play
with his nipples and stroke his shaft even as he nibbled on the side
of his neck. Riodan wanted to rear and thrash, but trapped in Dylen’s
embrace, he could only shudder in ecstasy.





“Dy,
p-please,” he croaked as the pressure in his groin built up to a
nigh unbearable degree. “I can’t-I can’t—hold it—off…”

“Then
don’t,” Dylen whispered. He gave a few firm tugs to Riodan’s
shaft.





Riodan
sobbed harshly as his orgasm crashed through him. His hips bucked
forward while his seed spurted over Dylen’s fingers into the soapy
water. As the last of his climax played out, he sagged into Dylen’s
arms, his head lolling onto the other’s shoulder. It was several
seconds before he could think lucidly, let alone speak.





He
turned his head dazedly and gazed into Dylen’s eyes. “I’ve
never felt anything like that before,” he murmured.

“It
gets better.” Dylen grinned rakishly.





“It
does?” Riodan stared in amazement. And then he grinned back. “Will
you show me?”

Dylen
kissed him long and deeply. “In good time,” he murmured against
Riodan’s lips. “Relax. We don’t have to rush anything.” He
turned Riodan to face him. “I want you to enjoy yourself. Do
whatever you like, ariad.”





Riodan’s
eyes widened. “Am I truly your beloved?” “Against my better
judgment,” Dylen teased.





Laughing
softly, he kissed away Riodan’s indignant rejoinder.





*
* * *





Hirlen
hid his smile behind a hand. He did not want young Riodan to feel
conscious about being observed, and Dylen would likely send a glare
his way that said “look elsewhere”. But if they could only see
themselves, he fondly thought as he watched them from his great chair
in the parlor. One would think them newlyweds if one did not know the
truth of their situation.





He
had returned from his holiday in Glanthar to find Riodan Leyhar back
in residence and not only sharing his son’s bedchamber again but
also his bed. It had been a great surprise given Dylen’s previous
resistance to any entanglement with Riodan. But, once he got over
Dylen’s capitulation, Hirlen heartily welcomed Riodan into their
little family circle. Not for all the treasure in Aisen would Hirlen
forego the chance to see Dylen in such a state of bliss. And blissful
he was if the sparkle in his eyes and his ready laughter were any
indication of it.

He
stifled a chuckle when the pair bumped into each other while setting
the table for

the
evening meal. Instead of pulling apart to continue whatever they were
doing, they hesitated a moment too long just to look at each other
with obvious appreciation and longing. Why, you’d think they didn’t
daily partake of each other’s company the way they were behaving,
Hirlen thought with amusement.

He
looked up from the book he’d been pretending to read when Dylen
came over to sit on the couch. Riodan had gone downstairs and out to
the yard to look for a shirt among the laundry that had been hung out
that morning to dry. Hirlen regarded his son knowingly and was
gratified to see the slow blush that colored his cheeks.





“That
wristlet seems to be your favorite piece of late,” he remarked.
“You hardly ever take it off.”

Dylen
glanced at his wrist then pulled his sleeve down to cover the gold
and leather band with its heartsfire clasp.

“It
pleases him when I wear it,” he said.





“He
is such a dear lad,” Hirlen murmured. “I’m glad you and he have
found each other. I so enjoy seeing you happy, Dy.”

Dylen
faintly smiled. “For however long it lasts.” “Still pessimistic
I see.”





“You
know full well why. Would you rather I blundered headlong into this
affair without considering the probable outcome?”

“Possible
outcome,” Hirlen corrected. “You can’t know how it will end.
Now I agree the chances of success given his future profession are
not promising. But it doesn’t hinge on that alone. Much will depend
on your determination to make it work. And I do mean both of you.”





“I
understand, Adda,
and I assure you I’m not leaving matters to chance. But I prefer to
be prepared for the worst. I don’t believe Riodan will break my
heart if that’s what you think I fear. He’s one of the most
considerate and honorable Deira I’ve ever known. But I am afraid
that when he enters the diplomatic corps, our relationship will
become a liability to him and, well…” He sighed. “That may
force us to part whether we wish it or not.”

“And
you think you can steel yourself against the hurt?”

“Enough
to pick up the pieces and move on, yes,” Dylen admitted. “But for
now, I am savoring what we have so don’t worry about me. While we
have each other, I intend to make the most of it. I do like being
happy, Adda.
It’s having to give it up eventually that I find troublesome.”

Hirlen
shook his head. “Only you would couch it in those terms.”

Dylen
grinned. “By the way, what is this Tarqin mentioned last night
about you retiring?”





“Oh,
I‘ve been thinking about it,” Hirlen admitted. “My holiday was
so restful I find myself yearning for more time to do as I wish. I’ve
set aside a goodly bit already so I won’t be a burden to you, Dy.”





“You
are not a burden!” Dylen protested.





“And
I intend never to become one,” Hirlen firmly said. “I know you
have been saving much as well, and I applaud your prudence. But do it
for yourself. You’ll never know when you may need every little
piece you earn. Especially if the fates favor you and you wind up
leaving the fraternity.”





Dylen
held up a hand. “Let’s not go there. I distrust false hopes. Will
you tell Zarael

yourself?





“Of
course. He deserves that courtesy after all these years. And he
always treated me well even when I had to absent myself frequently
during your growing years. But I doubt I’ll be much missed by
anyone. Why, I haven’t gone to the Seralye every day this past
year.”





“You
will be missed, Adda,
and you know it,” Dylen good-naturedly chided him. “There are
very few hethare
left at the Seralye who remember the old days and all the gossip and
intrigues of those times. I wouldn’t be surprised were Zarael to
offer his services once more for the taproom parties should guests
call for someone who can regale them with stories of years gone by.
Retire by all means if you truly desire it, but don’t think you’ll
be easily forgotten.”





As
he finished speaking, Riodan walked over and joined them. “Are you
truly retiring, Teris-dyhar?”
he asked.

“I’m
seriously thinking about it,” Hirlen replied. “I should like to
visit friends, too. Many of them did not settle down in Rikara after
leaving the Seralye but went to live with their children in other
fiefs. Eventually, I may do so, too.”





Dylen
looked at him startled. “Without me? You would leave me behind,
Adda?”
“Only for a while,” Hirlen said soothingly. “You could join me
should you choose to





leave
our profession.”





“He
could?” Riodan blurted. He reddened when father and son stared at
him. “I mean I was surprised that you had even considered the
thought, Teris-dyhar.
Dy has always made it seem that he will remain a hethar
into his later years. That is, he has never given me ho– I mean any
indication that he could leave it much earlier.”





His
slip did not go unnoticed. Dylen reached for his hand and wove their
fingers together. “If I haven’t spoken of it, it’s because I
have never given thought to the possibility, that’s all.”





Riodan
looked down at their clasped hands. “But you will think about it
now?” he murmured.

Dylen
pursed his lips. He looked a shade reproachfully at his father. “I
will think about it, of course,” he finally said. “Ah, here’s
Tarqin with supper. Let us eat, Adda,
else we’ll both be late for work.”





When
Riodan went ahead to help Tarqin set the food on the table, Dylen
gave his father a somewhat severe look.

“What
ails you?” the elder Teris asked.





Dylen
tartly said, “What did I just say about false hopes?” “Is
Riodan’s hope so ill-founded?”

“Adda—”





“He
doesn’t harbors false hopes nor did I offer it. We simply spoke of
possibilities. Nothing is set in stone, Dy, not even the best laid
plans.”

Hirlen
raised a finger to his lips when they came within earshot of Riodan.
Dylen snorted but said no more on the subject.









Chapter
Seven









Liaison









The
last of the sun’s rays cast a red-gold glow upon the two lithe
forms on the bed. Soon the lamps would need to be lit to banish the
approaching evening’s shadows. But Riodan took no notice of the
passing time and waning light, too rapt was he in his love play with
Dylen.

Riodan
groaned helplessly as his ecstasy slowly mounted. He clutched at the
pillow under his head, his back arching sinuously in sympathetic
response to the unhurried yet unrelenting draw on his shaft. Saints
above, Dylen could be such a tease! How long was he going to keep him
in this maddening state of pleasurable tension?





He
had been serviced thusly before in the alleyways of Sidona’s
capital of Nivare and the rented rooms of the city’s prostitutes;
and once in the elegant bedchamber of a friend of his father’s when
said friend’s son importuned him after a dinner party. He’d fled
that bedchamber when his would-be seducer made it clear he wanted
more than just a taste of him.

In
every case, he’d been well sated. But none came close to the near
cataclysmic bliss he daily experienced at Dylen’s hands.





It
was not only skill that made it so, though there was no denying that
Dylen was very skillful. For the first time, he was in love, and it
was the Deir he loved who now pleasured him and this lent every
encounter with Dylen an intense intimacy Riodan had not previously
known.





His
belly tightened, and his toes curled as he was repeatedly enveloped
in wet warmth, moist lips wrapped snugly around his tumescent flesh.
Again and again, Dylen took him in nigh to the base of his member,
maintaining a steady pace that kept Riodan just teetering on the edge
of the precipice, occasionally releasing him when he seemed about to
burst to run his tongue along the length of his shaft.

“Dy…”

“Hmm?”

“Please!”





Dylen
chuckled around his mouthful of hot flesh. The sound and sensation
alone nearly overwhelmed Riodan. His hips lifted in reflexive need.

Without
warning, Dylen obliged him and quickened his pace. The heretofore
gradually loosening coil of pleasure within Riodan abruptly came
undone, and he cried out as delicate ribbons of milky seed spewed
from his shaft. He shivered deliciously as Dylen all but drank him
down. Afterward, he could only weakly settle into the circle of
Dylen’s arms.

Such
profound changes in so short a time,
he thought. Take his daily routine for
instance.

Each
night, he was roused from light sleep when the mattress dipped as
Dylen slipped into bed after his evening at the Seralye. He then slid
back into slumber snuggled against his lover. Each morning, he
awakened to the sight of Dylen’s beauteous face and

form
at his side. He would quietly rise, draw on a robe and slip out of
the room for a mug of milk tea. If he had morning classes, he ate
breakfast alone and headed for the University, always briefly rousing
Dylen with a morning kiss before he left the house. When he got back
after classes, he spent what remained of the afternoon with Dylen
until it was time for the hethar
to leave for work.





On
weekends, he could wait for Dylen to wake up an hour or so later.
After breakfast, they spent the day together—going to the market to
replenish the larder, helping Hirlen tend his tiny garden in the back
of the house, discreetly sampling the city’s various offerings or
just curling up on the parlor couch to read a good book or mend
clothing. Then it was supper and time for Dylen to ready himself for
the evening. Riodan would doze in bed until Dylen returned, and the
cycle would start all over again.





Riodan
savored the routine for the sense of belonging it gave him. He truly
felt like one half of a couple. Indeed, he found he did not even give
much thought to whether Dylen had provided more than simple company
for any of the Seralye’s patrons. Perhaps he had become so used to
that aspect of Dylen’s profession during his lengthy residency with
the Terises that it no longer had the power to affect him deeply save
for the occasional worry for Dylen’s safety and well-being.





He
lifted his head from its cozy berth on Dylen’s shoulder to gaze at
his lover with a lazy smile. Dylen smiled back.

“I
trust you have no cause for complaint,” he quipped.

Riodan
snorted. “Only an ingrate would. I do hope that I shall one day be
even half as skillful as you if only to equal the pleasure you give
me.”





“But
you do give me as much pleasure, Rio,” Dylen protested. “I take
joy in the way you offer yourself so willingly.”

“Oh?
Then perhaps I should ask that you do the same!”

Silence
fell abruptly, and the smile slowly faded from Dylen’s mouth.
Riodan frowned.

“What
is it?” he asked. “What did I say wrong?”





Dylen
bit his lip. “I’m sorry if I have failed to content you,” he
murmured. Riodan stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I
know you wish to take things further and that it irks you that I
can’t accommodate your wish just yet.”





“Oh,
that.”
Riodan shrugged. “Well, yes, I am surprised at your reluctance to
couple with me. One would think with all your experience you would
have no inhibitions about it left. I mean, it’s natural for me to
hesitate when you teach me something new; I’m no seasoned lover.
But you are and more besides.”





“All
the experience in Aisen can’t make certain acts more palatable,”
Dylen countered. “I’m so sorry, Rio, but I can’t grant your
wish just yet.”

Riodan
huffed. “What is it about buggering me that you dislike?” he
blurted, his frustration overtaking his usual aversion to crude
language. “Do I have to pay for the privilege as well?”





It
was Dylen’s turn to stare. “You want me
to take you?”





His
reaction was initially lost on Riodan. “Wasn’t that what I asked
you to do that night at the Seralye?” he pointed out a little
tartly. An instant later, however, he started and asked, “You
thought I wanted to take you?”





“Don’t
you?”

“Well,
eventually, of course,” Riodan admitted. “But my first time, I
would much prefer to be led.” He regarded Dylen curiously. “Is it
because I’m inexperienced that you don’t wish to yield? Do you
fear that I’ll hurt you?”





The
hethar
shook his head. “It has naught to do with your lack of skill. I
could guide you well enough to ensure that you don’t hurt me
overmuch.”

“Then
what stops you?”





Dylen
sighed and lay back. Riodan watched him, wondering at his
uncharacteristic lack of assurance.

“Most
of my patrons prefer that I take them,” Dylen suddenly said. “Many
are the heads of their families or business holdings and, more oft
than not, it is they who sire their heirs and hold the purse strings.
Allowing another Deir to dominate them sexually is a means of letting
go.”

“It
relaxes them?” Riodan ventured half incredulously.

Dylen
faintly smiled. “Strange as that might sound, yes. However, there
are Deira who want the opposite. Who wish to control and dominate.
Some possess that privilege and seldom give it up even for the space
of a tumble. But more do not and thus seek it elsewhere. Such patrons
never yield, only take, and they make it very clear that they are in
control.”

Riodan’s
eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You associate yielding
yourself with subjugation.”

Dylen
hesitated then nodded. “I am constrained to do so if it is what a
patron desires,” he haltingly explained. “And my pride is much
salved by the considerable fee I can command for it. But, outside of
my profession, I have never consented to play the mare. It isn’t
that I think it demeaning, mind you. It’s just that I prefer not
to. What I mean is I have little choice when I’m at work. So I’d
rather not bring home that sense of-of having no say in the matter.
Away from the Seralye, I am my own person, and none can demand of me
what I have ever surrendered only for the highest of prices. Oh
plague take my tongue! That sounded horrible! Forgive me if I
offended you, Rio. Please believe me, it has naught to do with you
and—”





Riodan
lifted his hand to cover Dylen’s mouth and halt the flow of
explanations and apologies. He smoothed a finger over Dylen’s lower
lip.

“I’m
glad you told me this. I don’t wish to make you do anything that
would discomfort you.” He followed the stroke of his finger with
the caress of his lips. After a slow, lingering kiss, he murmured, “I
won’t deny that I would dearly love to take you. But not until you
desire it yourself. Until then, I’ll happily yield. Indeed, if it
is all I can ever do, if it is all you can abide, I’ll be content.
More than anything, Dy, I just want to be one with you however we
achieve it.”





Seeing
the tension seep out of Dylen’s features, he smiled and, lying
back, he pulled the latter atop him and between his upraised knees.

“Please,
ariad,
have me now. Love me.”

Dylen
gazed at him, something like wonder in his eyes. And then that
passed, and he bent to seal their mouths together in a kiss that
quite took Riodan’s breath away.





“You
should know,” he murmured. “This is a first for me as well.”
“How so?”

“I
have lain with many but never in love. To you alone do I yield my
heart, Rio.” Riodan thought his
heart would burst right out of his breast, so full did it feel after

Dylen’s
quiet avowal. Moisture gathered in the corners of his eyes, and his
throat tightened. Staving off a potentially mawkish display of
emotion, he pulled Dylen into another molten kiss while curling one
leg behind the latter’s thighs in wanton invitation. He felt Dylen
smile into their kiss.

Fingers
traced their way down his throat to his chest and the taut wash of
his belly, succeeded by lips that marked their passage southward with
scarlet bruises. Riodan’s excitement mounted once more with every
moist tug at his nipples and every lash and nibble of Dylen’s
tongue and teeth across the expanse of his abdomen. He closed his
eyes in anticipation when Dylen reached between his legs to cup the
tender sac beneath his shaft. But, if he thought he would be treated
to a repeat of Dylen’s previous pleasuring, he could not be more
mistaken. He stiffened when Dylen’s fingers ventured behind his
seed pouch to touch the small lipped opening it concealed.





The
seed channel, more commonly called the sheath, was the most telling
evidence of the Deira’s direct descent from their forebears, the
ancient Naere who long ago fled their dying world and found a new
home for their dual-gendered race on Aisen.

Riodan’s
eyes flew open, and he looked down in some dismay. “You don’t
mean to—” he started to say.





Dylen
met his anxious gaze. “Of course not. I’m well aware that the
privilege is reserved for your lawful mate alone.” He shook his
head when Riodan would have protested his statement. “Trust me,
Rio. I want this to be a memory to savor, not regret.”





Riodan
regarded him curiously then nodded. “I shall never regret this,”
he declared. “Have me as you wish.”





A
smile was his answer, devastating in its sweetness. Riodan groaned
and let his head fall back on the pillow. He wondered if his sanity
would survive his first coupling with Dylen. Veres almighty, even the
hethar’s
smile was enough to send his senses swimming if one could call their
frantic floundering thusly.





He
caught his breath as Dylen drew his fingers along the delicate ridge
of his sheath. Every stroke of the sensitive flesh sparked a fresh
frisson of pleasure. And set in motion the bodily change that turned
a Deir, enabling him to take his partner inside him in reproductive
union. Riodan’s seed pouch contracted and slightly receded upward
to fully expose his sheath. Glistening with the slippery essence of
Riodan’s arousal, it easily accepted the inward slide of Dylen’s
finger. Riodan moaned.





“Did
you feel the change?” Dylen murmured, gingerly thrusting his finger
into the slick passage.

Riodan
nodded, his eyes wide with awe. His whole body was thrumming. The
need to be deeply penetrated had awakened and waxed steadily until it
was all he could think of. All he desired.

“I
want you,” he pleaded.





“Patience,
my Rio,” Dylen said soothingly.





He
withdrew his hand and reached for something on the bedside table.
Riodan stared at the crystalline bottle of oil in Dylen’s grip.
He’d wondered for a long time now when Dylen would finally use it
on him.





Dylen
removed the stopper of the bottle and drizzled a little of the oil on
the fingers of his right hand. Replacing the container on the table,
he rubbed the oil between his fingers. Meeting Riodan’s tense gaze,
he caught and held it while he lowered his hand between the youth’s
legs. He slid his fingers into the cleft between Riodan’s buttocks.

Before
Riodan could react, he pushed a finger into him. Riodan gasped, his
body jerking a little. He recalled at once the intrusive sensation
from his encounter with Ithan. His breathing quickened, and he
struggled to slow it. This was Dylen, he reminded himself. And Dylen
was readying him to receive his shaft, an act Riodan had yearned for
longer than he cared to remember. The thought wrought him a measure
of peace. With a tremulous smile, he parted his legs farther to make
it easier for Dylen to breach him.





That
earned him an approving grin. “Do you realize how utterly
irresistible you look?” Dylen huskily said, inserting another
finger. “You tempt me as I have never been tempted before.”





Riodan
managed a small laugh. “Do I? Splendid. That will keep me uppermost
in your mind then.”

“Lackwit,”
Dylen fondly replied, turning the gibe into an endearment. “You’re
always uppermost in my mind. Even when I’m with others.”

Surprised
by the admission, Riodan opened his mouth to reply, but the caress of
something inside him robbed him of speech. Staccato gasps escaped him
instead as bursts of sensation accompanied every stroke of Dylen’s
clever fingers.





“What-what
are you doing to me?”





Dylen
only chuckled and removed his fingers. Riodan watched with bated
breath as he thoroughly anointed his shaft with oil, deliberately
sliding his hand down the whole length of it. Riodan gulped at the
sight.





He
allowed Dylen to guide his legs high up around his waist. Dylen
shifted forward to lean over him. Riodan let out a shuddery breath
when he felt the prod of Dylen’s shaft against his backside.





“Are
you sure you want this?” Dylen asked.





Riodan
glanced down at the flesh that would fill him. Dylen was impressively
endowed in girth as well as length. Riodan swallowed in some
trepidation at the thought of taking that formidable shaft up his
backside. But his fear was not enough to overcome the elation at
finally being in union with the Deir he adored. He looked at Dylen
with eyes brimming with trust and anticipation.

“Oh
yes,” he whispered. “I’m very sure.”





Again
there was the pressure of entry but a much greater one than before.
Riodan gasped as Dylen’s shaft pushed into him in one fluid motion.
He whimpered as he was slowly but steadily filled. His breath came in
ragged fits while he struggled to adjust to the burning sensation. He
stared up at Dylen, finding solace in the grey-green eyes that
regarded him with love and desire. He managed a small brave smile.

“I
don’t wonder that Ithan couldn’t restrain himself,” Dylen
murmured. “You’re so beautiful it’s almost unfair.” He bent
low to kiss the trembling youth, sliding his arms beneath him to hold
him close.





The
affectionate gesture soothed Riodan immeasurably, and he relaxed
enough to allow Dylen to slide into him completely without further
discomfort. Dylen shifted his hips as he delivered a thrust. Another
slight movement and another thrust and suddenly Riodan felt pleasure
explode in his belly, a sharp, indefinable pleasure that he had not
thought possible. He moaned against Dylen’s lips, his body arching
upward, seeking that wonderful sensation.





Dylen
complied. He drove into Riodan repeatedly, always angling his thrusts
to ensure Riodan’s enjoyment of the act.

“Do
you understand now?” he softly said. “Turning heightens the
pleasure. I wanted you to enjoy this to the hilt.”

“Always
my needs first,” Riodan shakily replied. “What of yours, Dy? I
want you to enjoy this, too.”

Dylen’s
smile was more tender than Riodan had ever seen it. “Think you
there can be anything more enjoyable for me than this? To wholly have
you, Rio, and be the first accorded the privilege is an honor I never
thought to know. And gaining your love is a joy beyond compare. There
can be no greater bliss, ariad.”





He
maintained his steady rhythm, subtly striking that point of pleasure
within until Riodan thought he would go mad from the ecstasy. He
tightened his legs almost frantically around Dylen’s waist,
wordlessly begging him to bring his exquisite torment to a close.
Dylen quickened and deepened his thrusts.





Stimulated
almost beyond bearing, Riodan began to shake with the onset of
another orgasm.

“Veres
preserve me!” he moaned, his breathing harsh to his ears. Dylen
smirked. “Good?”

“Oh,
heyas,
yes!”





Dylen
reached between them to grasp Riodan’s shaft. He briskly stroked it
in tandem with his thrusts. It proved too much for Riodan.

His
climax ripped through him, the double sensations of being filled and
stroked amplifying it beyond what he’d previously known. And when
Dylen stiffened then shuddered and gasped repeatedly at the moment of
his own release, Riodan thought he had never seen anything as
beautiful as the sight of his lover caught in the throes of rapture.
Liquid warmth seeped deep into him, lengthening the ecstasy that
continued to wrack his body.





Riodan
was sobbing by the time the sensations ebbed. He had not known that
release from intercourse was lengthier and far more intense than
completion gained by other means. He placed a trembling hand on his
heaving abdomen and was surprised by the absence of semen on his
skin. His climax had been spectacular. Where was the evidence of it?

“A
turned Deir doesn’t produce seed,” he heard Dylen explain,
amusement limning his voice. “A rather efficient way to minimize
the mess, don’t you think?”





Riodan
had to chuckle at Dylen’s typical frankness. It was then he
realized that Dylen was making no move to withdraw from him. The
other Deir was still deeply imbedded inside him, and even more
remarkable, his shaft had not subsided completely. Indeed, it felt as
if it were firming up once more!





Riodan
opened his eyes to stare disbelievingly at his lover. Dylen’s smile
was positively wicked.

“I’m
going to show you what it means to be pounded into the mattress,”
he informed Riodan. “I promise you won’t be able to walk straight
for a few days.”

“Saints
above,” Riodan whimpered, caught between apprehension and elation.









Chapter
Eight









Crossroads









C.A.
2987





Spring
in the north of Ylandre was heralded by scattered showers and moist
cool breezes. Grey and gloom gave way to color and light as the
myriad flora and foliage that adorned the capital made their first
appearances, and the sun shed its winter veil and grew ever brighter
and warmer as the season progressed. Rikara in this time of
reawakening was beauteous to behold and a veritable feast for the
senses, particularly when the city’s vibrancy and cultural variety
emerged from hibernation.





But
all these were lost on Riodan for reasons he was less than pleased to
acknowledge.

The
notion of celebrating one’s begetting day is highly over rated,
he crossly decided
as
he passed through the gates of the University grounds. Only children
derived any pleasure from such celebrations. Then again, only
children were supposed to. He was way past the age at which any
sensible Deir would still care to remember the anniversary of his
birth. So why did he feel neglected?

He
shook his head and chided himself for being childish. Really, what
had he been expecting? He tried to wipe the scowl from his face as he
strode down the pedestrian path flanking the main avenue that
serviced this sector of the north district.

“Why
such a long face?”





Riodan
came to a sudden halt to avoid colliding with Dylen as the latter
stepped out from behind one of the old silver oaks that shaded the
path. His eyes widened at his lover’s unexpected appearance.





“Dylen!”
he exclaimed. “Have you been waiting long? What are you doing
here?” The hethar
smiled. “Not so long. And I thought you would like to spend the
rest of





the
day together. It is your begetting day.”





Riodan’s
dark mood abruptly dissipated. Gazing happily at Dylen, he smiled
with all the pleasure of a child who’d been granted his dearest
wish.

“Ah,
I would love to. But why so furtive?” Riodan noted how Dylen stayed
in the shade to obscure his features. “Even now you hide your face.
You’d think we were engaged in a clandestine affair.”





“We
are.” “Dy!”

“I
don’t want to hide what we have, believe me,” Dylen assured him.
“But for your future’s sake, it’s best to be prudent.”

“My
future is with you,” Riodan stoutly said.





Dylen’s
smile turned a shade pensive. “I wish the same, but life does not
always cooperate with our plans. Now, hush, let’s not ruin your day
with useless debate. Come, tell me what you’d like to do.”

Riodan
opened his mouth to protest further, but Dylen brushed a placating
kiss

against
his lips, and he promptly forgot what he was about to say. He
chuckled ruefully at the ease with which Dylen could distract him.

“Very
well,” he conceded. “First, you can buy me a few meat tarts. I’m
starving. Then I should like to watch Ivara’s latest satire.
Everyone says it’s very good. And then you can treat me to the
riverboat dinner you keep telling me about. Let’s see if the food
is as good as you claim it is!”





*
* * *





It
was dark when they stepped ashore after a leisurely cruise down the
Azira, the great river that bisected the city. By now, Riodan had
completely revised his opinion of begetting day celebrations.





Dylen
chuckled when Riodan told him of his earlier sentiments. “It all
depends on the quality of the company you keep,” he teased.





“Does
that mean I’ve had the benefit of the best of the best in company?”
Riodan said with a grin.

“Your
words, not mine.”

About
to retort, Riodan noticed they were passing by an apothecary. He
stopped and said, “Wait, I need to buy something.” He hastened to
the shop.





Dylen
had only waited a few minutes when Riodan returned with a slender
package wrapped in brown paper. Dylen eyed the package curiously.

“I’d
think you had bought yourself a bottle of wine if I didn’t know
you’d gone to an apothecary,” he remarked.

Riodan
shook his head. He partially unwrapped the package to reveal a
bottle. Dylen stopped short when he saw the color of the bottle’s
contents—a deep blue akin to a midsummer sky. The color of the
potent Deiran conception suppressor.





“Why
in Aisen did you buy mirash?”
he said. A moment later, he stared at Riodan in dismay. “Nay, you
don’t expect me to… Rio!”

“Why
not?” Riodan countered, his cheeks coloring. “You’ve had me
already. What difference would this make?”

“A
whole world,” Dylen replied. “You’re no ordinary commoner. It’s
barely permissible as it is for you to yield your arse outside of
marriage. But the only Deir you may sheathe genitally is your lawful
spouse. You know this, Rio.” He took the bottle and rewrapped it.
He heaved a rueful sigh. “You don’t know how hard it is to refuse
your offer. I count it a great honor that you should want to give me
this privilege. But I won’t compromise you any further than I
already have.”





“Compromise
me?” Riodan frowned. “Are you saying this is all you want?” he
unhappily asked. “A mere affair?”

Dylen
pulled him into his arms and held him fast, their foreheads touching.





“If
it were only up to me, we would always be together,” he murmured.
“But your life is not mine to direct, and we can’t tell where
fate will take us. Nay, listen to me, ariad,”
he pleaded when Riodan stiffened and tried to pull away. “As Veres
is my
witness,
I love you with all my heart and soul. But I dare not hope overmuch
about the future. We cannot indulge in foolhardy ventures. Not while
our circumstances remain as they are. Were we to part—and the
chances are great that we will, we can’t pretend otherwise—you
will probably make a good match with a Deir of equal if not better
standing. How think you would he respond were he to discover that you
had already

given
all of yourself to another? He would likely take offense, and that
could affect your marriage adversely from the very start.”

Dylen
waited while Riodan digested his words. Finally, Riodan relaxed and
leaned into his lover’s embrace.

“Why
do you have to be so practical?” he muttered.

Dylen
sadly smiled. He released Riodan and slipped an arm around his waist
to draw him close as they resumed their stroll.





“I
remember you said you have never serviced a patron thusly either,”
Riodan said after a while.

“I
have never yielded myself thusly,” Dylen corrected. “But some of
my patrons have.”

Riodan
looked at him in some surprise. “Truly? There are Deira who take
the chance?”

“Only
a very few. And none of them bachelors with marital prospects.
Indeed, the Deira I have bedded that way are all wed. They say the
pleasure is different, and one they greatly enjoy.”





“But
why not just turn to their spouses for that purpose?”





“Skill
and experience matter. And also societal strictures. Particularly if
the Deir in question requires his spouse to only play the mare. A
childbearer is also expected to come to the marriage bed completely
untouched save if he has been initiated by his intended beforehand.”





At
Riodan’s wide-eyed gape, Dylen laughed mirthlessly. “You’d be
surprised how many amongst your class adhere almost obsessively to
the roles they have been assigned by their families. Take our Ardan’s
own father. Dyrael was forbidden sexual encounters with anyone before
he wed Keldon Essendri. For all that he was of the same line of
descent and as royal of blood, the mere fact that he was to be
consort required that he reserved himself for Keldon alone.”





“How
awful for him.” “Indeed.”

They
paused to hail a public coach. As they boarded the conveyance, Dylen
added, “Mind you, I’m never comfortable when it’s requested of
me. Even with the use of mirash,
the risk of conception is always present.”

“Yet
you proceed,” Riodan mildly sniped.





“For
the right price,” Dylen countered. “And on the condition that the
patron will take sole responsibility for any and all consequences.”

“But
you’d still refuse me even if I made the same assurances.” When
Dylen nodded, Riodan pouted. “How I do wish you were less honorable
about these things.”

“You
wouldn’t love me if I were,” Dylen pointed out.





“You’re
right, I wouldn’t,” Riodan reluctantly conceded. “Still…”
He reached for Dylen’s hand and wove their fingers together. “I
won’t stop hoping that we might bind to each other one day. If we
could, if that were possible—Dy, would you leave your profession?”

Without
hesitation, Dylen replied, “Yes, I would.”

“But
if it isn’t possible, if I’m forced to bind to someone else…”
Riodan bit his lip then asked, “Would you consent to be my leman?”

Dylen
did not reply at once but stared out the coach window. Riodan fought
the urge

to
press him for an answer. At length, Dylen looked back at him with a
crooked smile. “If you ask it of me,” he said. “And
if there is no love between you and your mate.

I’ve
never come between spouses before. I won’t start now. Not even for
you, ariad.”
Riodan said no more. His eyes gleaming, he pressed a tender kiss to
Dylen’s lips

then
leaned against him and rested his head on his lover’s shoulder.
They rode back to the Quarter in companionable silence.





*
* * *





The
first inkling of something unusual in the offing was the elegant
carriage parked in front of the Teris townhouse. Few conveyances
plied the narrow street and one as expensively appointed as this
carriage starkly stood out. They gave it a cursory, if curious,
once-over before turning to mount the stairs to the porch.

A
Deir in livery peered out at them from behind the carriage. The Deir
gasped and hurried forward in obvious relief.

“Master
Riodan!” he called.





Riodan
froze and looked over his shoulder at the retainer in disbelief. His
eyes widened in recognition. Barely mustering a nod and a faint smile
of acknowledgement, Riodan turned to look at Dylen in alarm.





“I
take it your parents have found you,” Dylen said. Riodan cursed
under his breath. “So it seems.”

They
entered the house quickly and promptly bumped into a scowling Tarqin.
The elderly servant merely gestured upward then discreetly retreated
to the kitchen.

The
lovers hastened up the stairs to the parlor. Riodan almost froze
again when he espied the elegantly attired Deir standing by the
hearth engaged in stilted conversation with Hirlen. Dylen took him by
the elbow and urged him forward. The movement drew the Deir’s
attention, and he straightened, his countenance stern and
disapproving. Save for the bronze hue of his hair, there was little
resemblance between him and his son.





“Good
evening, Aba,”
Riodan politely said.





Theron
Leyhar did not waste time on pleasantries. “It’s about time you
arrived,” he scolded. “By Veres, you led me a merry chase!”

Riodan
pursed his lips. “It’s hardly my fault that you didn’t think me
bold enough to leave Sidona,” he retorted. “How did you find me?”

The
ambassador’s eyes narrowed at his son’s belligerent tone. “My
agents discovered you had enrolled at the University and spoke with
some of your schoolmates. One of them said you had befriended a
hethar
and that he might know where you were.” Theron did not quite
conceal his distaste. “I perforce visited his club in the hope of
locating you.”

“Leyhar-dyhar
went to the Seralye and asked for you,” Hirlen informed Dylen.
“Zarael directed him here.”

Giving
Dylen his full attention for the first time, the ambassador studied
him briefly. “So you’re the hethar
my son’s friend mentioned,” he said almost accusingly.

“Was
it Ithan Soleri you spoke to?” Riodan brusquely asked. “Why yes,
that was his name.”

“He’s
no friend of mine!” Riodan spat.





Theron
stared at him in some surprise. “I see. Well, no matter, he was
right about how I could find you.” He turned to Hirlen once more
and said, “It was kind of you to

take
Riodan in. And let it not be said that the Leyhars are ingrates. I
will compensate you for whatever help you extended to him.”

“Nay,
Dyhar,”
Dylen corrected him. “What aid we gave Rio was out of fondness for
him and not for gain of any kind.”

Theron
visibly bristled at Dylen’s use of the shortened form of Riodan’s
name. “Of course,” he stiffly replied. “But I will take him off
your hands now. Gather your things, Rio-min.
Let us go home.”





Riodan
snorted. “Home? To what? To be shackled to a sadistic blackguard
only a few years younger than yourself? Nay, Aba,
I’m staying here with the Deir I love.”

Theron’s
eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. “Love? You mean him?” He
glanced disdainfully at Dylen. “You should know better than to
squander your affections on mere riffraff.”





Taking
his cue from Hirlen, Dylen stifled the impulse to throttle the
ambassador for his inexcusable rudeness.

“You
will not speak thusly of my lover!” Riodan hotly objected.

Theron
scoffed. “You will end this nonsense immediately, Rio. Do you wish
to taint your future? It’s one thing to be known to frequent
hethare.
A distasteful way to spend one’s time I must say but commonly
practiced enough to be deemed acceptable behavior. But an actual
affair with one is out of the question if you value your position in
society.”





“I
don’t care,” Riodan mulishly responded. “I intend for Dy to be
my leman.” “Are you daft?” Theron exclaimed. “Deira of good
repute neither wed nor take hethare
into
their households! You bear a respected name, Rio. Your concubine must
be





above
reproach—either a biddable virgin or a virtuous widower. He must
not have consorted with many partners before or during your affair.”

Riodan
rolled his eyes. “In other words, only one who has never been
tupped except by a dearly departed spouse is fit to be a respectable
Deir’s partner. Well, that should disqualify me as a suitable
candidate for the marriage mart unless it’s for some unfortunate
dupe below us in station.”





“What
do you—?” Theron gaped in horror and stabbed a finger at Dylen.
“Saints above! Do not
tell me you’ve yielded yourself to him!”

Riodan
raised his chin defiantly. “Irrevocably and frequently. So you see
it’s useless to nurse illusions about the state of my backside,
Aba.”
He smirked. “It has been thoroughly speared, plowed and ridden.”





“Rio,
there’s no call for crudeness—” Dylen started to say
reproachfully.





But
the ambassador interrupted, his face scarlet with umbrage. “Deity’s
blood, Riodan!” he exploded. “Are you mad? Giving the likes of
him the privilege of-of—”





“Deflowering
me,” Riodan finished for his sputtering sire. “On the contrary, I
counted it an honor to shed my virginity in his bed.”

“You
fool! Do you realize how much that diminishes your worth? Veres
almighty, if Ramil Barath learns of this, he will withdraw his suit
forthwith!”

“He
will? Then I should send him a detailed account of how vigorously
Dylen buggers me that I may rid myself of that knave soonest!”

“Impertinent
whelp!”





With
the pair’s argument escalating into a full-blown quarrel, Dylen and
his father moved to impose calm. But before either could speak,
Riodan gave his ire full vent.





“Ever
have you given thought to your wishes alone without a care for mine!”
he

shouted.
“Well, I’m done with you and your damnable ambitions!”





“You
have not yet reached your majority, Rio!” Theron angrily reminded
him. “I still have a say in your life!”

“Only
if I remain within your reach!” Riodan threatened, “Force your
wishes on me, Aba,
and I swear I shall conceal myself so well you’ll find yourself
snug in your grave
before
you ever see hide or hair of me again!”





Riodan
stormed off, entered Dylen’s room and shut the door with a
deafening crash. Theron tried to follow him but found his way
blocked. He glared at Dylen.

“Get
out of my way,” he snapped.





Dylen
did not budge. “He won’t listen to you, Dyhar.
Not while he’s in that state. I advise you to wait until his rage
has waned. I’ll see what I can do then.”

Theron’s
eyes narrowed. ”If you love him, let him go,” he declared, his
voice hard. “There can be no future together for the both of you.”

“I’m
well aware of that,” Dylen quietly replied. “Riodan, however, has
not yet seen as much of life as you or I have. What he desires he
believes he can attain even in the face of censure. And you of all
people will not convince him to accept otherwise.”





“But
you think you can?”

“Given
time and if I do it my way.”

“By
bedding him into capitulation?” Theron growled.





“If
need be,” Dylen readily admitted. “Honey trumps vinegar in the
art of persuasion. Surely you know that, Ambassador.”

When
Theron scowled at the tacit rebuke, Hirlen quickly added, “I would
also suggest that you don’t require him to return to Sidona. At
least, not until he has finished his studies. Riodan has settled well
at the University and gained many friends. To force him to leave will
only set him more firmly against you.”





After
a tense while, Theron gave Hirlen the barest of nods. “Send word
when he is ready,” he crisply said.

He
stalked away and went down the stairs.





Dylen
looked at his father. Hirlen’s gaze was sympathetic. Sighing with
resignation. Dylen headed for his bedchamber.





*
* * *





Dylen
allowed a few days to pass before broaching the subject to Riodan. It
was time enough for his lover to becalm himself and listen to counsel
he did not like the least bit. But listen he did when Dylen finally
discussed the matter with him the one evening of the week when he did
not report for work. Hirlen had already left for the Seralye while
Tarqin busied himself with mending and sorting the laundry.





Riodan
stood up and paced around the parlor restlessly. Dylen let him be. At
length, the young Sidonan stood before the window and stared out at
the street below. Dylen joined him, pulling him into his embrace to
lean back against him.

“I
can’t believe you agree with Aba,”
Riodan whispered.





Dylen
held him tighter. “I told you, it’s only because you still have
to establish yourself in society and our liaison might prove a
hindrance for you in certain circles,” he softly said. “Much as
we don’t want to believe it, there are many Deira like your sire
who see hethare
as little better than opportunists or, worse, lowly whores. You don’t
want it known that your first love affair—”

“My
only
affair!”





“—was
with a hethar.
Indeed, you must never let it be known that I had you. Always claim
it was the other way around.”

“So
I must sustain a falsehood to uphold my reputation,” Riodan
bitterly said. “It won’t be a complete falsehood,” Dylen
murmured. “Not after tonight.” Riodan looked back at him,
startled. “What-what do you mean?”





Dylen
released him and went to the glassware cabinet. He took out a
drinking glass then led Riodan into their bedroom. From the back of
the wardrobe, he brought out the bottle of mirash
Riodan had impulsively purchased just days earlier. Riodan watched
speechlessly as his lover poured himself a glass of the cerulean-hued
liquid.





“Dy?”
He gulped. “I didn’t mean that you should—”





Dylen
eyes glittered. “This is my gift to you, Rio. No matter how many
Deira I lie with, I shall never allow another to own me as you will
this night.”

He
raised the glass to his lips and drained it. A thoughtful smile
curved his lips.





“I
didn’t expect it to be so sweet,” he remarked. “In any case, it
needs time to take effect. Strip, ariad,”

Riodan
stared at him disbelievingly. But when Dylen doffed his clothes, he
quickly followed suit.

They
came together on the bed with the ease of lovers who knew each other
well. Neither shyness nor doubts hindered their loving. Limbs
sensuously entangled, their bodies all but melted into the other, and
mouths and hands roamed and ravished until the room resounded with
the sounds of their joy and pleasure.





Riodan
slid down Dylen’s sleek form until he reached the hard flesh that
had oft cleaved him these past many months. No longer a novice in
this manner of pleasuring, he eagerly wrapped his lips around Dylen’s
shaft. A sharp gasp followed by a lingering groan was his reward.
Dylen reached down and gripped his shoulders.





“Turn
around,” he ordered. “I want to taste you, too.”





Smirking,
Riodan swiftly complied. Resting his head on Dylen’s hard thigh, he
parted his legs to allow Dylen to do likewise. He nearly cried out
when Dylen summarily caught his hips and dragged him forward to
engulf his shaft in the moist warmth of his mouth. Riodan almost
forgot what he was supposed to do for a delirious moment as he was
drawn upon so edaciously, he almost spent himself within seconds of
the first suckle.





Riodan
possessively cupped Dylen’s buttocks to pull him closer. When the
muscles in the firm mounds tightened under his touch, he ran his
hands soothingly over them and applied himself to banishing Dylen’s
instinctive response to being held thusly. His efforts proved most
effective, and before long, Dylen was trembling with the onset of a
climax. His completion swiftly triggered Riodan’s who greedily
swallowed his lover’s spending before he, too, spilled himself into
Dylen’s mouth.





Taking
a moment to catch his breath, Riodan crawled his way up to lie
full-length against Dylen, Sated for the present, they lay in
comfortable silence. The flickering light cast a gentle glow of color
on their glistening bodies and entwined limbs.





At
length, Riodan stirred and said, “That was-that was…” “Yes,”
Dylen murmured.

He
ran his knuckles down Riodan’s flushed cheek then reached for his
hand. Riodan caught his breath when Dylen guided his hand between his
legs. He gulped when his fingers came into contact with the delicate
orifice concealed by the seed sac.

“You’re
sure?” he whispered. “Absolutely.”

Taking
a calming inhalation, Riodan set to turning Dylen as the hethar
had often turned him during their bouts of lovemaking, stroking the
tiny opening until the seed pouch contracted out of the way and
thrusting his finger tentatively into the now slippery passage
beyond. It did not take long before he judged Dylen ready for his
taking. But he still hesitated, keenly aware of his lover’s
distaste for obligatory submission.





Sensing
his uncertainty, Dylen sat up and settled himself astride Riodan’s
groin. Exhaling, he slowly lowered himself onto Riodan’s primed
shaft. A slight wince and faint hiss marked the moment when the
vestigial protective membrane within gave way. With the fragile
barrier gone, Dylen eased down until he had taken the whole of
Riodan’s shaft into his body.

Riodan
stared at him, quite overcome by the indescribable pleasure of being
snugly gloved by slick heated velvet. It was beyond anything he had
ever imagined, and the instinct to bury himself as deeply as he could
in such exquisite confines impelled him to buck up and drive his
shaft into Dylen. The quick, stabbing thrusts nearly overcame Dylen,
the sensitive walls of his sheath reacting sharply to the friction
wrought by the slide of firm flesh against them. He grabbed Riodan’s
hips and held him still.





“You’ll
undo me too soon,” he gasped. He closed his eyes, willing back a
premature unraveling. “Slowly, my love. Slowly.”

He
opened his eyes and, holding Riodan’s gaze, began to ride his
shaft, taking him in repeatedly until they were both breathing
roughly. Following Dylen’s lead, Riodan set a steady, measured pace
as he thrust upward.





Dylen
leant down and brushed his lips along Riodan’s jaw before trailing
open-mouthed kisses down his throat and sucking hard at the smooth
flesh. Ignoring Riodan’s inarticulate pleas, he moved southward to
drop kisses on his lover’s nicely muscled chest before tonguing his
nipples to tiny, throbbing peaks. Just as Riodan started to beg that
he end the sweet torment, he closed his lips around one nipple and
forcefully drew on it.





This
proved too much for Riodan. He pulled Dylen up and sealed their lips
in a bruising, hot-tongued kiss that mimicked the movements of their
joined lower bodies. At the same time, he gripped Dylen by his
buttocks to keep his groin flush against his, enabling him to drive
deep and hard into him.





Shuddering
from the onslaught, Dylen let Riodan take over. He clutched Riodan’s
shoulders and matched the swift, almost brutal thrusts with equal
passion and vigor.





Pleasure
mounted, erupted and spilled over. Riodan tensed then cried out as,
with one last upward lunge of his hips, he speared Dylen deeply and
spilled his seed inside him. At once Dylen experienced a rush of
warmth within that made its way inward and precipitated a series of
pleasurable spasms in his belly. The sensations pushed him over the
precipice into a rolling climax that seemed to go on forever and left
him spent and winded after. He perforce rested atop Riodan a while
before he weakly lifted himself off him and collapsed at his side.





When
his heartbeat returned to normal, Dylen extended his arms to Riodan
in mute invitation. Riodan hurried into his embrace. He pressed his
face into the crook of Dylen’s neck and curled his arm tightly
around him. Dylen gently stroked Riodan’s hair.





“I’ve
never been happier than in this time I spent with you,” Riodan
whispered at length. “I can’t thank you enough, ariad.’

Dylen
sighed. “All I ask is that you always deem me a friend if naught
more,” he murmured.

“There’s
no need to ask for what is already yours.” Riodan spoke earnestly.
“I swear, Dy, when I have made my way, you’ll be more than that
and plague take any who oppose us.”





Dylen
did not gainsay him. Time would tell if such a future was possible.
Time and the vagaries of society’s demands on its members.





Riodan
drew a ragged breath. “To be parted from you,” he said, his voice
catching. “How will I bear it?”

“It
needn’t be forever. Not if you wish for us to meet again,” Dylen
assured him. “You aren’t returning to Sidona. And I will be at
the Seralye. When you’re secure in your profession and your place
in society, seek me there. You’ll always be welcome.”





The
prospect cheered Riodan up considerably. “Yes, I will seek you
soonest,” he promised.

About
to snuggle against Dylen, he gasped when he was suddenly rolled over
onto his belly. Riodan looked over his shoulder, a playful protest
springing to his lips. It died when he saw Dylen reach for the oil on
the bedside table. With an anticipatory groan, he raised himself on
his elbows and knees. Dylen chuckled.





“So
wanton,” he teased.





Dylen
plied his oiled fingers, eliciting a litany of soft moans. Riodan
laughed somewhat breathlessly as rapturous sensation smote him with
each twist and slide of Dylen’s fingers up his backside.

“Is
that a complaint?” he panted.





Dylen
moved into position and pressed into him. “Nay. Consider it high
praise.”

Gasping,
Riodan held still as he was breached with a slow, steady thrust. Once
Dylen was fully seated inside him, he draped himself over Riodan’s
back, reaching around to hold and fondle even as he began to drive
deep into him. Riodan buried his face in the pillow though he knew it
was a waste of effort to try and smother his cries. Dylen always made
mincemeat of his control.

“I
love you, my Rio,” he heard Dylen say, his voice rough with lust
and emotion. “Come what may I will always love you.”





Tears
pricked Riodan’s eyes. Awash in joy and gratitude, he gave himself
up to the bliss of his yielding.









Chapter
Nine









Adversity









C.A.
2999





Dylen
opened the window to let the night breezes into the bedchamber and
banish the scent of spent passion. He pensively looked at the street
below—it was still a-bustle with traffic despite the late hour.





Twelve
years had passed since he bade Riodan goodbye. He had markedly
changed in that time. Gone were the sweetness of countenance and
slender form of early youth. The angles of his face were more defined
and his features sharper. His body had likewise been further honed as
evidenced by sleek muscles and strong, lean limbs that were no less
graceful. Only his eyes remained the same—wary, shrewd and knowing.

He
glanced back as movement on the mussed up bed drew his attention. A
fair-haired Deir almost a decade older rolled over, eyes squinting in
the dim light. A sleepy smile curved his mouth, and he pushed himself
up on one elbow.





“Deity’s
blood, but you’ve worn me out,” the Deir said with a groan.
“Thank Veres I had my carriage wait for me else everyone would know
from my gait how well I’ve been plowed this eve.”

Dylen
chuckled. “Shall I be more gentle next time, Shiran-tyar?”





“Heyas,
not at all! Where would be the pleasure in that?” The Deir sat up.
“What time is it?” He glanced at the timepiece on the bedside
table.

“Enough
time for one quick tumble if you wish. Unless you ache too much for
another round?” Dylen turned to face him, letting the robe fall
open completely.

The
Deir riveted his gaze on what he could see of Dylen’s body. He
licked his lips then grinned.

He
said a little breathlessly, “I’m a tad sore but not so much that
I can’t take another spearing. Besides, with you it will be worth
the discomfort!”

Shrugging
off the robe, Dylen returned to the bed.





He
had no trouble getting his shaft into the right state of firmness.
Not when he imagined the Deir beneath him as the dark-eyed,
bronze-haired youth who won his heart all those years ago and whose
face and voice still haunted his dreams and peppered his waking
moments with maddening regularity. Dylen believed his performance
between the sheets had improved considerably because of his
propensity for mentally supplanting his bedmate of the moment with
Riodan Leyhar’s image.





When
it was Riodan he saw spread before him or seated astride his lap, his
lust and yearning for his lover would flare into a bonfire of need
and he would all but bugger said bedmate within an inch of his life.





It
was just approaching midnight when he arrived home. He mounted the
stairs to find Hirlen curled up on the couch before the fire, reading
a book.

Retired
for many years now, the former hethar
was still comely to look at despite the scattered strands of grey
that bedecked his chestnut hair and the faint lines on his face

that
bespoke a life well lived. And he had not lost any of his sharpness
of wit or elegance of gait or impeccable taste in clothing. Hirlen
was aging very gracefully and could still elicit appreciative glances
when he strolled down a city street.





Dylen
went to his father and bent to plant a kiss on his forehead. Doffing
his cloak, he sat at the other end of the couch and sat back with a
sigh that signified his gladness to be home. Hirlen eyed him
curiously.





“Did
you have a difficult guest?” he asked.





“Nay,
it’s only that my last patron’s hair was a nice shade of—” He
stopped and looked at his father. “It was easier than usual to bed
him quite thoroughly.”

Hirlen
frowned. “I take it he didn’t come today?” Dylen shook his
head.

“Perhaps
tomorrow then.” “I doubt it.”

“Surely
you haven’t lost hope,” Hirlen said with concern.





“Haven’t
I?” Dylen stared into the fire. ”It isn’t the least bit
surprising that he hasn’t shown himself to me again. We move in
different circles now.”

“Yet
we have known our circle and his to touch and even merge at times.”
“Please, Adda,
you know what I think of false hopes.”

Hirlen
regarded his son sympathetically. “At least he’s based in
Rikara,” he murmured at length. “A comforting thought, don’t
you think?”

Dylen
only shrugged. His father knew that he had spotted Riodan around the
city now and then though always at a distance. Save for that one
evening three years ago.





Riodan
had been to dinner with a group of distinguished looking Deira his
age. Dylen saw him as he exited the restaurant, looking more
beautiful than Dylen remembered. The sight of him had nearly stolen
Dylen’s breath away. He had stayed in the shadows of the
neighboring building and eagerly watched Riodan as he walked by.





He’d
clearly been the center of his party’s attention. That had
gladdened Dylen for, if the company he kept was any indication,
Riodan had risen in importance in society. All his companions were
richly attired as befitted scions of upper crust families. And most
bore the mantle clasp of the diplomatic corps with its graven image
of a leaping delphinid similar to the one Riodan had inadvertently
left behind when he departed the Teris abode. It was Dylen’s most
prized keepsake.





The
temptation to greet Riodan had been almost overwhelming. But Dylen
determinedly fought the impulse. After convincing Riodan of the
necessity of keeping their affair a secret, he could hardly be the
one to now put his lover in an awkward position.





A
well-born Deir could address and even be cordial with a social
inferior if he so chose. It was seen as a sign of graciousness by
most. But the reverse was considered highly improper. For a
lesser-born Deir to initiate public contact with a member of the
upper class bespoke a familiarity that went beyond the typical
limited interaction that might take place between Deira of disparate
social classes. Such behavior almost always stirred curiosity and
roused suspicion. Dylen did not wish to subject Riodan to potentially
damaging scrutiny by his peers.





Thus,
he had remained hidden and contented himself with ascertaining that
his lover was hale and happy. He also kept the incident to himself
rather than reap the results of his father’s optimism. Much as he
appreciated Hirlen’s attempts to keep his hopes and spirits

up,
there were times the effort to respond in similar fashion took too
much out of him and he avoided such discussions as much as he could.

Discouraged
by Dylen’s reticence, Hirlen announced that he was for his bed and
rose from the couch. As he took a step away, he lurched forward
slightly. Dylen was on his feet in a flash and caught him by the arm.
Hirlen grimaced then righted himself. He slowly made his way around
the couch and headed for his bedroom.





Dylen
frowned. “Your limp seems to be growing worse, Adda.”





“Actually,
it’s getting better,” Hirlen assured him. ”My leg no longer
aches as much and only feels numb sometimes.”

“Numb?”
Dylen’s frown deepened. “How odd. I really think you ought to see
a physician.”

“What,
for something as trivial as a sprain?” Hirlen scoffed.





“Is
it a sprain? I sometimes wonder whether it was the limp that caused
you to fall that time and not the other way around,” Dylen
suggested.

Hirlen
snorted. “Ah, that is nonsense, Dy. I am perfectly—”

Dylen
cried out as his father’s leg suddenly gave out under him. Hirlen
fell heavily to the floor.





“Adda!”
Dylen hurried to his side and dropped to his knees beside him. “Are
you hurt?” he anxiously asked, helping Hirlen up to a sitting
position.

Hirlen
did not speak at first but sat there panting slightly. Finally he
looked up, his face quite pale. His eyes were wide with
consternation.

“I
can’t move my leg,” he whispered. “Saints above, I can’t even
feel it!” Dylen stared at him, his anxiety blossoming into dread.

“Tarqin!”
he bellowed.





His
shout easily roused their retainer whose quarters were just below the
stairs. The elderly Deir came up the stairs hastily, alerted to
possible trouble by the fear in Dylen’s voice.

“Go
to Aron’s house at once,” Dylen instructed him. “Hurry!”





He
watched Tarqin depart then turned back to Hirlen. To his alarm,
Hirlen’s eyes had half-closed, and his skin had blanched to a
startling degree. Dylen caught up his father’s hand. It was
frighteningly limp and clammy. Tendrils of terror clutched at his
heart.

“What
ails you, Adda?”
he whispered. “Veres almighty, what is wrong?”





*
* * *





The
physician Aron straightened up after ministering to Hirlen. He had
also extensively interviewed Dylen and Tarqin regarding the initial
symptoms both had observed in the retired hethar.
Now he instructed Tarqin to rub Hirlen’s benumbed leg as often as
he could to bring feeling back into it and to always keep the room
warm. Even the slightly lower temperature of a summer night could
trigger an attack, he warned.





His
expression as he signed to Dylen to follow him out of the bedroom was
cause for much apprehension. It was clear Aron had treated Hirlen’s
affliction before and found it difficult to cure.





Dylen
insisted on serving the healer a cup of fortifying tea and buttered
bread slathered with honey. Tarqin had roused Aron from sleep just an
hour ago, and the physician had to stifle an occasional yawn. He
gratefully if tiredly munched the simple

snack
and downed the steaming beverage. Afterward, he began to speak





Dylen
listened with disbelief as the physician explained his father’s
ailment. “He is ill with blight,” Aron heavily said.

Dylen
stared in confusion. “But isn’t blight just a minor ailment? And
there are no lesions in his groin. Besides, Adda
has been retired these past ten years. Where would he have contracted
it?”





“Ordinarily,
it is
a minor illness, more bothersome than anything else,” Aron
explained. “Especially since anyone who’s stricken is forbidden
sexual contact for months even after the lesions have dried and faded
into scars. Of course, there is the possibility of infertility if it
isn’t treated early. And because unsanitary practices coupled with
extreme promiscuity promote its circulation, it is most prevalent in
the brothels and among street prostitutes. Occasionally, however,
indeed only very rarely, thank Veres, it can turn virulent. And
interestingly enough, this happens when the disease doesn’t
manifest itself at once but lies dormant in the body for years. Many
of my colleagues suspect that there are
lesions present but they don’t appear on the surface and therefore
aren’t visible. In any case, I fear this is what has happened in
your father’s case.”





“Adda
would have refused a patron with even a suspicion of blight scars,”
Dylen said. “That must mean one of them was infected with this
strain and passed it to him.”





“Or
he may have borne the ordinary strain but only suffered mild scarring
from the lesions that swiftly became indiscernible,” Aron added.
“The disease then altered into its deadlier form in your father’s
body.”





“But
why?” Dylen cried. “How is it possible?”





“We
don’t know,” Aron honestly replied. “Ailments sometimes evolve,
and it’s all we can do to keep up with those changes and find ways
to counter them. Unfortunately, we don’t always succeed. Ordinary
blight is easily healed and when treated early doesn’t leave
lasting damage. But this other form of it—” The physician shook
his head. “I only pray that I shall live to see the day when a cure
is discovered.”

Dylen
was aghast. “What? But you heal Deira afflicted with blight every
day!” “The common form of it, yes, but not this strain.” Aron
heaved a frustrated sigh.





“There
have been a few cases where its progress was retarded for a while but
not completely halted. And it was only because the disease was
discovered early.”

A
few minutes of quiet passed while Dylen digested the information.
“What will happen next?” he asked apprehensively. “What can we
expect?”

Aron
pursed his lips then said, “This disease goes through stages. The
protracted limp you described or extended aches in other parts of the
lower body are the most common symptoms during the first stage.
Numbness of the extremities ensues at the onset of the second stage
as well as fainting spells. According to your servant, Hirlen began
experiencing these symptoms at least a fortnight ago. In the third
stage, the body sickens easily. By then, your father will be
bedridden for the most part. The fourth and last stage…” Aron
looked pensively over his shoulder at Hirlen’s bedroom door.
“Everything will slowly fail–his heart, his breathing, his
vision, even his ability to keep food down. He’ll be unconscious
more oft than not and in considerable pain when he is awake. The end
won’t be far off when that happens.”

Dylen’s
earlier incredulity turned into anger at himself.





Seeing
his expression, Aron kindly said, “Don’t blame yourself for not
coming to me sooner. You didn’t know enough to realize what his
symptoms portended. And, in any

case,
no matter how early it’s discovered, there is no cure.” There was
a painful silence “How long?” Dylen finally asked. “A few
months at most.”





Dylen
paled. “Holy Veres… So soon,” he whispered.





Aron
placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry,
Dylen,” he murmured. He rose to his feet. “I must go. I have a
surgical case later this morn, and I must get some sleep. But I’ll
pass by every day to check on him.”





Dylen
mumbled his thanks as he saw the physician to the door. Returning
upstairs, he took a few steps toward his father’s room. But he felt
an overwhelming sense of horror and helplessness, and he stumbled
into the parlor instead.





Shaking
badly, he sank into Hirlen’s great chair before the hearth. For the
longest while he stared at the guttering fire, shorn of all coherent
thought and besieged by turbulent feelings, none of them able to lend
him hope or strength. At length, he glanced at the couch and saw a
book resting on it. It was the book Hirlen had been reading while he
awaited his son’s arrival from work.

Dylen
reached for it and resettled himself in the chair. But though he
stared at the cover, he could not make out the title. Not when his
hands trembled so much that he could not hold the book steady enough
to read. He dropped it, heedless of its tumble to the floor.





He
buried his face in his hands as great sobs wracked his body and tears
streamed down his cheeks. He did not notice Tarqin’s approach until
the old servant knelt before him and gently stroked his hair, his own
eyes wet with tears.

They
wept together while the night slowly gave way to dawn.









Chapter
Ten









Blow









Dylen
watched as Aron examined Hirlen. His father had taken a turn for the
worse right after the evening meal, vomiting everything he’d eaten
until all he could do was curl up in bed and feebly retch in vain.
Tarqin hastily fetched the physician who thankfully was at home. Now
dread that Hirlen was at death’s door cast a suffocating pall on
the Teris residence.





“It’s
as I feared,” the healer murmured. “He’s in the fourth stage of
the disease. He can’t last much longer. A month perhaps.”

He
took a small phial containing a translucent liquid out of his
physician’s pack. Deftly parting Hirlen’s parched lips, he tipped
a few drops onto the Deir’s tongue. Though only semi-conscious,
Hirlen reflexively swallowed the medicament, grimacing as he did.





“That
should keep the pain tolerable,” Aron said. “I’ll return
tonight to give him another dose. You must feed him only bland foods
from now on, preferably boiled or poached. Nothing rich or greasy. By
the way, do you eat rice grain? Yes? That’s good. Save the water
you use to wash the rice, boil it and let him drink it. He should be
able to keep it down.”

Aron
slowly straightened up, obviously weighed down by the all but
hopeless situation. While Dylen sorrowfully stared at his father,
Aron quietly bade him goodbye and made to leave. But as the healer
passed him by, Dylen grabbed at his arm. Aron stopped and looked at
him questioningly.





Still
gazing at Hirlen, Dylen said, “I can’t stand by and just let him
go.” “There isn’t anything else to be done,” Aron gently
reminded him.





Dylen
turned to face him, frustration thrumming in his very bones. “Are
you absolutely certain nothing more can be done?” he defiantly
asked. “Surely there must be a healer somewhere who’s managed
something, anything, even if it’s just to prolong life, stave off
the end. Please, there must
be something!”





Aron
hesitated. Dylen could tell the Deir was torn between the reluctance
to purvey false expectations and the desire to assuage some of his
desperation. But Dylen refused to relent.





“I
don’t want to raise your hopes in vain but…” Aron started to
say. “Then there is
something?” Dylen pressed.

The
healer sighed and cautiously proceeded. “There is one physician who
has succeeded in halting the progress of this disease—Eiren Sarvan,
the Ardan’s own cousin and physician.”





Dylen
stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”





“I
only heard the tale a few nights ago from a colleague lately arrived
from Edessa.” “Edessa—”

“He
spoke to a number of us over dinner,” Aron explained. “Told us
that a few years ago, one of the Mesares, a brother of the Herun of
Edessa, I think, sickened with this

strain.
They asked Eiren Sarvan to attend to him. Sarvan did what he could
though he made no promises. After all, even if he is fulsomely
gifted—the most talented healer to emerge in centuries I dare
say—well, even he has his limits. But, according to my friend, he
achieved the impossible. He actually cured the Herun’s brother.”

“He
cured him…” Dylen frowned. “Then why hasn’t this news been
spread farther afield? Why keep it a secret?”

“Because
it may have been a fluke,” Aron pointed out. “Sarvan would never
announce something of which he himself is not certain just yet. Think
of the many dashed hopes were he unable to repeat that feat. I didn’t
tell you for that same reason.”





Dylen
nodded. “I understand. But I would rather cling to any possibility
than just give up. How can we contact Eiren Sarvan?”

Aron
was startled. “He usually divides his time between the Rikara
Public Hospital and the Order of Hospitallers’ Health Center,” he
said. “But I believe he is abroad right now.”

“Where?”





“On
a medical mission in Arvalde, on the behest of the royal family of…
Sarmatia I think.” Aron shook his head. “He won’t return to
Ylandre for anything less than a summons from the Ardan himself.”





“Then
I shall find someone with close ties to the Ardan,” Dylen decided.
Aron stared at him. “To what purpose?”

“To
secure an audience with him.”





“You
would dare ask Rohyr Essendri to send for his cousin?” Aron asked,
shocked. “I will dare anything!” Dylen declared. “This is my
adda’s
life at stake!”

As
soon as a skeptical Aron departed, Dylen entered his bedroom and
grabbed his cloak. After flinging it on, he brought out his jewelry
case. From a small compartment he took out a mantle clasp.





He
stared long at the leaping delphinid on the clasp, a name inscribed
in the ancient Naeren alphabet just above the engraving. Finally, he
closed his fingers tightly around the precious piece.





*
* * *





He
had no trouble locating the Leyhar residence in the affluent north
district. Riodan had pointed out the house when Dylen walked home
with him from the University one late afternoon. After dropping by
the Seralye to inform Zarael that he would be absent that evening, he
hailed a coach plying the main avenue and headed north.





In
this section of Rikara where the majority of the capital’s upper
crust resided, the houses tended to be large and multi-levelled with
spacious lawns in back and high elaborate rail fencing in front. But
typical of most Ylandrin city or town homes, there were no gardens or
gates out front. Main entrances opened right onto the street, usually
with a porch or stoop leading up to the door. The Leyhar abode was no
different though it was obviously a cut above many of its neighbors
in size and costliness.





The
house was well lighted, and a number of carriages were parked along
the street fronting it. That meant the Leyhars were entertaining
tonight. No matter, Dylen thought. His need was too great to be set
aside for mere propriety.





A
liveried servant responded to the sharp rap of the heavy doorknocker.
He was quite taken aback by the cloaked and hooded figure at the
doorstep. In his haste, Dylen had not

bothered
to exchange his long-sleeved, collarless undershirt for a regular
shirt nor had he donned a tunic. He now hid his state of dishabille
under his cloak.

“I
wish to see Riodan Leyhar,” he announced in as authoritative a
voice as he could muster.

Looking
Dylen over doubtfully, the servant asked, “Who shall I say asks for
him?” Dylen did not give the Deir his name but instead said,
“Leyhar-tyar
told me to seek

him
should I need his help.” He held up the cloak clasp. “He said to
show this as proof of his bidding.”

He
handed the ornament to the servant.





The
Deir stared at the gleaming piece in some awe. Markedly more
courteous, he bade Dylen to enter. He ushered him up the stairs and
led him to a large parlor.

“I
seem to have intruded on a party,” Dylen murmured apologetically as
he was shown into the predominantly grey-hued room.

“It’s
a dinner in honor of Master Riodan,” the servant answered, unable
to resist imparting his knowledge of the household’s affairs. “He’s
leaving tomorrow for his first posting. As Ylandre’s Ambassador to
Tehara.”





Dylen
smiled with genuine pleasure. “That’s wonderful! It says
something about his abilities that he’s been entrusted with such a
sensitive assignment.”

The
servant looked at him with interest. “Is it?”





“Very.
The Teharan royals are terribly fractious and fickle to boot. But a
skilled diplomat can keep them friendly to Ylandre.”

“I
didn’t know that.” The servant regarded Dylen with more respect.
“I shall tell Master Riodan that you are here,” he said and
hurried out of the chamber.

Dylen
did not wait overlong. Hardly had he given the well-appointed chamber
an appreciative once-over when the door opened and Riodan stepped
into the parlor. Dylen could not help gazing hungrily at him.





Maturity
had chiseled his warm and youthful comeliness into a refined and
somewhat remote beauty. That beauty was further emphasized by his
attire—a midnight blue dress tunic over a silken shirt of palest
cream, coal black long breeches and formal boots. This first sight of
him at close quarters recalled to Dylen the tumultuous feelings he’d
experienced the eve Riodan visited him at the Seralye.

The
young diplomat looked at him questioningly. Realizing Riodan did not
recognize him, Dylen dropped the hood of his cloak. Riodan stared at
him in shock.





“Saints
above!” he softly exclaimed. “Dylen?”





Dylen
thought his heart would burst from his chest. He had not spoken with
Riodan since they parted twelve years ago. Just hearing his voice
once more was a wondrous balm to his yearning heart. He bowed his
head briefly.





“I’m
sorry for misleading your servant,” he said apologetically. “But
I doubted he would have let me in otherwise.”

After
a slight pause, Riodan nodded. “Understood. But wherefore this
visit?” Under other circumstances, the abrupt allusion to his
intentions would have puzzled





Dylen,
not to mention roused his suspicions. But desperation clouded his
perceptions and he ignored the rather peremptory question.

“I
need your help, Rio,” he said.





Bronze
eyebrows rose in surprise. “What has happened?” “Adda
is terribly ill. He is stricken with blight.”

“Blight?
Then it’s not serious.”





“He
has a lethal form of it,” Dylen explained. “I’ve been told
there is no cure.” Riodan looked shocked. “Sweet Veres,” he
said with a shake of his head. He

regarded
Dylen curiously. “But, if there’s no cure, why did you come to
me?”





“I
heard you’ve grown close to the Ardan,” Dylen bluntly stated. “I
want you to secure an audience with him for me.”

That
took Riodan aback. “You wish to speak with Rohyr? Why?”





“So
that I can plead with him to summon Eiren Sarvan back from Arvalde.
He’s the only physician who’s succeeded in curing a patient of
this disease.” Dylen took a step forward, raising his hands in
supplication. “Please, Rio, I beg you, help us. You know I would
never trouble you for anything less than—”





“What
is he
doing here?”





Theron
Leyhar strode in, his face a picture of righteous indignation.
Slamming the door shut behind him, he hastened to Dylen and Riodan
and thrust himself between them, forcing Dylen back a step.





“Rio,
go back to our guests at once. Your father can’t entertain them all
by himself.” He glowered at Dylen. “How dare you besmear our home
with your presence,” he growled. “Leave at once! You will get no
favors from us.”





Dylen
stood his ground. “I came to ask Rio for aid, Dyhar,”
he retorted. Theron grew angrier. “You have no right to address him
so familiarly!” “On the contrary, I do have the right as his
friend!” Dylen countered.





“Dylen,
Aba,“
Riodan pleaded as he glanced anxiously at the door. “For Veres’
sake, keep your voices down.”

Dylen
frowned. Riodan appeared troubled by the prospect of being overheard.
He looked uneasily at his one-time lover.

“Rio,
I don’t wish to rake up the past,” he said. “But I truly need
your help. Adda
needs your help. If you value what we shared—”





“Don’t
be a fool, Riodan,” Theron sternly interrupted. “I heard what he
asked of you. It’s out of the question! Can you imagine what
questions will be raised? No one will believe that simple compassion
drove you. Why, everyone will immediately assume that there was
intimacy between the two of you if you approach Rohyr on a mere
hethar’s
behalf.”

“But
if I act for a friend, surely—” Riodan tentatively suggested.





“That’s
no better! We don’t make friends with the likes of him. It’s
simply not done! And lest you’ve forgotten,” Theron barreled on,
“mayhap hethare
are respected in Rikara and other great cities but that isn’t the
case in more conservative areas and certainly not in Tehara. Gossip
can make or break your career. And there are also a goodly number of
highly placed Deira who will take exception to any sordid tales from
your past. That includes the Baraths. It would be the height of folly
to give them a reason to repudiate you now that you’ve come to an
agreement with Guyon—”





The
door opened once more, and a servant peered in after a discreet
while. “Barath-tyar
wishes
to enter, Your Excellencies,” he announced.





Giving
both Riodan and Dylen a warning glare, Theron gestured to the
retainer to permit the newcomer entry.

An
elegantly clad Deir walked in. Of medium build and blandly handsome,
he carried himself with an air of being someone. But Dylen did not
recognize him despite

having
seen or met just about every young Rikaran of real consequence in the
course of his profession.

“So
this is where you disappeared to,” the Deir said, coming to
Riodan’s side. “What’s so important that you had to abandon
your guests?”

Theron
quickly replied, “Nothing important at all, Guyon-min.
Rio, let us return to our guests.”

Dylen
caught his breath when he noticed the matching elliptical gold
earrings at Riodan and Guyon’s left ears with opalescent milkstone
at one end and deep red heartsfire at the other. There was no doubt
about it. The Deir was Riodan’s betrothed.





He
had long braced himself for the probability that Riodan would go on
with his life and find someone worthy to stand at his side as he
moved up and forward in the diplomatic community. Still, the evidence
of it hurt, and he struggled to hide his feelings.

Riodan
must have spotted his reaction for he suddenly flushed and turned his
head sideways, obscuring his earring from Dylen’s sight. Dylen
wanly smiled at the concern his erstwhile lover apparently still held
for him.





Guyon
looked more closely at Dylen. “A hethar?”
he said in surprise upon recognizing Dylen’s earring. “Did you
bring one in to entertain us? But I thought you didn’t approve of
them, Leyhar-dyhar.”





The
ambassador shook his head. “No more than you do, Guyon. This one
had the impertinence to importune us here just because Riodan once
visited his club with some friends.”





Dylen
scowled at being spoken of as if he did not have enough wits to
realize he was being insulted, not to mention blatantly lied about.
He looked at Riodan, wondering why he did not defend him.





Guyon
wrinkled his nose in distaste. He glanced frowningly at Riodan. “Why
in Aisen did you go to a hethare
club, Rio?”

“A
mere indulgence of youthful curiosity,” Theron interjected before
Riodan could reply. “He had not yet fully developed good taste or
sound judgment.”

“Aba,
stop it,” Riodan said through gritted teeth. “That was a long
time ago.” “Yet this hethar
dared come to your home to ask for a favor,” Guyon commented,

his
frown deepening. “Whence his gall? Or was there more to your
acquaintance than a mere evening’s entertainment that he feels
entitled to such familiarity with you?”

“Of
course not!”





Dylen
froze at the vehement response. He stared speechlessly at Riodan.





“I
don’t have the faintest notion why he came here,” Riodan flatly
said. “I was kind and generous that night. I suppose he thought
that sufficient reason to dare seek my help now.”





“Then
nothing untoward happened between the two of you?” Guyon pressed.
“Nothing to give him reason to feel entitled to your assistance?”

Riodan
snapped, “All right, I admit I had him that night. I was curious
and had a bit too much to drink, and he was one of the hethare
who entertained us and, well, that is
part of their services. But that was all there was to it. Really,
Guyon, think you I would carry on with someone below me in station?”





Dylen
could not believe his ears. Better that Riodan had stabbed and gutted
him. The pain of it would not compare to the agony he now felt. He
stared in anguished incredulity at Riodan until the latter lowered
his eyes. But though apparently discomfited by his

declaration,
Riodan did not retract it.





Guyon’s
frown vanished. “I suppose were I in my cups as well I wouldn’t
pass up the opportunity either.” He smirked. “So, how was he?”

Color
rose in Riodan’s cheeks. “What do you expect?” he muttered.
“There’s a reason their talents are usually extolled.”

The
dam of Dylen’s restraint finally broke.





“I
was so wrong about you,” he spat. “You’re nothing more than a
craven, status seeking upstart. Just like your sire.”

Riodan
paled but said nothing. Affronted, Theron bellowed to the servant who
waited outside the door. “Throw this scoundrel out!”

The
retainer obeyed. He grabbed Dylen by the arm and tried to drag him
away. But Dylen turned so fierce a glare on him that he let go and
stepped back in alarm.





That
incensed Theron even more. “I ordered you to get him out!” he
thundered. “Nay!” Riodan shouted. “There’s no need to use
force, Aba!”
He looked entreatingly

at
Dylen and said, “Dylen, please.” Dylen stared back at him icily.





“Oh,
I’ll go peacefully,” Dylen replied, his voice silky soft yet
laced with such contempt Riodan visibly flinched and even Theron was
rendered speechless. “I don’t make it a habit of forcing myself
where I’m not welcome. I bid you farewell, Riodan Leyhar, but I
can’t wish you joy or fair fortune.”





He
turned on his heel and strode out of the room, head held high and
shoulders proud and straight. He did not look back.









Chapter
Eleven









Meeting









Dylen
only half-heartedly readied himself for work. Try as he might, he
could not put from his mind the heartache and disillusionment of his
meeting with Riodan barely a sennight past. Nor could he forget that
his former lover—nay, his treacherous erstwhile friend!—had left
for his first major posting abroad. And that posting had spurred not
only Riodan’s denial of everything that had been between him and
Dylen, but also his refusal to give aid. There lay the crux of
Dylen’s anger.





The
first he could understand however bitter it was to swallow, but the
second was beyond comprehension. Hirlen had taken Riodan under his
care all those years ago, opening his house and heart to a stranger
and treating him like a son. Riodan’s lack of gratitude and
betrayal of Hirlen’s belief in his honor and goodness were to
Dylen’s eyes beneath contempt and thus unforgivable.

He
checked on his father before heading for the Seralye. Hirlen looked
so pallid and frail, Dylen feared he already had one foot in the
grave. Dylen leaned down and kissed his clammy brow.





Hirlen
opened his eyes and gazed tiredly at his son. “I’m sorry,” he
said in the barest of whispers.

“There’s
naught to apologize for, Adda,”
Dylen softly replied. “This isn’t your fault. Now put such
nonsense out of your mind and get yourself some rest, all right? And
I shall bring home a box of sweetmeats just for you.”





Hirlen
managed to curl his lips into a faint smile at the loving but
ridiculous offer before sliding back into the half conscious state
that had been his lot since Aron began dosing him with opiates to
ease his pain. Dylen straightened up, his eyes stinging as his gazed
long at his father. Would Hirlen survive the night? Deity’s blood,
would he even be alive when Dylen came home from work?

Tarqin
quietly came to his side and touched his elbow. “You’ll be late,”
he murmured.

“Send
for me at once if-if he…” Dylen swallowed. “I will,” Tarqin
promised.





*
* * *





Dylen
walked briskly to the Seralye, forcibly shedding the aura of sorrow
and anxiety that shrouded him. It would not do for the club’s
guests to be troubled by his problems. That was not why they
frequented the Seralye.





Reaching
the club, he was surprised to find Olfen the doorkeeper
apologetically turning away guests. The Deir explained that he’d
been instructed to do so but he had no inkling of the reason. All he
knew was that a group of richly attired enyra
had arrived about a half hour ago, and shortly after, Keon had come
out and told him not to accept any more guests for the evening.

Dylen
entered the premises, frowning in puzzlement. As he did, he glimpsed
Deira in

what
appeared to be soldiery garb standing unobtrusively in the shadows of
the alleys flanking the club. That piqued his curiosity further.

He
was mounting the stairs to the second floor when Keon came rushing
down to meet him halfway. The secretary excitedly grabbed him by the
arm.

“Thank
Veres you’ve arrived!” he exclaimed in hushed tones. “Hurry
now, we have important guests. Very
important guests!”

Keon
all but shoved him up the stairs ahead of him.

Intrigued,
Dylen said, “Olfen claims you aren’t accepting any more guests.”

“They
had us close the club,” Keon confirmed. “Paid for its use for the
whole night. You should have seen Zarael’s face when they made the
request!”

“I
can imagine. Where is everyone?” Dylen asked when they reached the
second floor. There was a marked absence of people moving about.





“Readying
the bedchambers,” Keon told him. “They said they’d heard naught
but high praise for our hethare.
That they wished to sample their skills. If only you’d come
earlier, I wager there would’ve been a fair fight for your
services.”





“Who
are they?”
Dylen asked as he and Keon headed for the Seralye’s best and
largest taproom.





“Royalty,
Dy! The Ardan and his kin, can you believe it?” Dylen sucked in his
breath. “And they came because—?”





“A
cousin of the Ardan is celebrating his majority and, I heard, the
inheritance of a considerable fortune, too. I think he’s the son of
the Chief Counsellor. What’s his name now? Oh yes, Rysander
Seydon.”





“The
Chief Counsellor’s son… But of course, he‘s one of the heirs of
Azrael Cordona.”

“Cordona?”
Keon’s eyes widened. “As in Bank Cordona?”

Dylen
nodded. “Counsellor Yovan Seydon is wed to Mered Cordona. In any
case, it’s not surprising they took the entire Seralye for the
night. Can you imagine the scandal soup the gossip mongers would dish
out were they to get a peek at a slew of rich and royal relations,
all of them in their cups or in various states of undress?”





Keon
chuckled. “Nay, the Ardan brought his leman with him. A real
beauty, that one. I doubt Rohyr will care for any sport we have to
offer. Well, I must see to the refreshments.”





Just
as Keon dashed off, Zarael slipped out of the taproom, closing the
door behind him. The strains of a gittern and merry laughter emanated
from within. Zarael brightened when he spotted Dylen.





“Ah,
you’re here,” he said, his eyes sparkling with his elation. “Keon
told you? Good, good. Go on in, Almerin and Silve are already inside.
I will send Veanthe as soon as he arrives. Now I had better help
Keon. The kitchen staff is in an uproar!”





Dylen
shook his head as Zarael hurried away. It was rare to see the usually
unflappable club master thus affected. He started to open the taproom
door.





It
was then that it came—a feeling he had never thought to experience.
He paused a moment to calm himself then cautiously peered into the
room.





He
swiftly scanned the guests, taking note of the sumptuousness of their
clothing and jewelry and their refined speech even in banter. Royal
kin indeed. And not a plain face among them. Indeed, for the first
time in a long time, Dylen felt his own oft lauded looks paled in
comparison to the comeliness of these scions of House Essendri.

His
eyes homed in almost inexorably on the Ardan.





Sable-haired,
with eyes of slate grey, and exceedingly handsome—far more than
mentioned in the descriptions Dylen had heard of him—Rohyr Essendri
was every inch the young monarch of Ylandre. Though he was not more
elegantly garbed than his cousins, one immediately knew he was their
preeminent relation even if one did not realize he was king.

Taking
a moment to steady his nerves, Dylen entered the room. Almost at
once, even before either Almerin or Silve acknowledged him, Rohyr
paused in mid-sip of his wine and looked up. Searching for him, Dylen
guessed. An instant later, Rohyr saw him. The Ardan’s eyes gleamed
with curiosity. The others, on the other hand, regarded him with open
appreciation.

Dylen
bowed low before Rohyr while Almerin introduced him. Putting on his
most charming manner, he set himself to entertaining the members of
the party.

They
formed a sophisticated and well-educated group—sharp-witted, fluent
of speech and earthy enough to appreciate bawdy humor and subtly
suggestive parlor games. They were the kind of guests whose company
Dylen enjoyed very much and would have done so now if not for his
encroaching anxiety.





Aside
from Rysander Seydon, there were the Minister of Internal Affairs,
Keosqe Deilen, and Gilmael Calanthe, the head of Intelligence. To
Keosqe’s right was a noble of striking and foreign countenance.
Reijir Arthanna, the young Herun of Ilmaren, he learned from Silve.
He engaged in a long and lively discussion with a Deir whose hair
caught the eye due to the rarity of its red-black color. Aeldan
Mithani was the heir apparent to the seaward fief of Glanthar. Beside
him was a younger Deir of very similar features—his brother,
Ashrian. The latter seemed intent on teasing a blueblood of soldiery
bearing. Almerin identified him as Ranael Mesare, a high-ranking
officer of the Royal Army.





The
last member of the party was as surprising in appearance as he was
beautiful. He was obviously no blood relation to the others nor was
he an aristocrat. Seated beside Rohyr, he wore his fair hair in a
thick plait that reached past his shoulders, a style that markedly
contrasted with the loose nape-length tresses of the others. He was
clearly a sedyr
and
a stunning one at that.

So
this was the much talked about Lassen Idana, the Ardan’s Half Blood
leman. Dylen surreptitiously watched as Rohyr slid an arm around his
concubine’s shoulders





to
draw him closer to his side. Lassen obliged with a warm smile and a
tender gaze meant for his lover alone.

The
sedyr
was not in royal service out of mere duty, Dylen realized with a
pang. Lassen Idana was deeply and hopelessly in love with the Ardan.





Stifling
a sigh, he concentrated on pouring drinks for Keosqe and Reijir. As
he finished, he looked up and happened to meet Keosqe’s gaze. The
golden-haired noble stared at him in surprise.





“Am
I imagining things or are your eyes just like Rohyr’s?” he
remarked. He gestured to Reijir to take a look as well. “Well, what
say you, Rei?”





Reijir
frowned. “You aren’t imagining things.” The Herun looked over
at his royal cousin. “His irises are rimmed just like yours, Roh.”

The
Ardan disbelievingly said, “That’s impossible.” “Yet the
impossible stands before us,” Keosqe insisted.

“But
how could this be?” Rysander wondered when he got a confirming
glimpse of Dylen’s eyes.

Noting
Dylen’s discomfort, Silve came to his rescue. “Perhaps one of His
Majesty’s forebears had a liaison with a hethar,”
he suggested. “It’s not unheard of for generations of the same
line to continue in the profession.”





Ashrian
chuckled. “Oh shame. And here I thought such eyes were exclusive to
the immediate family, Roh!”





Smiling,
Dylen plucked two nearly empty platters from the table. He extended
them to Almerin and Silve.

“Please
have these replenished else our repute for hospitality will suffer,”
he quietly ordered.

He
sensed the guests’ surprise when the pair took the platters and
left without so much as a huff of indignation at his peremptory tone.
Except for Rohyr, he noted. The Ardan’s demeanor did not change
save to observe him with even more interest and, Dylen quickly
sensed, mounting suspicion.





Dylen
looked sideways at Ashrian. “They are
exclusive, Dyhar,”
he said. He managed not to flinch when all eyes turned to him. Taking
his courage in hand, he faced Rohyr squarely. “It wasn’t a
distant forebear I took after, Your Majesty, but my sire.”

Rohyr’s
gaze became watchful. “And who was your sire?”

Dylen
drew a deep breath and said, “Your father, Dyrael Essendri.”

Stunned
silence met his statement. Everyone stared at him in varying degrees
of shock and incredulity. Reijir was first to find his tongue.

“Holy
Veres, you must be jesting!” he exclaimed.





Though
he’d expected it, Dylen could not help feeling stung by the general
air of disbelief regarding his claim. “I’m not,” he retorted.
“And this is no matter to jest about, my lord.” He looked at
Rohyr. “Surely you felt our kinship, Ardan-tyar.”





Rohyr
pursed his lips then nodded. “As soon as you entered.” He coolly
studied Dylen. “How old are you?”

“I
was conceived on the eve of Dyrael’s binding to Keldon Essendri,”
Dylen replied. “Only months separate us then.” Rohyr narrowed his
eyes. “Yet in all these years





you
never approached either him or me. Why?”





Dylen
tactfully ignored the Ardan’s challenging tone. “Wherefore? The
Ardis came to my father in secret, wishing to play the sword before
he was forever relegated to being your sire’s sheath. To reveal
that he had begotten a child would have exposed his lack of innocence
at the time of his marriage. Besides, I was not conceived in love,”
he quietly added. “Dyrael was intoxicated the night he visited my
father for the last time. He didn’t take kindly to being refused
genital intercourse with Adda
and took him unprotected.”

Rohyr
scowled. “Are you saying he forced himself on your father?” he
sharply asked.

Dylen
hesitated then nodded. “He asked forgiveness from Adda
the following morn, when he realized what he’d done. Adda
understood and accepted his apology. He also chose to keep their
affair and my birth a secret lest either became cause for dissension
in the Royal House,” he added. “We are loyal subjects first and
foremost, Your Majesty.”





The
last words were uttered with pride and dignity. Rohyr’s scowl
vanished to be replaced with a faint smile.

“So
why have you revealed yourself now?” he asked. “What need have
you that is

dire
enough to require this unmasking?”





Uncertainly
replaced pride. Dylen swallowed hard and said, “Your help, Dyhar.
My father is dying, and you have the power to save him.”

Dark
eyebrows so alike to his own rose in surprise. Rohyr leaned back in
his seat, his expression thoughtful. Dylen waited with bated breath.

He
watched in some disbelief when Rohyr suddenly got to his feet, saying
to the others, “Stay on and enjoy the evening. But speak of what
you’ve heard to no one.”

When
the others assented, the Ardan glanced at his leman. “Would you
like to come?” he asked. Lassen nodded and stood up. Rohyr looked
once more at Dylen. “Take me to him.”









Chapter
Twelve









Elevation









Dylen
gestured to a pop-eyed, tongue-tied Tarqin to make space for Rohyr at
Hirlen’s bedside. The servant obeyed, darting disbelieving glances
at Rohyr all the while. Indeed, he had been the very picture of shock
when Dylen entered the room with the Ardan of Ylandre at his side.
Tarqin hurriedly joined Lassen who stood unobtrusively in a corner.





Rohyr
bent over Hirlen, touching his fingers to the ailing Deir’s cheek.
Hirlen’s eyes fluttered open at his touch. He squinted in confusion
at Rohyr.

“Dyrael?”
he whispered.

Rohyr
stilled and gazed at him. He stroked Hirlen’s cheek with his
knuckles until the Deir slipped back into unconsciousness. Dylen
caught his breath a few minutes later when Rohyr pulled back the
covers and laid his hands on Hirlen’s withered legs.





Dylen
thought he saw an unearthly glow in Rohyr’s eyes but before he
could look more closely his attention was drawn to the Ardan’s
hands. Was it his imagination or did the pale flesh under his palms
shine with faint light? He quickly peered at his adda’s
face. The lines that creased Hirlen’s brow and framed the sides of
his mouth had eased almost to the point of vanishing. His father
looked very much at peace, his sleep unmarred by constant pain.





Rohyr
straightened and pulled the covers back over Hirlen. He looked across
the bed at Dylen.

“He
mistook me for my father,” he commented.





Dylen
nodded. Rohyr was said to resemble his birthing father in
countenance. “What you did—” Dylen stared at Rohyr in awe. “You
took away his pain.”

“And
lent him some strength,” Rohyr admitted. “I sensed that he was
failing fast. It would be a pity were he to succumb before Eiren gets
here.”

Dylen
swallowed hard. “Then you’ll…?”





“Of
course.” Rohyr moved toward the door. “I need a quiet place where
I can focus on calling him.”

“Call—?
Ah, this way.”

Leaving
Tarqin to resume his watch over Hirlen, Dylen led Rohyr to his own
bedchamber. Lassen joined them. He beckoned to Dylen to stay beside
him by the door, out of Rohyr’s way. The Ardan stood by the bed,
staring ahead unseeingly. After a while, he closed his eyes and
inhaled deeply.





Dylen
sensed it the moment Rohyr began to contact his cousin. There was an
unnatural stillness, a silence that came close to oppressive. He
looked nervously at Lassen. The sedyr
had paled slightly but did not react further. It seemed he was used
to the sensations wrought by his lover’s usage of his mental
skills.





He
looked back at Rohyr. This time he could not stifle a gasp. The Ardan
was enveloped in a wavering light so faint that had the room been
more brightly lit, the glimmer would not have been visible.

Dylen
stared in fascination, his curiosity overcoming propriety. He did not
habitually use his inborn talent to read the minds of others—not
unless he thought it absolutely necessary————but but
curiosity now impelled him to extend his senses just that extra bit
to ascertain what was going on.

He
only intended to catch a glimpse, not intrude into Rohyr’s mind.
For one, he knew Rohyr would be instantly aware of any attempt to dip
below the surface of his consciousness and would justifiably take
exception. For another, entering another Deir’s mind was a
procedure so intrusive it often left him with intense feelings of
regret afterward. Thus his preference for quick, unobtrusive peeks if
and when he needed information. To his shock, he felt a sudden tug on
his mind, one he had never experienced, and before he knew it, he was
on the same plane of consciousness as the Ardan.





A
bluish-hued luminescence suffused what appeared to be a windowless
chamber of sorts. Rohyr stood in its center, awaiting something.
Dylen remained as motionless as possible in the shadows at the
periphery of the chamber, wondering what would happen next and what
Rohyr would make of his unwitting intrusion if he discovered it.





Suddenly,
another Deir stepped into view, seeming to materialize out of the
light. Brown-haired, dark-eyed and dressed in a physician’s smock.
It could only be Eiren Sarvan





You
must come back to Ylandre at once, Eiren,
Rohyr informed his cousin.
Eiren
frowned. Why?
What requires my presence?

A
Deir is dying of a strain of blight only you are known to have cured.
I see. One of your courtiers?

Nay,
I only met him this eve. He’s a retired hethar.





Eiren’s
eyebrows rose.
Since when did you start doing favors for complete strangers,
Roh?

Since
my brother asked it of me. Brother?

The
physician’s shock was so resounding Dylen actually felt the force
of it. Hardly had he recovered from the unsettling sensation when
Rohyr glanced over his shoulder at him, drawing Eiren’s attention
as a result. Abashed, Dylen hastily yanked himself out of the link,
stumbling backward as he returned to the here and now.





Someone
caught and steadied him, and he realized Lassen had kept him from
falling. He was mumbling his thanks when Rohyr came out of his trance
and at once turned to regard him curiously.





“You
were in the link with us,” the Ardan remarked. “You heard every
word.” Dylen hesitated then realized it was ridiculous to deny what
Rohyr already knew.

“Yes,”
he admitted. “But I don’t have the slightest notion how I did it.
I’ve never experienced anything like that before.”

“You
are Dyrael’s son and of the direct royal line,” Rohyr pointed
out. “You carry the Essendri potential in your blood and in far
greater degree than even Uncle Imcael it seems.” He eyed Dylen
thoughtfully. “It only needs proper training to bring it to
complete fruition. Quite unlike others who must toil long and hard to
unleash their gifts to the fullest. What say you to that, Dylen
Essendri il
Teris?”

Dylen
was struck speechless. He had not been expecting Rohyr’s formal
recognition of their relationship and even less his acceptance of
Dylen as a member of the Royal

House.
Yet Rohyr had given him leave to take the royal surname as his own,
appending Hirlen’s family name in due respect to Dylen’s birthing
father. Overwhelmed, Dylen went down on one knee before Rohyr,
struggling to keep his tears from flowing. He took his brother’s
hand and kissed it. Rohyr looked at him in surprise.

“What’s
this?” he protested. He drew Dylen to his feet. With a smile, he
laid his hand on Dylen’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Never are you
to bow or bend your knee to me, brother mine, save in ceremony.” He
let go and turned toward the door. “Now come, let us wait for
Eiren.”





*
* * *





Half
an hour had passed when a translocation portal blossomed right on the
empty street before the Teris townhouse. The late hour precluded much
pedestrian or vehicular traffic, but the Ardan’s people had
cordoned off the entire stretch nonetheless.





Dylen
blew his breath out as the very air before them rippled. A pinpoint
of light suddenly appeared in the darkness and rapidly expanded into
an opening large enough for a mounted Deir to pass through. The
opening was a-swirl with shifting brightness and shadows that blurred
whatever lay within. But Dylen sensed the high level of energy
generated by it. Small wonder only specially gifted enyra
could create these transient corridors.





Of
a sudden, a cloaked Deir emerged from the portal, astride a speckled
steed. The portal immediately closed behind him, its soft radiance
quickly fading away. Rohyr approached the rider as he dismounted. He
caught the Deir in a welcoming hug. The newcomer then turned to
Lassen and took his extended hand in a warm grip. They murmured
greetings before Rohyr gestured to Dylen to come forward.

Eiren
Sarvan dropped his hood and glanced at Dylen. “I take it this is
he?” he ascertained.

“It
is,” Rohyr affirmed.





Eiren
carefully looked Dylen over. He suddenly smiled. “Welcome to the
family, cousin,” he said then swept past and entered the house.
Rohyr grinned at Dylen before following the physician.

Dylen
stared after them in astonishment.





“Most
of them are like that,” Lassen softly said. Dylen glanced at him.
“Most of them?”





“’Twould
be prudent to tread warily around the Ardan’s uncle,” Lassen
cautioned. “Imcael Essendri is not as accommodating of outsiders.
’Tis fortunate he doesn’t reside year-round in Rikara. But the
others are kind and welcoming. You won’t feel a stranger amongst
them.” He turned a reassuring gaze on Dylen. “Eiren has wrested
many from the very arms of death. He will do his utmost for your
adda.”

Forcing
himself to relax, Dylen allowed Lassen to usher him back into the
house.





*
* * *





Dylen
wondered if he had ever been as exhausted as he was this day. He all
but collapsed on the couch in the parlor. Lassen was slouched at the
other end fast asleep, the signs of strain around his mouth. Dylen
grimaced. He knew what Lassen had gone through. Never had he felt so
drained, not only of strength but also of will.

Eiren
had battled all night and the following morning to save Hirlen,
drawing not only on his own considerable store of energy but also on
Rohyr and Dylen’s and even what Lassen and the captain of Rohyr’s
escort could lend. In addition, he had brewed a number of potions in
the kitchen with Tarqin’s assistance. Those had ranged in odor from
refreshing to noxious. But he had made Hirlen drink them all,
studiously ignoring the Deir’s piteous whimpers when forced to
imbibe the foulest tasting concoction. In between doses of the
various medicaments, he had poured healing energy into Hirlen,
topping his strength with what he took from the others. Dylen shook
his head as he recalled the sight of Eiren bent over his father, eyes
and hands eerily incandescent as he directed energy into Hirlen’s
body.





First
the Ardan; then his cousin. Dylen wondered if all the members of
House Essendri were as prodigiously gifted.





He’d
always been aware of his difference from other sedyra,
endowed as he was with mental skills that were no longer accessible
to the majority of Half Bloods. That was his legacy from Dyrael. He
doubted however that he possessed anything near his Essendri kin’s
level of power.





He
glanced back when Rohyr and Eiren came out of his father’s bedroom.
Though both looked a little tired, Dylen suspected it was more from
lack of sleep than the effects of expending their strength. He shook
his head, amazed all over again.





They
walked over to the couch. Dylen watched Rohyr cover Lassen with his
cloak then lean down and press a kiss to his leman’s forehead. It
gave Dylen reason to suspect that Rohyr was as smitten with Lassen as
Lassen was with him. He smiled to himself, pleased that the sedyr’s
love was not all that one-sided after all.





Eiren
dropped a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at the physician.
His cousin, he reminded himself. How strange to suddenly find himself
part of an extended family and a family of such prominence at that.





“He
won’t die,” Eiren assured him. “I think the disease has been
arrested if not totally destroyed.”

Dylen
frowned, trying to think clearly despite his weariness. “Might it
recur then?” he anxiously asked, forcing himself to sit up
straight.

Eiren
sank down on his haunches before him. “There is no overnight cure
for this disease even in its original form. It takes months to
cleanse the body of blight. This strain will take even longer given
its severity. Treatment may take as long as three or four years
before he regains most of his strength.”

“But
Adda
will be cured?”

“I
see no reason why not. However…” Eiren paused and eyed him so
somberly Dylen knew there was some bad news in the offing. He
gestured to Eiren to continue. “What damage has been done to your
father’s body can’t be undone. I can’t restore his legs for
instance; he’ll be confined to a wheeled chair from here on.” He
squeezed Dylen’s knee sympathetically when the latter paled. “And
he’ll need constant monitoring all the way to convalescence for
signs of any recurrence of blight or complications caused by it.”
He allowed Dylen a moment to mull over the information. “The care
he’ll need isn’t cheap,” he warned.





Dylen
closed his eyes. He raised his hand and rubbed his forehead as if to
ease away a headache. At length he opened his eyes and looked from
Eiren to Rohyr.

“I
will manage,” he stoutly replied.

“How?”
Eiren pressed. “Only the rich can afford to hire trained
caregivers.”





“I’ll
take on more patrons,” Dylen decided. “The earnings are much
greater when we take guests to bed.” He swallowed then sighed. “And
I’m rather sought after for that particular service so it won’t
be difficult to solicit more of them,” he added, trying to smile.





“Don’t
even consider it,” Rohyr firmly interjected. “I can’t possibly
allow you to continue working at the Seralye.”





Despite
his fatigue, Dylen could not help bristling a little. “Mine is a
legitimate profession,” he pointed out. “I’m not ashamed of
what I am.”

“Nor
am I,” Rohyr replied, coming to stand before him. “But you’re
an Essendri and a prince of the blood. That alone is enough to
preclude you from carrying on and mayhap unwittingly breeding
by-blows down the line.” He paused when Dylen flinched, stung by
the reminder of the circumstances of his own conception. “And even
were it not prohibited, there are also the matters of security and
propriety. Would you have me post guards outside the Seralye while
you received patrons? Or ask me to ignore the gossip that will arise
once it becomes known that you’re my brother?”





Dylen
colored. At length, he stood up, ignoring his exhaustion as best as
he could, and boldly met Rohyr’s gaze.

“Then
what would you have me do, Dyhar?
Sit around court and wait for your largesse?” Dylen shook his head.
“Forgive me but I can’t just do nothing. I’ve never been idle,
and in any case, it wouldn’t be wise. Bad enough when it gets out
that you have a bastard brother who sold his services for the right
price. The talk will worsen were I to become your ward when I am well
past my majority and able-bodied to boot.”

Rohyr
eyed him thoughtfully. “What would I have you do? Well, first I
would have you address me by name.” When Dylen reacted with some
dismay, he pointed out, “It would be ridiculous to have my one and
only sibling behaving so formally with me when all my other kin have
never done so except in ceremony. Second, I don’t wish for you to
be idle either. It neither suits your temperament nor my purposes. Do
you remember Gilmael?” he abruptly asked.





Dylen
easily recalled the dark-haired noble who had first called attention
to his eyes. He nodded.

“Gilmael
is in need of an adjutant he can trust absolutely. His last was
recently imprisoned for treason.” Rohyr grimly smiled when Dylen
gasped. “Yes, it can be a perilous position if one doesn’t know
the meaning of loyalty. But you do. You kept our kinship a secret all
these years to protect the Crown when you could have used the
knowledge to benefit yourself and your father early on.”

Dylen
stared at him then glanced uncertainly at Eiren. The physician
shrugged, a faint grin curving his mouth.

“Gilmael
can be a taskmaster sometimes,” he disclosed. “And Veres knows
how willing he is to put himself at risk for duty’s sake and that
he expects the same of his people. But he’s no harebrained
daredevil either and he’s fair almost to a fault.”

“And
the pay is very good,” Rohyr added.





“I
should think so considering the working conditions,” Dylen dryly
said, a touch of his humor returning. “But do I qualify for the
position?”

“I
wouldn’t have offered it if you didn’t,” Rohyr assured him.
“Your training as a companion is very similar to what any Deir in
Intelligence undergoes, especially with

regards
to ferreting out information and discerning hidden motives. And I
warrant you’ve got more experience in either area than many of
Gilmael’s younger agents. You’ll be an asset to his Ministry and
to the Crown. And eventually, when the dust has settled around your
arrival, I’ll turn Adda
Dyrael’s properties over to you.” He chuckled when Dylen stared
at him incredulously. “You’re legally entitled to them as his
eldest born. And he had land all over the country though he favored
his coastal estates most. I dare say your father’s health will
vastly improve from the sea breezes of Glanthar and western Vireshe.”





It
took Dylen quite a while to recover from the shock of discovering the
extent of his inheritance. But when he did, for the first time, he
smiled brightly and without restraint. Even Rohyr was not immune to
the charm of his smile. The Ardan grinned back broadly.





“Very
well, I accept your offer, Dyhar,”
Dylen said. “And you’ll just have to give me time to adjust to
the idea of calling my sovereign by name,” he added when Rohyr
started to protest.





“You
sound like Lassen did when he first came to me,” Rohyr grumbled
good-naturedly with a fond glance at his leman.

Dylen
followed his glance. “He’s exquisite. And so kind, too. You’re
very fortunate to have found him. I hope you’ll always treat him
well.” He hastily covered his mouth with a hand to conceal a huge
yawn. Lassitude was fast overtaking him now that the immediacy of
crisis was past. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The both of you may
not need rest but I do!”

With
that, he sat down again and slumped on the couch. He was asleep
before either king or physician could respond.









Chapter
Thirteen









Kinship









“He
looks quite hale, doesn’t he?” Lassen murmured as he and Dylen
watched Tarqin take Hirlen for a turn in the royal gardens. Rohyr had
gone back ahead into the keep after their morning walk.





Dylen
nodded. Save for his confinement to a wheeled chair, Hirlen looked
almost as he had before his illness. He had regained his normal
weight, and his color was good. He had also not lost the use of his
upper body as previously feared. His caregivers had seen to that,
assiduously carrying out the program of exercises that went with the
aggressive medication Eiren had prescribed for the elder Teris.

Deira
kindly greeted him, responding to the former hethar’s
warmth and infectious amicability. None treated him with scorn or
snide amusement much to Dylen’s continued relief.





It
was that prospect that had most worried him when Rohyr insisted that
they reside in the Citadel. Not so much for himself as for his frail
adda.
Well, it turned out there was little to fear for Hirlen. Dylen,
however, was another story.





Surprise
was great to put it mildly when Rohyr brought them home to the royal
keep. Even more startling was Dylen’s appointment as one of Gilmael
Calanthe’s aides. It puzzled all and sundry that a hethar
with no previous connection to House Essendri should be so elevated,
especially when he seemed to have come right out of the blue. That
was in large part due to the lack of information about Dylen’s
background beyond what was known of his career as a hethar.





Rohyr
had agreed to keep their kinship and Dylen’s position as Gilmael’s
adjutant a secret until Dylen formally received his inheritance and
the honors that went with it. This was at Dylen’s behest for he
needed time to come to terms with the new course his life had taken.
Naturally, the secrecy bred speculation about him.





Initially,
some conjectured that perhaps the Ardan was tiring of his leman and
the former hethar
would be Lassen Idana’s replacement. But that was quickly disproved
when Rohyr’s desire for Lassen’s company showed no sign of
abating and, even more intriguing, Dylen and Lassen were seen to be
on very good terms. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, Dylen’s
demeanor toward Rohyr’s concubine was that of a protective older
brother rather than a rival for the king’s favor.





With
that theory debunked, talk then circulated that it was one of the
Ardan’s relations who was Dylen’s patron and gained him his
present lofty position. It even became something of a game to try and
guess which of Rohyr’s cousins fit the role. Still others
postulated that he had some hold over Rohyr or one of his close kin
and the largesse bestowed on him was in exchange for his silence.
What his silence was purportedly for was harder to imagine but that
did not stop the notion’s promulgators from spreading it.





Regardless
of which assumption they adhered to, the prevailing attitude of the
upper crust toward Dylen did not vary overmuch. Though they concealed
their feelings when in

his
presence, Dylen easily sensed their suspicions and disdain for him
not so much because of his former profession but for the dubious ease
with which he had entered the circle of Rohyr’s intimates.





Had
it been up to him, Rohyr would have set the record straight forthwith
rather than expose his brother to such sordid talk. But Dylen
convinced him to wait. Having anticipated just such behavior toward
himself, he simply shrugged it off, thankful it was seldom applied to
his father as well.





Because
of his age and frailty, Hirlen was merely seen as a beneficiary of
royal patronage and that was usually enough to mitigate any dismay
the more straitlaced might feel about his son’s abrupt ascendancy.
The only time perceptions about him wavered was when his kinship to
Dylen became very apparent. For this reason did Dylen refrain from
being seen with his father too often in public, opting to visit with
him in the privacy of Hirlen’s apartment or joining him when there
were few folk about.





“Thank
you for standing up for me yestereve,” he said to Lassen, referring
to a mild confrontation the previous night with a courtier whose
courteousness had been somewhat reduced by too much ale.





Lassen
smiled. “We Half Bloods should take care of each other. Though
technically, you’re enyr
now. And will be deemed thusly when Rohyr formalizes your position.”

Dylen
snorted. “I may be deemed a True Blood because of that. But I’ll
always be sedyr
in
heart and soul. Certainly Imcael thinks so.”

Lassen
curled his lips in mild exasperation. Rohyr’s closest cousins had
accepted Dylen with few reservations and readily conspired to
suppress his true identity until such time they were given leave to
reveal it. The king’s uncle however had all but gone apoplectic
when Rohyr brought Dylen to the Citadel and introduced him to the
rest of the clan.

“What
in Aisen was Dyrael thinking when he sired a bastard on a hethar?”
Imcael Essendri had roared, oblivious of Dylen’s presence.





“Adda
didn’t know he had sired a child,” Rohyr tartly pointed out. “Nor
had he intended to. But that doesn’t make Dylen any less my brother
than if he’d been conceived with everyone’s full consent.”





“And
how do you know he is
your brother?” Imcael quizzed, eyeing Dylen suspiciously. “You
should know better than to take some stranger’s word for it!”

“I
felt our kinship at once, Uncle,” Rohyr riposted. “Even before he
spoke of it.” “Strange but I feel nothing!” Imcael huffed.

“Well,
that’s hardly Dylen’s fault,” Rohyr curtly replied.

Imcael
turned nigh purple with indignation over the subtle jab at his less
sensitive faculties. Apart from what Rohyr had earlier intimated to
him, it was the first inkling Dylen had of the inequality of the
Essendri potential’s manifestation in the members of the royal
family. He also noticed that, while there was a marked resemblance
between Rohyr and his uncle, their coloring in particular, Imcael did
not bear the rimmed irises of a royal scion. No wonder his own eyes
had drawn attention that evening at the Seralye.

Rohyr
ignored Imcael’s protestations and installed Dylen and Hirlen in
the Citadel, giving them apartments in separate wings at Dylen’s
request. Dylen asked this in the hope of sparing Hirlen any possible
fallout from being his father. Thus Hirlen lived in a spacious and
comfortable apartment on the ground level of the north wing where the
senior household staff had their lodgings. Refurbished especially for
his use, Hirlen’s

suite
not only provided easy access to the gardens through an adjacent
patio, it also adjoined his caretakers’ quarters and his bedroom
was large enough to accommodate a cot for Tarqin who kept faithful
watch over him. No longer required to do household chores, the
elderly servant poured all his energy into helping care for his
ailing master.

Dylen
on the other hand was given an apartment in the wing reserved for
members of the Ardan’s extended family and Deira he counted as good
friends. He would be moved to a suite just two doors away from his
brother’s when the truth of their kinship was revealed, Rohyr
informed him. Of course, Imcael had not shied from voicing his
objections once apprised of this plan either.

“Speak
of the… Nay, never mind,” Dylen muttered when he spotted a
familiar figure approaching Hirlen.

He
took leave of Lassen and hastened across the wide lawn to his
father’s side. He arrived almost at the same time as Imcael.

“Good
morning, Dyhar,”
Hirlen softly greeted the Herun.





Imcael
grunted a reply. A nod of acknowledgement sufficed for his nephew.
Not that he ever treated Dylen or addressed him as such. Indeed, he
always showed his discomfort when in Dylen’s company. Initially
offended, Dylen had started to take some pleasure in discomfiting his
reluctant uncle instead.





“I
trust you had a good night’s rest,” Dylen said pleasantly, noting
the dark circles under Imcael’s eyes.

When
Imcael looked at him uncomfortably, Dylen could not help a fleeting
sense of malicious pleasure. Imcael was obviously aware that he knew
of the Herun’s argument with Rohyr the night before over the
Ardan’s intention to give Lassen his own personal zentyr, the
horned warsteed reserved only for bluebloods and high-ranking
military officers. Imcael made it a point to question just about
every gift or privilege Rohyr bestowed on his leman. Nothing was too
petty for Imcael to complain about if it had to do with Lassen Idana.
Dylen oft wondered how his brother managed to endure their uncle’s
tiresome and oft vociferous company.





“I
slept well, thank you,” Imcael replied. He looked down at Hirlen,
regarding the latter’s plain woolen jerkin with distaste. “I only
wished to remind you that it’s considered unseemly to show one’s
self in public improperly dressed.”





Hirlen
flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize my attire was
unsuitable,” he murmured. “How is it unsuitable, Adda?”
Dylen interrupted. He looked coldly at Imcael.





“Excuse
me, Your Grace, but since when is it improper to wear a jerkin in
public when it is the garment of choice for picnics and other outdoor
functions?”

Imcael
stiffened, taken aback by the younger Deir’s challenge. “A picnic
is a casual activity,” he retorted. “One is not expected to dress
up for it.”





“And
a simple stroll is a formal exercise requiring court wear?” Dylen
sarcastically asked.

“Dy…”

“Nay,
Adda,
I wish to be enlightened as to the necessity of dressing up for a
morning out in the gardens.”





“Impertinent
pup!” Imcael growled. “You have the manners of a peasant. I
heartily rue the day Rohyr discovered your existence!”

“Better
the manners of a peasant than the discourtesy of an ill-humored
stuffed shirt,” Dylen shot back.

Hirlen
groaned in resignation while Imcael stared at Dylen in shock and
umbrage. He opened his mouth to unleash a scathing rejoinder.

“Scrapping
again?” They all turned to face a none too pleased Rohyr. The Ardan
reproachfully remarked, “Really, must this fine morning be spoiled
by rancor?”





Dylen
bowed briefly to his brother while Imcael closed his mouth but stuck
his jaw out pugnaciously. On the other hand, Hirlen murmured
apologies. Rohyr smiled at him.





“You
are the last person expected to apologize for anything, Teris-tyar,”
he said. “These two however…” He glanced at Dylen.

Dylen
shrugged. “If defending my father is cause for censure then I beg
your pardon,

Dyhar.”

Rohyr
frowned at Dylen’s use of the high honorific. He looked at Imcael.
“Uncle?” “I was only trying to teach them proper court dress,”
Imcael testily declared.

“So
I heard,” Rohyr dryly said. “But as Dy pointed out, Teris-tyar’s
attire is perfectly suited for a turn in the gardens. You need not be
so strict about these things, Uncle. It serves little purpose and
only encourages unnecessary friction amongst us.”





Imcael
humphed. He stiffly said, “It seems doing one’s duty is
considered unfashionable nowadays. I bid you all good day.”





He
turned on his heel and stalked off, ignoring the small groups of folk
who had gathered nearby, drawn by yet another altercation between the
Ardan’s mystery ward and ill-tempered uncle. After staring them
into dispersing, Rohyr sighed with some irritation.





“I’m
sorry,” Dylen softly said.





Rohyr
shook his head. “Nay, it wasn’t your fault. His behavior was
uncalled for.” “It usually is,” a scowling Tarqin muttered
behind them. He turned scarlet when





Rohyr
looked at him with a rueful grin.





“You
didn’t come back by coincidence,” Dylen commented. “Lassen
fetched me.”

“There
was no need to trouble you. I could have dealt with him myself.”





“I’m
sure you could,” Rohyr easily agreed. “But neither as swiftly nor
quietly. Uncle Imcael is proud as they come. He doesn’t like to
back down even when he’s in the wrong. And you don’t want to
distress your adda
with his incivility.”





Dylen
looked guiltily at Hirlen. His father smiled and reached for his hand
to squeeze it reassuringly.





Rohyr
said to Hirlen, “If you will excuse us, Tenryon Hadrana is here,
and we must confer with him.” When Dylen looked at him surprised,
he added, “I asked him to come. It’s time he assessed you.”





Dylen
frowned. “For what?” “Come with me and find out.”





*
* * *





Dylen
curiously studied the Herun of Ziana as he softly discussed their
just concluded interview with Rohyr.





Tenryon
Hadrana was not only the lord of the wealthiest city-fief in Ylandre
and a great friend of the Ardan, he was also the sole Deir in the
kingdom openly known to be a templar, one of that secretive
brotherhood of extraordinarily gifted True Bloods. It was he who
identified prospective templars and initiated them into the rigorous
training entry into the brotherhood entailed. Indeed, he was
purported to be the chief of all the North

Continent
templars.





He
was handsome and well built, but there was a remote quality about him
that could be intimidating to the less stout of heart. Dylen wondered
if there were any who could withstand the Herun when he trained his
cold piercing gaze on them. He looked at Rohyr questioningly when the
two were done talking.





“It’s
an honor to be of such interest to Hadrana-tyar,”
he said. “But I’m still at a loss as to what he’s supposed to
assess in me.” He suddenly thought of something. “Surely you
don’t suspect me of being a templar like him!”





Rohyr
nodded. “I did wonder if you were a latent one,” he admitted.
“But Tenryon says there’s no way you could have eluded our notice
if that were the case.”

“Your
notice?” Dylen was struck by Rohyr’s choice of words. “You
speak as if—” He stared at the Ardan. “You—Are you
a templar?”





Rohyr
and Tenryon exchanged a glance. Rohyr met and held Dylen’s startled
gaze. “I am.”

“Holy
saints!” Dylen stared at his brother in awe. “But it isn’t
known? I mean, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Outside
of the brotherhood, only Eiren knows,” Rohyr answered. “Because
he’s your physician,” Dylen guessed.

Rohyr
smiled approvingly. “You’re very perceptive.”





“Nay,
it was the logical conclusion.” Dylen frowned. “So not even
Imcael knows?” When Rohyr shook his head, Dylen looked at him
wonderingly. “Why keep it a secret? Hadrana-tyar
doesn’t. About what he is, I mean.”





“Ten
is the face of our brotherhood; the one known to take and train our
acolytes,” Rohyr explained. “But secrecy serves my interest best.
The knowledge that I possess such power can inspire fear and sow
distrust and can also encourage malcontents to use them to challenge
my rule. Imagine what the separatists in Tenerith could do with the
knowledge. They’d claim that I would use my power to reduce the
people to thralldom.”

“Which
only goes to show how highly you templars are regarded,” Dylen
said. “Or suspected,” Tenryon wryly remarked.

Dylen’s
frown deepened. “Does this mean your power isn’t solely derived
from the Essendri potential?”

“Say
rather that I have two wellsprings of power,” Rohyr clarified. “One
for strength and the other for depth and range.”

“I
don’t understand.”





“In
addition to the usual skills possessed by gifted enyra,
templars are blessed with abilities exclusive to the brotherhood
alone,” Tenryon explained. “When properly trained, a templar can
wield those abilities with utmost precision and tap the depths of his
personal store of power as well. But to sustain the use of any skill
for a length of time requires additional strength and the level of it
differs from templar to templar. Rohyr is one of the most gifted
templars alive because of the boost he receives from the Essendri
potential.”





“Fascinating.”
Dylen leaned forward, intrigued. “So you thought I might be one as
well.”

“Yes,”
Rohyr replied. “But, as Ten pointed out, it isn’t possible.”





“Even
if an infant’s nature doesn’t resound at birth, it can’t be
suppressed come adolescence,” Tenryon said. “We would have sensed
your presence then.”

“I
see.” Dylen looked at Tenryon wonderingly. “But if I’m not a
templar, then what
am I?”

“A
rogue adept,” the Herun answered. “A what?”

“Rogues
comprise an extremely rare breed of gifted Deira that straddles the
divide between the templars and born healers,” Tenryon elucidated.
“Three skills mark the templars as such. First and foremost is the
ability to recall their past lives. You have no such memories. Even
had you blocked them, either Rohyr or I would have been able to
unlock them if they were there. Second, you can’t meld your mind
with another to the extent of controlling his body and will. But you
can
direct your mind’s energy with a remarkable degree of precision and
strength. Now that’s a trait templars share with healers. You can
also enter another Deir’s mind and completely immerse yourself in
his innermost consciousness without fear of stranding yourself
within. It’s a power healers possess and templars don’t.” He
eyed Dylen speculatively. “I wager you used that particular talent
to good effect with your patrons.”





Dylen
shrugged. “I saw no harm and much profit in discerning their
deepest desires and meeting them if I could.”





“And
it afforded you protection from those with less benign intentions,”
Tenryon assayed.

“It
did,” Dylen admitted.

“Thank
Veres for that,” Rohyr said. “Well then, will you help me train
him, Ten?” “Most definitely,” the Herun replied. “Such talent
must not be left untapped or,

worse,
misused.” He smiled at a wide-eyed Dylen. “What say you to a
lesson in translocating?”

Dylen
caught his breath. He abruptly rose to his feet, eyes sparkling with
anticipation. “How about right now?” he challenged.

Rohyr
and Tenryon chuckled. “First rule: No generation of corridors
indoors or within populated areas,” Tenryon said as they headed for
the door. “The energy of a blossoming can tear stone and steel
apart. Imagine what would happen to a Deir caught in its midst.”





“I’d
rather not,” Dylen said with grimace. He glanced from the Herun to
his brother. “Though I wager you’ve both seen your share of
accidents.”

“Would
that we hadn’t,” Rohyr affirmed. “It’s something one doesn’t
ever forget.”









Chapter
Fourteen









Reunion









C.A.
3004





It’s
good to be back in Ylandre,
Riodan Leyhar thought when he rode into Rikara
with
his parents. Five years in a foreign land made for interesting
living, but nothing could fully dispel homesickness when it struck
hard and settled deep in one’s bones. Despite all the excitement
and tension of handling diplomatic relations between his country and
oft turbulent Tehara, he had not been distracted much from his
yearning for home.





As
they rode down the main avenue, he looked about him avidly much like
a long immured prisoner might draw in great draughts of fresh air
upon being freed. There was nothing really new to see, but his long
absence from the capital made everything seem strange and new all
over again.





When
they came to the first major fork in the avenue, his adda
parted from them and headed for the north district. But Riodan and
Theron rode down the street leading to the east district. They would
not enter it but turn onto a wide road on the outskirts that was the
beginning of the long drive up to the Citadel. As one ascended the
wide curving lane, one got a bird’s-eye view of the city. Riodan
felt a faint pang when he caught glimpses of the shingled rooftops of
the tallest homes of the west district’s fabled Quarter as well as
its many entertainment halls and museums. Memories of a pair of storm
green eyes gazing out from under thick raven locks assailed him
without warning, and he looked away before he was overcome by them.





Nonetheless,
he could not help wondering what Dylen was doing and if he still
lived with his father in the townhouse where Riodan had learned the
joys and wonder of first love. A part of him cautioned him to expect
the worst, but the other part would not listen and continued to hope
for the best.





He
set aside his pensive thoughts when they approached the gates of the
Citadel. Passing through the outer gate, they came to a stop in the
spacious bailey. Steeds were not permitted beyond this point, and so
they dismounted and walked the rest of the way through the courtyard
and up the stone-paved path to the heavy double paneled door of the
Citadel.

It
was a typical day at the royal keep, which meant an almost
never-ending flow of Deira through the main entrance. As they made
their way from the octagonal reception hall with its domed stained
glass ceiling and mounted the stairs to the second level, Deira of
all stations welcomed them back. But, though they saw many passing
acquaintances, they did not meet any whom Riodan counted as friends.

Only
in the main audience chamber did he finally spot some of them.
Rysander Seydon hailed him almost as soon as he entered the great
hall. Riodan happily greeted the Chief Counsellor’s son then stared
in amazement at the slender, dark-haired Deir at his side.

“Shino,
is that really you?” he said disbelievingly as he looked young
Shino Essendri over. The orphaned son of one of Rohyr’s untitled
relations, Shino had visited the Citadel often enough to have
befriended many of his Essendri kin. “Why, last we met you were
little more than a gangly child!”

Rysander
clucked mirthfully. “Fie on you to remind us all of Shin’s age,
Rio, when he’s been doing his best to appear older than he is. For
a diplomat, you are severely lacking in tact!”





“Really?”
Riodan looked questioningly at Shino. “But why are you in a hurry
to grow up, Shin? Believe me, adulthood isn’t as glamorous as you
may have been led to believe.”





“Oh,
it isn’t glamour he hankers for but the attention of someone who
has an abundance of it,” Rysander interjected with a guffaw.





Shino
blushed but gamely grinned at the raillery. “Pay Rys no mind,” he
advised Riodan. “He’s just so relieved that there’s now someone
younger than himself he can torment with his utterly dull jests.”





“Keep
a civil tongue, cub,” Rysander declared sententiously. “You
should know enough to defer to your elders. By the way,” he quickly
added before Shino could reply. “Rohyr decided to take him under
his wing. So, as of last year, he’s been our esteemed Ardan’s
legal ward.”





“Is
he now?” Riodan delightedly said. “My felicitations, Shin.”
“Thank you, Rio.”

“And
I dare say, Rohyr is regretting the impulse,” Rysander said with a
snicker. “A veritable whirlwind Shin is. He’s got energy enough
to outlast any ten of us, and saints above, it’s a wonder the
Citadel is still standing!”





Shino
started to stick his tongue out at Rysander, but he caught himself.
He settled for giving his cousin a playful poke in the ribs instead.

Riodan
was still chuckling a few minutes later when he located Theron. The
senior Leyhar was chatting with Jareth Hadrana, Ylandre’s
preeminent envoy and foremost ambassador-at-large. Not long after,
Gilmael Calanthe joined them. As head of the most extensive
intelligence network in the North Continent, it was not surprising
for him to take an interest in what recently returned diplomats had
to report. But he was also Riodan’s good friend, and he heartily
greeted the younger ambassador.





“How
do you like diplomatic work now?” Gilmael gibed. “I hear it was
sheer horror dealing with the Teharan rulers. Mayhap you’ll change
your mind and join Intelligence instead. At least, you won’t have
to bite your tongue when you’re actually aching to give some royal
dunce a piece of your mind.”





“But
you run the risk of having more than your tongue ripped out if you
join Gil’s passel of spies,” Jareth pointed out. “Espionage may
give you a freer hand but only for so long as your true identity
remains secret.”

“Hush,
Jath,” Gilmael protested. “I’m trying to recruit an agent
here!”





Jareth
snorted. “And take away one of my best and brightest envoys? In
your dreams, Gil!”





Grinning
widely, Riodan remarked, “I see some things haven’t changed.”
He looked around at all the familiar faces. “Indeed, it seems like
nothing has changed while I was away.”





“On
the contrary,” Gilmael cryptically said. “And some bigger than
others. Changes,

I
mean.”





Theron
scrunched up his forehead and said, “I beg your pardon?” At the
same time, Riodan asked, “What do you mean?”

Gilmael
started to address the Leyhars’ bewilderment but suddenly beckoned
to someone to approach instead. A tall Deir clad in black and earth
green emerged from a nearby press of courtiers.





“Ah,
Dy, do join us,” Gilmael said. “It’s as good a time as any for
you to meet the Leyhars.”

Riodan
almost stopped breathing. Shocked speechless, he thought his heart
would give, so furiously did it beat in the wake of his first sight
of Dylen Teris. It was not only the total unexpectedness of finding
his former lover here of all places that spurred his heart into a
virtual gallop. There was also his appearance. When last they met,
Dylen had been distraught and it had shown in his dress and demeanor.
But, even then, his comeliness had been apparent. Now, impeccably
attired for court, his bearing one of courteous aloofness, he was
indescribably beautiful.





“This
is Theron Leyhar, our present ambassador to Siryana,” Gilmael said
to Dylen. “And this is his son, Riodan. Rio is lately arrived from
Tehara, his first major posting and a very successful one I’m happy
to say.”





It
did not escape either Leyhar that Gilmael appeared to have committed
a breach in protocol by presenting them to Dylen rather than the
other way around. Riodan wondered how so seasoned a courtier could
make such a serious gaffe.





Beside
him, Theron was staring at Dylen, an indignant scowl knitting his
features. The scowl turned quite ferocious when Gilmael urged Dylen
to stand between him and Jareth with a warm smile ordinarily reserved
for close kith and kin. Dylen silently took the indicated place.
Gilmael addressed the Leyhars once more.





“Let
me introduce my adjutant—” he started to say. “Who appointed
him to the position?” Theron interrupted.

Taken
aback by Theron’s unwonted impoliteness, Gilmael did not respond at
once but looked at the ambassador curiously. Dylen’s steady gaze
did not falter, however, but remained cool and distant. Riodan, on
the other hand, inwardly cringed at his sire’s behavior.





“I
appointed him at the request of Rohyr,” Gilmael finally replied,
frowning slightly. “Is His Majesty aware of what this Deir used to
do?” Theron demanded, eyeing





Dylen
suspiciously.

“Aba!
That isn’t important!” Riodan protested under his breath.

“On
the contrary, I think it is
of supreme importance!” Theron shot back.





Gilmael
exchanged a surprised glance with Jareth. He looked at Dylen
questioningly. When Dylen shook his head, he turned his attention
back to Theron and said, “I assure you, Leyhar-tyar,
His Majesty is very aware of his brother’s former profession.”

The
Leyhars gaped in shock. “Bro-brother?” Theron fairly bleated. He
stared incredulously at Dylen. “You
are His Majesty’s brother”

“Half-brother,”
Dylen coolly clarified.





While
Riodan and his sire struggled to absorb the information, Jareth
raised an eyebrow at Gilmael and said, “Rather loose-tongued today,
aren’t you? Really, Gil, how you manage to keep your Ministry’s
secrets is beyond me.”





Gilmael
pursed his lips sheepishly. “It won’t be a secret much longer,”
he reasoned.

“Everyone
will know the truth after tomorrow.”





Meanwhile,
Riodan found his tongue. “It’s a great a pleasure to make your
acquaintance, Your Highness,” he said.

Dylen
dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Your Grace will do. I am only
the late Ardis’ son and a mere by-blow at that.”

“Neither
only nor mere,” Jareth mildly objected. “I do wish you would
claim your rightful place, Dy.”





The
barest trace of color stained Dylen’s cheeks. Riodan swallowed hard
at the sight. He averted his gaze lest he be affected further by the
tempting image before him.

“By
tomorrow, I will have no choice,” Dylen replied with a faint smile.
He looked apologetically at Gilmael and gestured to him to continue.

“As
I was about to say, this is Dylen Teris—well, rightfully Essendri
il
Teris,” Gilmael said. “He’s my adjutant and also a member of
the Ardan’s Council. And tomorrow morn Rohyr will formally
recognize him and invest him with the honors and properties due him
as the eldest born son of the late Ardis Dyrael. But Jareth is
right,” he ruefully conceded. “This must remain a secret until
then. Can we trust you to keep this to yourselves?”





“Veres
almighty, Dyrael’s son!” Theron whispered. He stared at Dylen,
his face a picture of chagrin and anxiety. Riodan could just imagine
what his sire was feeling after the way he had once heaped scorn on
Dylen. Managing to regain some of his composure, Theron said, “But
of course. If that is His Majesty’s wish, we will abide it.”





“Thank
you, Your Excellency,” Dylen said. “Now if you will excuse me.”
He courteously bowed his head before walking away.

“Such
a fine Deir,” Jareth warmly said as they watched Dylen leave the
hall. “Rohyr is very fond of him. And rightly so I must say.” He
glanced at Riodan. “By the way, Rohyr requested that you stay for
dinner tonight. He would like a full account of how you managed to
keep the Teharan royals from each other’s throats as well as
yours.”





*
* * *





It
was shortly before the evening meal that Riodan came upon Dylen once
more. The former companion was by himself at one end of the open
gallery in the west wing—the gallery ran parallel to the hallway
that led to the dining hall. He was gazing out at the west district,
which was barely discernible in the rapidly failing light. Stopping a
short distance away, Riodan studied him, taken all over again by the
Deir’s sensual beauty. But he was also troubled by his melancholic
expression. He wondered what thoughts darkened Dylen’s mood as he
stared at his former home.





The
latter suddenly turned his head and looked at him as if he expected
to see him standing there. Caught, Riodan decided to approach the
Deir who had taught him everything about intimacy of the body and
spirit.





Dylen
greeted him cordially enough, but Riodan sensed a distinct lack of
warmth in his manner. He stifled a sigh and tried to break the ice by
asking about recent events in the capital. Dylen obliged him even
though he must have known Riodan would have already garnered the
information earlier. Almost inevitably, their conversation touched on
the shroud of mystery surrounding Dylen.

“However
did you manage to keep word of your presence here from getting
around?” Riodan asked.

“Of
what significance would an obscure courtier be outside of Rikara?”
Dylen said. “Even if someone thought it worth mentioning to you
that Rohyr had taken in a hethar,
I think you would have regarded the news as mere gossip—interesting
but not important.”





“But
why withhold the truth at all?”





“I
wanted to remain anonymous until I felt comfortable with all the
changes my life has undergone. Especially this whole business of
being an Ardan’s brother.”

“But,
after tomorrow, you’ll be news not only in Ylandre but also
abroad,” Riodan said. “And you’ll be treated as a member of the
royal family. Are you ready to take your place now?”





“Can
any outsider ever truly be ready for such a thing?” Dylen wryly
asked. “Surely you don’t feel yourself an outsider any longer,”
Riodan objected. “You’ve





been
accepted by the Essendris, and thus far, all speak highly of you.”





“Not
all. And one doesn’t necessarily cease to feel different just
because of a change in one’s circumstances,” Dylen countered.

“I’m
sorry, I meant no offense,” Riodan hastily apologized. “None
taken,” Dylen blandly replied.

Riodan
flushed, mildly abashed by Dylen’s distant courtesy. “By the way,
how is your adda?”
he asked after an awkward silence.

“Alive,”
Dylen curtly answered.





Riodan
hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “I trust he is well?” “If no
longer having the use of his legs counts as being well.”





That
took Riodan aback. “I see,” he murmured. “But he was cured? Of
blight, I mean.”

“Eiren
saved him.”





“So
you found a way to get him back to Rikara,” Riodan said with
relief. Dylen shook his head. “Not so much found a way as had the
good fortune of a





chance
encounter with Rohyr.” “And he recalled Eiren.”

“Yes,”
Dylen said, affection and reverence in his eyes. “And owned me his
brother as well.”

Riodan
smiled. “I’m glad he found you. Mayhap someday you’ll tell me
the whole story of how you met.”





Dylen
turned a cool gaze on him. “It needn’t be me. Gilmael was
present. So was Lassen. They can recount it to you.”

“But
of course,” Riodan quickly agreed. He fell silent for a space as he
searched for a less contentious topic to talk about.

“I
hope you enjoyed your posting in Tehara, all the problems and
intrigues notwithstanding,” Dylen unexpectedly said.

The
gracious opening gave Riodan cause to hope that perhaps Dylen would
not hold the past against him overmuch. Whether Dylen was being civil
in order to preempt the speculations of curious passersby he avoided
dwelling on.





“I
did enjoy it,” he replied. “The Teharans are warm and friendly at
heart. It’s only their rulers who don’t seem to know how to
maintain peace amongst themselves. It’s probably for lack of a
sense of humor. They take offense so easily, even the king himself.
And his consort and brothers are even more sensitive than he.”





“You
must have had to walk on eggshells each time you were in their
presence.”

“Indeed.
But as I’ve come home quite whole, I think I managed to do my duty
adequately.”

“More
than adequately,” Dylen averred. “Jareth has done naught but sing
your praises to Rohyr.”

That
brought a blush to Riodan’s cheeks. “That’s very kind of him,”
he said. “I only hope I truly deserve his accolades.”

Dylen
faintly smiled. “Well, I believe you do.”





Riodan’s
blush deepened. “Thank you,” he almost stammered. “That means
so much to me.”

Another
silence fell but a more comfortable one, or so Riodan thought.
Emboldened by Dylen’s unlooked-for civility, he attempted
conversation once more.

“You’ve
changed,” he assayed. “Not physically, though you look better
than ever if that’s possible. There’s just something about you
that wasn’t there before.”

Dylen
shrugged. “Perhaps it’s because I no longer peddle my services.”
Before Riodan could protest the disparaging comment, he added,
“You’ve changed as well. Not so much from when I last saw you,
but certainly a great degree from when we parted ways.”

Riodan
laughed nervously. “For the better I hope.”

“Well,
you were already beautiful when we first met,” Dylen pointed out.
“It was only to be expected that you would grow more comely as you
fully matured.”

His
heart starting to soar at the compliment, Riodan beamed at Dylen.
“Thank you. But I’m no match for you. I confess, when you came to
our house that day, it was all I could do not to throw myself at you.
You were breathtaking even then.”





Almost
as soon as the words left his mouth, Riodan knew he had blundered
spectacularly. The chilly silence that followed confirmed his fear.
He looked cautiously at Dylen, almost holding his breath as he
awaited his one-time lover’s response. A smile curved Dylen’s
lips. A tight smile that did not reach his eyes. At length, he turned
his gaze on Riodan, the coldness in his eyes dashing the diplomat’s
hopes of a swift reconciliation between them.





“But
you did
restrain yourself,” Dylen dryly said. “Such control is
commendable. Now, if you will excuse me, Your Excellency.”

Riodan
forlornly watched him glide off with the catlike grace so distinctive
of him. Idiot,
he
berated himself. What had possessed him to dredge up that lamentable
encounter
and
remind Dylen of his cowardice and perfidy?









Chapter
Fifteen









Impasse









C.A.
3009





Riodan
did his best to keep his expression neutral. But a fierce scowl was
threatening to mar the serene cast of his features. If he had any
sense, he would walk away as quickly as he could and not burden
himself with the sight of Dylen in company with one of the Citadel
courtiers. But, try as he might, he could not leave. Not when he
feared capitulation on Dylen’s part to the obviously non-platonic
overtures of his companion.





Sereth
was a good match for anyone. That much Riodan had to admit, albeit
grudgingly. The courtier was pleasant looking, well-born and
possessed enough savvy and ambition to have come so far in society.
It was that ambition that troubled Riodan, however, for he could not
help suspecting part of Sereth’s courtship of Dylen was due to his
desire for the rewards that went with being wed to the Ardan’s one
and only brother. That was not something to sniff at even if it meant
putting up with the talk that seemed to accompany Dylen now that the
truth of his identity was out.





As
expected, the news had rocked the upper echelons of Ylandrin society.
Rikara alone was abuzz with the discovery for months after and not
always in a positive way. Riodan could only imagine what was said of
Dylen elsewhere, especially in more conservative circles and
particularly with regards to his illegitimacy. Even now, he knew that
Dylen was still treated unevenly by some—utmost friendliness and
ingratiation to his face, wariness and grudging deference behind his
back. And overshadowing it all was interest in how his kinship to
Rohyr could be used to advantage. Small wonder Riodan harbored
suspicions about Sereth’s motives.





He
shook his head. Who was he to judge the other? One could say he was
doing much the same thing in his efforts to rekindle his friendship
with Dylen. He sighed and began to turn away to cross the street. He
would have a harder time finding out which tea-room Guyon had entered
if he lingered any longer. On the heels of that thought came the
feeling that he would not mind failing to catch up with his fiancé
in the least. It was not the first time for him to feel thusly, and
he suspected it would not be the last. And he had begun experiencing
it with a frequency that boded ill for any betrothal.





Movement
to his right caught his eye, and he turned his head in time to see a
Deir in a wheeled chair emerge from the draper’s shop at the other
end of the street. Riodan’s eyes lit up while his stomach did a
little flip-flop of apprehension at the same time. He hurried to the
Deir, catching up with him before he made the turn around the corner.

“Teris-dyhar!”
he called out.

Hirlen
Teris looked back over his shoulder and, upon espying Riodan, broke
into a warm smile. “Good day, Rio! When did you arrive from
Qatare?”





Riodan
let out a breath of relief as he neared the retired hethar.
It seemed Dylen still had not told his father the full story of their
falling-out.

“Just
two days ago. The timing of His Majesty’s summons left something to
be

desired
however,” he ruefully said. “It came just as Qatare’s crown
prince ordered me to broker a marriage between him and Rohyr. Why he
thought Rohyr would desire wedlock with a Deir barely out of diapers
I can’t fathom though.”





Hirlen
burst out laughing. “Presumptuous of him, isn’t it?” he
remarked. “What did Rohyr say to that?”

“Well,
he left it to Lassen to make a response. Unfortunately, I can never
let the prince know what Lassen said. It would burn his ears right
off his head!” Riodan waited for Hirlen’s mirth to subside. “You
certainly get around, Dyhar,”
he lightly teased.

Hirlen
beamed. “This marvelous contraption makes it possible,” he said,
fondly patting the armrest of his chair.

“But
where is Tarqin?” Riodan asked, looking around for the elderly
servant. “Surely you’re not alone.”





“Oh,
I’m never alone,” Hirlen corrected, a slight tilt of his head
indicating his and Dylen’s guard escort waiting discreetly nearby.
“Tarqin is visiting with some friends lately come from Fenycia.
Dylen is taking care of me in the meantime.”





Riodan
could not stop himself from fishing for information. “But I saw him
with someone just now,” he casually stated. “I thought they were
out together.”





“Oh,
do you mean Sereth?” Hirlen shook his head. “They met on the
street. I had business at the draper’s shop so I told Dylen to go
ahead and entertain his friend. Rest assured, Rio-min,
they were not
out together.”





The
warmth in his cheeks told Riodan he was blushing, as did Hirlen’s
knowing smile. But, before he could say more, Dylen suddenly arrived.
He briefly nodded at Riodan then laid an affectionate gaze on his
father.





“Gossip
for tea, Adda?”
he lightly inquired.





“Nay,
but I would indulge in some if there were any scandals worth talking
about,” Hirlen cheerfully replied. “Where is Sereth?”

Dylen
shrugged. “He’s returned to the Citadel.” He looked at Riodan
again. “Lost your intended, Rio?”

Riodan
managed not to wince. “Nay, he’s in one of the tea-rooms across
the street,” he replied.

He
was aware that Dylen was waiting for him to take his leave. But he
could not bring himself to cut short a close encounter with his
former lover. And so he made no move to excuse himself.





Dylen
shook his head and, taking hold of the handgrips at the back of his
father’s chair, asked Hirlen, “Where to next, Adda?”

“I’m
only going to the tailor’s shop two doors down,” Hirlen replied.
“I ordered a new court tunic,” he informed Riodan, his eyes
sparkling. “I’m not about to appear in some shabby old thing at
Rohyr’s nuptials! Now do let go, Dy,” he said, waving his son
away. “I don’t want to be late for my fitting.”

“But
Adda—”

“I
can manage such a short distance on my own,” Hirlen firmly
declared. “Really, you mustn’t coddle me. Eiren said it isn’t
good for my health. Stay here and keep Rio company,” he added
imperatively. “I shan’t take too long.”





Dylen
sighed in resignation as his father set off. He faced Riodan with
palpable reluctance. Riodan tried not to let Dylen’s lack of
cordiality discourage him.





“It’s
kind of you not to tell him about what I did,” he rather
diffidently said.

Dylen
shrugged. “What would it serve to disillusion him as well?” The
comment stung, but Riodan swallowed it without protest.





“Nonetheless,
thank you. I don’t think I could have borne his disappointment.”
“But you certainly can bear mine,” Dylen remarked derisively.





Riodan
flinched. “I have no choice,” he softly said. “Much as it pains
me each time I feel your disdain anew, there is little else I can
do.”

Dylen
snorted. “Don’t seek my company then,” he rejoined. “After
all, you have his
to keep you occupied.”

Riodan
nearly swore under his breath when Guyon appeared at his side,
sliding a proprietary arm around his waist. Dylen gave the gesture a
pointed look, nodded at Riodan, and left them without a word. Riodan
watched him go in frustration. Guyon, too, stared after Dylen with
displeasure, giving Riodan reason to wonder how much he had heard of
the conversation.

“He
thinks highly of himself,” Guyon said with a huff, thereby
providing the answer. “Just because he is brother to Rohyr, he
deems himself above bestowing his pardon on any who’s ever wronged
him.”





Riodan
pulled away from Guyon in irritation and turned to face him none too
patiently. “Dylen is the humblest of Rohyr’s relations,” he
protested. “The way he carries himself, one would never guess his
position at court.”





“Yet
he repeatedly spurns your attempts to befriend him,” Guyon
insisted. “Such arrogance considering his origins!”

“You
know full well that he has just cause to be aloof with me,” Riodan
retorted. “I refused him aid when he most needed it. Indeed, he
must think me the worst of opportunists that I should try to make
amends for that offense and acknowledge our previous association now
that he is a prince of the realm. And he’s right in his thinking,”
Riodan said in a more subdued tone. “I can be brave because an
alliance with the Ardan’s brother is the surest way to fulfill all
my ambitions.” He shook his head. “He has every reason to be wary
of me and keep his distance.”





“And
you defend him at every turn,” Guyon accused. “Indeed, you
relentlessly pursue his forgiveness and accept his rebuffs with such
meekness one would think you nurse more than mere regret.” He
petulantly added, “I do hope you always keep our compact in mind,
Rio. Neither your sire nor mine will be pleased were you to suddenly
renege on what they so painstakingly arranged.”

Riodan
barely managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “Rest
assured, I am perfectly aware of all my obligations,” he dryly
replied.

He
was not the least impressed by Guyon’s show of jealousy; not when
he knew full well that it was not a lover’s possessiveness that
prompted it but rather Guyon’s desire for the royal connection a
binding with Riodan would bring him. Guyon deemed it propitious that
Riodan’s star should be in ascendancy at Rohyr’s court when the
Baraths’ own political fortunes were slowly dwindling.

Whatever
made me think Guyon would be a suitable spouse? Riodan
crossly asked
himself.
He had known from the start that Guyon’s ambitions and his place in
society would always come first. Yet he had decided at the time that
he could stomach being third or fourth on his future mate’s list of
priorities. That had changed when he came into close contact with
Dylen again. It was inevitable once he started comparing the two.
Guyon was as different as could be from Dylen and not in a favorable
way.

Now
he wondered how he could possibly endure a lifetime with a Deir he
was beginning to heartily dislike.





*
* * *





There
was good reason indeed not to show up in some shabby old thing at
Rohyr’s nuptials, Riodan conceded a sennight later. Unlike in his
first binding celebration where his rather muted wedding garb had
betrayed his reluctance to wed under duress, the Ardan was majesty
personified tonight. And majesty deeply in love, too.

That
Rohyr truly desired this union with his longtime concubine showed in
the sumptuousness of their attire. They appeared as their temple
binding had made them— Ylandre’s Ardan and his lawfully and
lovingly wedded spouse and royal consort.

Riodan
watched Dylen wheel his father across the reception hall so that
Hirlen could personally congratulate the new Ardis. Lassen did not
stand on ceremony but leaned down and enfolded Hirlen in an
affectionate hug. Rohyr soon joined them, and before long, they were
talking and laughing merrily.





They
look like a family,
Riodan thought. Nay, they
are family,
he amended. Rohyr
had
made no secret of his delight at gaining a brother. And he probably
saw Hirlen as a surrogate parent having lost his own when he was
quite young. Riodan felt a sudden pang as the realization came to him
that he could have been part of their intimate group had he stayed
true to Dylen. And to himself.

He
stifled a sigh and put on a smile just as Guyon came up to him with a
couple of acquaintances—younger sons of landed gentry from Sidona.
His smile nearly disappeared when he heard the tail end of what Guyon
was telling them. “And Riodan is very close to our Ardan—why,
he’s practically kin. Mind you, it isn’t as if we need the royal
connection, but it would be ridiculous to refuse any benefits that
come our way, wouldn’t it?”





Trying
his best not to grit his teeth, Riodan demurred, “That isn’t
quite right, Guyon. His Majesty deems me a friend, no more, no less.”

“You’re
being too modest,” Guyon said a trifle patronizingly.





“Nay,
I’m being honest,” Riodan retorted. “Rohyr has kin enough by
blood and marriage to have no need to look outside House Essendri for
Deira to call relations.” “But what of Tenryon Hadrana?” one of
the pair asked. “He’s no relation to the

Ardan,
but he’s treated like one.”





“True,
he’s not a blood relation,” Riodan agreed. “But his
half-brother Jareth is a cousin of Rohyr’s and that makes Tenryon
kin by affinity.”

“Speaking
of half-brothers,” the other Deir cut in, his eyes suddenly riveted
on something behind Riodan. “The Ardan’s brother is a feast for
the eyes, isn’t he?”





Riodan
looked back over his shoulder. Dylen stood a short distance away
chatting with some guests. Before he could avert his gaze, Dylen
turned his head and saw him. He politely dipped his head before
resuming the conversation. Meanwhile, the two youths continued to
ogle Dylen appreciatively and with much excitement.





“Please,
Your Excellency, could you introduce us to him?” the second Deir
hopefully asked.





Riodan
tried to make an excuse of not wanting to intrude only to have the
first Deir eagerly say, “Oh, but look, Dyhar,
he’s taking his leave of them!”

Left
with no recourse, Riodan reluctantly headed toward Dylen, the two
Sidonans

and
a pouting Guyon in tow. Dylen looked at him in some surprise when
Riodan intercepted him. But the surprise quickly changed to cool
courtesy when Riodan asked if he could introduce his companions.
Dylen made all the correct responses, a gracious smile illuminating
his comely face, which thereby nearly reduced the young Deira to
speechlessness.