Chronicles of Ylandre 01 - Sacred Fate(1)
Autor: Neni Burelli | Publicado: 2016-11-16T16:18:00-08:00







































































































































Sacred
Fate









Chronicles
of Ylandre









Eresse









(c)
2009





Sacred
Fate









Chronicles
of Ylandre









Eresse









Published
2009





ISBN
978-1-59578-595-4









Published
by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509
Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2009,
Eresse. 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









In
the dual-gendered realm of Ylandre, the great divide between the
high-born True Bloods and the lower-ranked Half Bloods is deemed
impassable by most. Rohyr Essendri dared to cross it when he took
young Lassen Idana from his provincial town and made him his
paramour. Lassen perforce learned how to navigate the intricate
byways of life at court. What he never expected, however, was to fall
in love with Rohyr, a most

inadvisable
and impractical thing to do when one’s lover is sovereign ruler of
the land. But anything worth having is worth fighting for, both
figuratively and, as Lassen discovers, literally speaking. Contains
hermaphrodism and explicit homoerotic sexual encounters.









Note:
Glossary of terms at end of book.

Prologue









Genesis





Ylandre,
in the 1009th year of the Common Age





She
left with a sigh so faint the physician almost did not hear it. Her
chest barely heaved with that final breath; her wrinkle-framed lips
scarcely moved. The healer gently pressed his fingers to the loose
flesh at the sides of her throat then lifted her thin wrist. He shook
his head and looked up.

Veiron
Essendri curtly nodded. He watched the family gather around her in
mourning.

It
was no coincidence that the Ardan of mighty Ylandre had attended an
old female on her deathbed. She was just a commoner but she was also
the last of her kind in the land. And so he had come as soon as word
reached him of her imminent passing. Veiron looked at the kinsfolk
she had left behind—brothers, cousins, nephews, great-nephews. Not
a one sprung from her for no one had taken her to mate. How could
they when her form had no longer found favor with the folk of her
township or even her own blood relations? She, whose ancestors were
the firstborn of Aisen, had lived her life and departed it a virtual
stranger in the world of her birth.





Veiron
signed to his counsellor to give her family a bag of coins to help
defray the cost of the funeral. They received it in timid silence,
the eldest thanking the king in hushed tones. Veiron acknowledged
their gratitude then stepped out of the chamber.

When
he returned to the capital he retreated to his study and took out his
journal. He needed to record the demise of the last female not only
in his realm but also in the entire continent. He was not the only
sovereign to do so. Female-kind vanished in the continents of Lydan
and South Vihandra during his sire’s reign. Arvalde had only a
scant handful left and Khitaira maybe twice that number at most. But
they were all in their twilight years, these spouseless, childless,
kindredless daughters of Aisen. They would leave the world before
Veiron’s eldest came to the throne.

It
was a death knell for their race. Their passing would herald the
extinction of Aisen’s first offspring. And the irreversible
ascendancy of her adopted heirs.

Unsure
how to begin his account, Veiron glanced at the nearby shelf that
housed the journals of his predecessors for inspiration. He recalled
an entry he had read when he was just a lad. He rose and retrieved
his grandsire’s journal. Sitting at his writing desk once more, he
quickly flipped through the crisp pages. He soon found what he was
seeking and began to read.





*
* * *





They
came in that time before written history in this world. A wondrous
race of great daring and spirit. It seemed their fate to suffer
extinction. They defied fate instead and won their battle to prevail
against impossible odds.





The
ancient scribes wrote that their world began to die. The climate
slowly changed. An unending winter set in, killing plants and beasts
alike. They realized that sickness and starvation would destroy them
if the cold did not. And so the sharpest, most farseeing

minds
amongst them gathered together and strove to discover a way for their
people to escape oblivion.

They
were masters of the mind arts. They harnessed mental energy to heal
or wound, to save or slay. They could communicate without speaking
though they never forsook speech. Language was important to them for
they were a highly cultured people who revered their teachers as much
as their soldiers.





Yet
they were first and foremost a warrior race. Their history was marked
by conflict, the extension of borders routinely realized through the
use of force and the attainment of power and property more oft than
not achieved by conquest. Fortunately, by the time of the Great
Frost, they had learned to eschew war for the most part and live in
harmonious coexistence.

It
was this general peace, this conscious will to cooperate, that won
them salvation. They were learned enough to surmise that they were
not alone in existence. At the behest of their scholars and leaders,
they joined their consciousness in a shared endeavor to discover if
there was another place to which they could relocate their race.





They
saw it in that collective mind’s eye. A world similar to theirs
that appeared untouched by sentient life. It held the hope of
survival and promised a future for their kind. And so they came
together on the last continent that could still sustain them. And for
the second time, and likely the last, they joined minds, each and
every survivor of that deadly winter. They harnessed the energy
generated by that joining and channeled it into the creation of a
corridor by which they could pass through the void to their new home.
That was how they came to the world they named Aisen.

It
was only upon their advent that they discovered the presence of a
nascent homegrown race alike to theirs in appearance and
intelligence. They called themselves the gelra.





The
colonists had to make a choice. They were numerous, long-lived and
strong. And they were possessed of a power with which they could
easily overcome and supplant the gelra. But these ancient ones were
wise. They comprehended that the indigenous population possessed what
was needed to thrive in this strange new world. They chose
assimilation over extermination, breeding with the native inhabitants
over many generations until the distinctions between them blurred and
finally disappeared.





We
are the progeny of that wondrous era. The children of the Inception.
A people hewn from the threat of extinction, the harshness of
survival, the hardships of wholesale migration, the relentless toil
of civilization started anew and the inevitable adversities of
evolution. A mercurial race, as capable of bringing down empires as
raising them, undertaking both with equal fervor. We are the result
of the journey upon which those long ago gallant hearts embarked in a
desperate bid to preserve their kind.





They
were the Naere and we, the Deira of Aisen, are forever indebted to
they who were our forebears, sprung from a world that no longer
exists except in blessed memory.

Joram
Essendri

Rikara,
Ylandre Year 825 C.A.









Chapter
One









Happenstance





Tal
Ereq, in the 2996th year of the Common Age





The
air was redolent with the lush aromas of an Ylandrin summer.
Cranapples, sugar pears and honeyberries sprouted in profusion. But
they failed to distract Mithre Idana as he strode down the orchard
lane, peering up at overhanging branches along the way.





A
flash of pale blue amidst the green, rose and brown of a cranapple
tree’s canopy caught his eye. He stared into the thick foliage and
espied his quarry seated on a stout limb, a half eaten fruit in hand.

“Lassen!”





A
sheepish chuckle greeted his call. Mithre waited patiently until his
son shifted on his perch and gazed down at him, so sweet a smile
curving his lips that Mithre was hard-pressed to remain stern.





“Come
down now,” he said, his lilting speech marked by the elongated
vowels of the south. “The delegation will be here very soon.”

“Yes,
Adda.”





Lassen
lightly dropped to the ground. Straightening, he tucked a stray
strand of sun-bright hair behind an ear and attempted to smooth down
his rumpled shirt. Mithre shook his head reprovingly.





“That
won’t do at all. Go bathe and dress properly. Or do you wish to
shame your sire?”

“Nay,
I don’t want that. But is there still time?”





“There
is. You’d better hurry though if you wish to see them come out of
translocation.” Mithre grinned when Lassen’s eyes widened. “And
that’s a very rare sight in these parts.”





Lassen
raced home, barely waiting for his father to finish speaking. Mithre
fondly watched him go. Ah, to be that young again and unburdened by
worries, he smilingly mused as he walked back.





Meanwhile,
Lassen set about making himself presentable, settling for a quick
soap and rinse over a leisurely soak in the tub. Thank Veres it’s
summertime, he thought, as cool water sluiced down his slender frame.
He tossed the dipper back into the shallow basin and briskly toweled
himself dry. Pulling on a robe, he exited the bathing room and
hastened up the stairs to the residential quarters and the bedroom he
shared with his brother.





A
glance out the window showed scores of townsfolk scurrying down the
street toward the main gate. Lassen threw on a pair of thin drawers,
a white full-sleeved shirt and long pale grey breeches. He eschewed
the usual tunic however and donned the sleeveless aquamarine jerkin
he wore during his begetting day celebration the previous spring
instead. It was a sunny day and he would be just one youth among
many. Who would notice, much less care what he wore?





The
volume of chatter from outside increased. Lassen plaited his hair as
fast as he

could,
twisting the flaxen locks framing either side of his face into two
thin braids, which he pulled back and bound with a narrow riband. The
style kept his face clear of untidy strands and allowed his hair to
hang neatly down his back, as was the fashion among his people.

After
slipping on soft leather boots, he gave himself a cursory once-over
in the mirror. He did not care much for the stunning visage reflected
nor did he appreciate how the jerkin matched his eyes and pointed up
the ivory hue of his skin. Some townsfolk attributed Lassen’s
disinterest to his youth but that was hardly accurate for few of
Lassen’s peers were as unaware of their charms as he was.

The
lad took the stairs two steps at a time. Coming out of the Idanas’
modest house, he spotted his brothers Yuilan and Fileg climbing to
the ramparts whence they would have a better view of the wide plain
fronting Tal Ereq. As with most prosperous communities that lay
outside the bounds of Ylandre’s fiefdoms, the town proper was
enclosed by earthen fortifications.

Lassen
hurried after his siblings. It would be his first glimpse of
politically powerful bluebloods and these ones from the faraway
capital of Rikara at that.

Tal
Ereq was located near the eastern bounds of the Autonomous Province
of Velarus. Essentially buffer zones between Ylandre and the
neighboring nations, the Provinces’ populaces neither owed fealty
to the realm’s Herune or fief-lords nor were under direct
monarchial control. Only rarely did the government interfere in their
affairs. But such leniency had a price.

Royal
aid was limited and often delayed. Trade with the fiefs and Crown
lands was minimal at best. Consequently, the Provinces were not as
affluent as the vassal states. Outlawry was also more prevalent.
Ruinous when left unchecked, such brigandage had spread too widely of
late for the comfort of Tal Ereq’s citizens. Hence the petition the
townsfolk sent to the capital posthaste.

Word
had arrived the previous week that the Ardan would send a delegation
to negotiate terms with them. Visits by high-ranking dignitaries
being extremely rare, the news had thrown the town into a state of
excitement. For while the most prominent families of the town were of
the gentry, none could claim more than fleeting social contact with
the enyra,
the elite True Bloods who formed the ruling class of every realm in
Aisen.





Tal
Ereq’s folk were sedyra
or Half Bloods, that is to say, Deira whose ancestors had bred
indiscriminately with the aboriginal Aiseni. The result had been the
wholesale diminishment of the mental prowess passed down by their
Naeren forebears. Few sedyra
possessed the talent today, let alone wielded it. Not so the enyra
who, through judicious breeding with the ancient natives, preserved
both their bloodlines and the mind gifts in large part. They also
aged more slowly than the Half Bloods and often surpassed the average
Deiran lifespan of one hundred and fifty summers by another twenty
years or so.





Just
as Lassen reached his brothers, an excited murmur spread among the
townsfolk. The Idana sons turned their gazes on the wide plain before
them. Lassen caught his breath when he descried the ripples in the
atmosphere that heralded the blossoming of a translocation portal.
Not even True Bloods all possessed the skill to create these
transient gateways. In eastern Velarus, it was a phenomenon so rarely
witnessed as to be almost mythical.





Within
moments of the portal’s blossoming, figures materialized in the
corridor

within,
which swirled and blurred like shifting sand across a barren dessert.
As if coming from the other side of a mirror, Lassen thought.

Several
cloaked riders appeared mounted on zentyra, the fleet and powerful
Ylandrin war steeds whose silken manes, whimsically dappled flanks
and elegant gaits belied their inherent ferocity and the lethal
nature of their sharp cloven hooves and the single short horn that
protruded from their brows. They were not found anywhere else in
Aisen and it was forbidden to use them for leisure or labor or to
bring them out of the country without royal permission.





When
the last rider emerged, the portal shimmered then faded away. The
delegation regrouped and began to traverse the plain toward the town.

“Let’s
go down!” Yuilan urged. “I want to see Aba
welcome them. Hurry, brothers, hurry!”





The
three descended and raced to the town hall. Lassen glanced back as
the first of the visitors passed under the wide arch of the main
gate. His heart beating wildly, he followed his brothers who made
their way to Mithre. As mate to Dael Idana, Tal Ereq’s First Elder,
Mithre stood at the forefront of the Elders’ families gathered on
one side of the hall courtyard. Other prominent townsfolk filled the
remaining space. The rest made do with lining the street outside.





Taking
his place beside Fileg, Lassen watched the Rikaran party enter the
courtyard. There were eleven riders, six of whom formed an armed
escort. Once they were all within, they reined in their steeds and
dismounted.





Mithre
had visited the capital several times and seen many of its ranking
citizens in the course of business. He identified the delegates as
they let down their hoods.

“That
is Keosqe Deilen, Minister of Internal Affairs,” Mithre murmured
upon sight of cool amethyst eyes and pale gold hair. He added that
the enyran
lord was cousin to the king.





“Ah,
the Chief Counsellor, Yovan Seydon,” he said, nodding in the
direction of an aristocratic Deir of middle years. “His son will
some day inherit a great fortune. The counsellor wed into one of the
wealthiest families in the land.”

“Isn’t
he also kin to the Ardan?” Lassen ascertained.





“You’ve
been paying attention to your teachers,” Mithre said approvingly.
“Yes, he is. Indeed, nearly all his inner circle are related to him
by blood or law. They intermarry a lot, these high-born True Bloods.”





“You
don’t approve?” Yuilan asked.





“‘Tis
not our custom to bind with over close kin,” Mithre admitted with a
shrug. “But the nobles hew closely to the traditions of our
ancestors who wed their own brethren to keep their bloodlines pure.”
He turned his attention once more to the delegates. “There, that is
Gilmael Calanthe, another of the Ardan’s cousins. ‘Tis said that
he heads the most efficient intelligence network in the North
Continent. And he is a twin. He and his brother are so alike, ‘tis
nigh impossible to tell them apart.”





His
sons studied the dark-haired, blue-eyed noble, trying to picture two
of him standing side by side. Gilmael spoke briefly with one of the
party, a somewhat elderly Deir whose handsome features were marred by
what appeared to be a perpetual scowl.





“Who
is that sour-faced fellow?” Fileg questioned, wrinkling his nose in
distaste. “Hush,” Mithre muttered. “He’s the Ardan’s uncle
of Qimaras, Imcael Essendri. I





wouldn’t
cross him for he’s said to nurse his grudges. He’s haughty as
well and puts

much
stock in bloodlines and titles. Not a pleasant person by any
standard. But here now, who is that?” He eyed the one visitor who
had yet to uncover his face. “Look how he regards what goes about
him. Not much escapes that one, I wager.”





As
Mithre finished speaking, the unknown Deir dropped his hood. The
Elders gaped then hastily genuflected, heads bowed low in obeisance.
All the adults present did likewise, compelling the young ones to
follow their example.





“Adda?”
Lassen asked, looking sideways at Mithre in confusion.





“Veres
almighty!” Mithre whispered. “Why is he here?” He glanced at
his anxious sons. “Don’t be afraid, I was only so surprised,”
he assured them as he straightened up. “We didn’t think the Ardan
himself would deign to visit our humble town.”

“That
is the Ardan?” Fileg blurted excitedly.





Lassen
stared at Rohyr Essendri. Saints,
but he’s handsome!
Nay, beautiful was closer to the mark. His patrician features and
rich sable hair bespoke his pure Essendri descent. But what
distinctly marked him as the ranking member of Ylandre’s ruling
family were his eyes. Lassen had never seen such eyes before—slate
grey irises rimmed with smoky blue. As he continued to stare at
Rohyr, his heart began to race and his cheeks flushed. In that
moment, Lassen knew the befuddling throes of first infatuation.

He
watched Rohyr graciously respond to the effusive welcomes and
requisite introductions to each Elder and his mate. The Ardan did not
raise his voice but what Lassen heard of it affected him nonetheless.
Low, deep and spoken in the slightly clipped manner of the
northerners, it rang with compelling authority yet was surprisingly
melodious. A frisson of excitement singed Lassen’s suddenly
unsteady limbs.

Dael
invited Rohyr and his party to enter the town hall, gesturing
deferentially to Rohyr to precede him. Before he passed through the
doorway into the building, the king turned his gaze to where the
Elders’ families were gathered. His eyes swiftly skimmed over them.
Still awe-struck, Lassen continued to stare at him.





He
nearly stopped breathing when Rohyr looked straight at him. Their
gazes met and locked. The earlier frisson of emotion turned into a
veritable quake of sensation as those grey eyes studied his features
then swept over him in appraisal. Spellbound, Lassen could not move
or speak or even think clearly. His head felt light, his chest seemed
constricted and his knees threatened to give way. If Rohyr did not
release him soon from his regard, he would swoon.





Just
when Lassen thought he would disgrace himself before everyone, Rohyr
turned away and entered the hall. Lassen breathed in deeply to ease
his starved lungs. He glanced about him. No one was looking at him,
not even his brothers. Had nobody noticed? How long had it lasted
anyway?





The
crowd began to disperse and Yuilan and Fileg hurried to join their
friends. Everyone was talking about the king’s unexpected visit and
Lassen’s brothers were no exception. He stared after them feeling a
wee bit disoriented.

Mithre
studied him with concern. “Are you well?” he murmured.





Lassen
swallowed then softly replied in the affirmative. Mithre’s
expression turned a shade more worried.





“The
way he looked at you… Did the Ardan—did he impart anything to
you?” Lassen frowned. “How could he when he didn’t speak—”
he started to say, then

stopped
and shook his head. “I heard nothing in my mind, Adda.”
He shivered when he remembered the oppressive weight of that silvery
gaze. “But I felt…”

“Felt…?”





“’Twas
as if I were a book and he was turning my pages and reading a little
of what I contained.”

Mithre
sucked in his breath. He would speak with Dael after the meeting was
over, he decided. Absurd as it seemed, he could not shake the feeling
that there had been more to Rohyr’s perusal of Lassen than mere
curiosity.





“Was
it wrong of him to do that?” Lassen asked.





Mithre
hesitated. It could be perilous to speak ill of the Ardan. Not that
Rohyr had done anything that was not within his rights as monarch of
the land. And in any case, it was said that he never employed his
considerable mind-talents on a mere whim. Mithre hoped the whole
incident was no more than a mare’s nest and that he was just seeing
phantoms in his protectiveness of his children.

“‘Twas
not wrong,” he said at length. “He had his reasons and ‘tis not
for us to question them.” Mithre forced the frown from his face and
smiled at his son. “I’ve been tasked with preparing our guests’
evening meal. Would you like to help?”





Lassen
eagerly nodded. “Will you serve them your roehart stew? I think for
a bite of that alone, the Ardan would readily grant our petition!”





The
elder Idana laughed, his forebodings stilled for the moment. Fondly
patting his son’s shoulder, he made his way out of the courtyard.
Lassen fell in step with him.

Neither
sensed the gaze that followed them as they wended their way through
the thinning crowd.









Chapter
Two









Proviso





Located
on the upper floor of the town hall, the main audience chamber was an
airy room with polished wooden floors and tapestry-adorned walls. Its
many windows overlooked the courtyard and the surrounding residences.





Rohyr
Essendri stood at one of those windows, surveying the tableau below.
The others quietly waited for him. To do otherwise would be deemed a
breach of protocol.

Despite
the simplicity of his raiment, the Ardan cut a striking figure. He
was clad in a chestnut-hued tunic styled in the enyran
manner with the sword arm sleeve cut above the elbow. High-collared
and knee-length, the tunic hugged the body and opened up front and at
the sides from hem to mid-thigh for ease of movement. Underneath were
a close-fitting shirt and hardy long breeches. Completing the
ensemble were rugged boots and a sturdy belt from which hung a
plain-hilted sword sheathed in a leather scabbard.





Though
born to wealth and privilege, Rohyr displayed little of the trappings
of his position. Were it not for the white-silver almond shaped
earring that gleamed at his left ear, the single blue-tinged gem of
adamant at its center emblematic of his sovereignty, he could have
passed for any Deir of aristocratic birth. But not unmarked. He could
never be overlooked even were he less than inordinately comely or did
not tower over everyone save for his kinsfolk.





He
radiated an aura of barely leashed power despite his age—Rohyr was
much younger than most of his contemporaries in other lands. Indeed,
he was the youngest Essendri ever to rule, having come to the throne
unexpectedly a decade and a half ago when he was little more than a
callow lad of twenty-eight summers—a full seven years before his
majority.

At
last, he turned from the window and the Third Elder Owyn led him to
his seat. In the center of the room were nine high-backed chairs.
They were arranged in a





semi
oval so that eight faced each other across a wide burgundy runner,
its center emblazoned with Tal Ereq’s crest. Between the chairs
were small tables bearing pewter plates and drinking cups. Owyn
conducted Rohyr to the chair at the head of the arrangement.





Once
they were seated, attendants entered the chamber. Some brought
platters and bowls of savory tarts, chunks of grilled wildfowl on
tiny skewers, spiced and salted haronuts and assorted sweetmeats.
Others bore pitchers of mulled wine and flagons of cool mead. In all,
a light but filling afternoon repast fit for noble guests.





To
the Elders’ surprise, Rohyr asked that the attendants leave right
after they served the food and drinks. He broached the town’s
petition as soon as the last of them departed.

“Speak
plainly and waste not our time or yours,” he admonished when the
Elders lingered on the niceties of formal introductions, the
reference to himself in the plural form automatically lending an
official air to the proceedings. “Else you may find brigands at
your threshold before you manage to convince us of the merits of
granting you our protection.”

It
fell to Dael to expound on the town’s predicament. Tal Ereq’s
folk were proud of

their
independence, having thrived on their own for more than fifteen
generations. But of late that independence had been threatened by
neighboring Cattania’s aggression.

Cattania
shared a tenuous border with Velarus and its rulers had once
attempted to redraw the map of the North Continent in their favor.
That botched invasion had cost the principality dearly. Repelled by
the Ylandrin army and invaded in retaliation, the Cattanians had
watched with impotent rage as fortresses and frontier communities
fell to the Essendris and the border was pushed back several leagues
onto their own soil.

Though
the chances of regaining those lands were negligible, the Cattanian
princes continued to harass the towns and villages along the marches.
Lately, they had taken to unleashing the dregs of their society on
the region and were responsible for a great portion of the banditry
that afflicted the area.





The
tally of outlaw bands had sharply risen, as had the escalation in
their savagery. News of pitiless raids culminating in wholesale
destruction and rapine gave Tal Ereq’s residents cause to doubt
their ability to defend themselves. Sooner or later, the brigands
would turn their sights on the thriving communities farther west of
the border. The townsfolk feared that their home would vanish from
the face of Aisen before the lords of the nearest fiefs saw fit to
mobilize their constabularies.





“We
own ourselves in dire need of Your Majesty’s protection and
guidance,” Dael earnestly said. “We ask that you extend your aid
to this town and its citizens.”

“And
what do you offer in return, Idana-tyar?”
Gilmael Calanthe inquired, courteously appending the honorific to
Dael’s surname though he was of much higher station than the Elder.





“We
will cooperate in the establishment of an outpost within our
territory as was once requested of us,” Dael replied.

“By
my sire,” Rohyr wryly remarked. “You denied his request.”

The
Elders looked uncomfortable. “Our predecessors didn’t think it
necessary at the time,” scholarly Mykal diffidently explained,





“You
mean they didn’t appreciate the idea of a constant military
presence so close by,” Rohyr rejoined. “It is wise of you to
reconsider your stand.” He gestured to Dael to continue.





The
Elder gamely enumerated more concessions, most having to do with
placing Tal Ereq’s natural resources at the Crown’s disposal. He
faltered under Imcael’s incredulous regard, however.





“That
is all you can offer?” the latter scoffed.





Though
inwardly chafing at the Herun’s incivility, Dael maintained his
composure. “We will tender liege homage, Essendri-dyhar,”
he said, mindful to employ the high honorific used to address someone
of noble blood or profession.





Rohyr
smiled humorlessly. “Do you understand what liege homage entails?
It’s far more than simple fealty. Are you prepared to swear
yourselves to the service of the Crown, even to your children and
grandchildren?”





The
Elders exchanged pained glances. But they looked with resignation at
Dael and he stoutly declared, “We are prepared.





Before
any could respond, Imcael spoke none too patiently, his northern
accent becoming more pronounced as his irritation mounted. “But
what use have you for a backwater town, Nephew? What in heyas
can they possibly offer that is worth our time and trouble? Verily,
all they have in significant quantities are trinkets. And whilst
those

are
admittedly pretty enough, not all the jewel smiths of Ylandre come
from this town. Why, the bazaars and shops of Rikara offer an
abundance of baubles from all over the land!”





Unused
to such open contempt, the Elders shifted uneasily in their seats.
Rohyr raised a hand to stay his uncle’s diatribe.

“But
few are as beauteous as what the folk of this town create,” Yovan
Seydon interjected. He pointedly stared at Imcael. “As you well
know, Imcael, since your
most prized trinkets come from Tal Ereq.”





The
young lords hid their smiles behind their hands while the Elders
gawked at the counsellor. A red-faced Imcael glowered at him.

“Whence
my property hails has no bearing on whether this town merits
protectorate status or not, Yovan,” he growled. “And I’ll thank
you not to discuss personal matters in the presence of strangers!”





Swallowing
his mirth, Rohyr said, “Nonetheless, I laud your taste, Uncle. Tal
Ereq is renowned for its jewel craft and deservedly so.” He glanced
at the Elders, then swept a keen gaze over the others. “Alone, this
town isn’t much of a prize. Apart from Lord Imcael’s arguments,
it is quite far from the main trade routes and any major hub of
commerce and industry or center of education and culture.”

He
looked at Keosqe Deilen for confirmation and received a nod of
assent. “It’s a problem Tal Ereq has in common with its
neighbors,” Keosqe elaborated. “This part of Velarus is
underpopulated and underdeveloped. Furthermore, the towns and
villages are fairly distant from each other and the citizens keep to
themselves for the most part. They are insular folk, these eastern
Velarusians.”

“Yet
a score of Tal Ereq’s neighbors have made the same request of us,”
Rohyr pointed out. “Put their populations together and their
numbers would equal that of a city-state. Should more follow, they
could swell to the size of a fief.”





“Which
would warrant the installation of a full-fledged regional
constabulary in lieu of a border outpost,” Keosqe said.

“And
encourage commerce with the fiefs should they pool their resources
and cooperate in the distribution of their goods and produce abroad,”
Gilmael added.

“Finally,
consider the benefits of having a united populace on our eastern
front,” Yovan quietly finished. “Cattania’s belligerence would
be significantly reduced. Until now they’ve depended on the
isolation of this region’s communities from each other to hinder
any concerted resistance against their incursions. Prevention is
always more desirable than retaliation. When foreign aggression is
checked at the borders, we need not worry about possible attacks on
the fiefs and Crown lands farther within or bother to expend efforts
in rebuilding diplomatic ties with chastened would-be conquerors.”

“I
think that sums up the benefits of taking this town into the fold,”
Rohyr said. “Are there any other objections?” When none was
voiced even by a scowling Imcael, he turned his gaze back to the
Elders who were nonplussed by the blunt discussion of their town’s
merits and flaws. “There is one other matter that needs
clarification before a compact is drawn up.”

The
Elders gaped. From the tenor of Rohyr’s words, it seemed all would
be resolved in the span of one afternoon’s talk.

Rohyr
looked at Dael inquiringly. “There was a lad in the courtyard
earlier. He regarded our party quite relentlessly and myself in
particular. It’s a wonder his stare did

not
scorch us to a crisp.” He paused to allow for a round of chuckles.
“He has your mate’s coloring and something of your features. I
assumed he is kin to you.”

“That
would be my youngest, Lassen,” Dael replied. “I beg pardon for
his untoward behavior, Dyhar.
He’s never seen True Bloods before, let alone of such high birth.”

“Never?
You’ve sheltered him quite rigorously.” “He is a breeder,”
Dael explained.

There
was no need for further elucidation. The chances of conception were
greater with breeders whose fertility so exceeded the ordinary they
could easily and safely reproduce even past the age when the general
ability to conceive waned considerably. It was not unheard of for a
reluctant breeder to be abducted and forced to bear his captor’s
progeny. This latter practice was outlawed in Ylandre several
centuries back. But it was difficult to fully enforce any law in the
more remote regions. It was better to be overly careful than have
cause for regret later on.





“You’re
hardly to blame for your caution,” Rohyr agreed. “But that is of
no account to me.” He eyed Dael so intently it unnerved the Elder.
“He’s all that is needed to gain my consent, Dael Idana. Give
your son into my ownership and I shall grant Tal Ereq full protection
and aid equal to a fiefdom’s.”

Stunned
silence met his pronouncement.

“What
of the concessions they offered?” Gilmael ventured after a moment.





“We
have no need of them save for the outpost,” Rohyr said
dismissively, shifting once more to the royal “we” to emphasize
the intractability of his stand. “They merely provided a good gauge
of the severity of their need.” He regarded the dumbfounded Elders.
“You may retain your autonomy and all the rights thereof. Though
should you offer assistance at any time, it won’t be declined.”

Finding
his tongue, Dael anxiously sputtered, “But-but, Dyhar!
Lassen has just passed his twenty-sixth summer. He mayn’t be bedded
before his thirtieth.”

“A
leman may with parental consent,” Rohyr shot back. Dael stared.
“You will make him your concubine?”

“You
think I will cast him aside after a few tumbles?” Rohyr caustically
said. “What do you make of me, Elder?” When Dael paled, he
continued in a kinder tone. “It’s not my habit to bed younglings
for sport. Rest assured I shall keep him well and bestow every
privilege that is within my power on him.”





Before
Dael could reply, Rohyr’s uncles spoke up. Imcael protested
vehemently; Yovan advised caution. Rohyr shrugged them off.

“I
don’t see how this will affect my governance. It’s not as if I
will grant him the rule over a ministry or hand him the keys to the
royal treasury! This has naught to do with my obligations save in
providing me with a greater measure of contentment in my spare time.
And since it is when I am most content that I’m also the most
inspired to do my duty, I think you’ll agree that this can only
better my performance as a whole.”

Wincing
at the reference to what would be required of Lassen, Dael voiced
another concern. “Lassen is too young to imbibe mirash,”
he said, feeling quite ill at publicly discussing his son’s current
level of reproductive maturity. “Should he conceive… Your
Majesty, ‘twould imperil him to breed before his time.”





“Nor
should he!” Imcael exclaimed. “No other may precede your lawful
heir, Rohyr. None should conceive your child until you have begotten
one on your legal consort!”





Rohyr
frowned. “You need not get into a pother over this, Uncle. You know
full well

that
there are other means by which conception can be prevented.” He
turned his attention back to Dael. “However, Lord Imcael is
correct. Even when he reaches breeding age, Lassen must not get with
child before I have sired one in wedlock. And in the event of a
mishap occurring, I will want to be certain that the babe is indeed
mine.”

Dael
caught his breath. “You will imprint him?”

“I
cannot chance his straying from our bed and mayhap foisting someone’s
bastard on me.”





The
Elder swallowed hard at his frankness. An image of his son spread
beneath Rohyr came to him unbidden. Involuntarily, his eyes dropped
to the king’s lap where his tunic parted, revealing the length of
his muscular thighs and a glimpse of his crotch. His snug breeches
left little room for guesswork. Dael inwardly cringed.





He
knew what it was to be speared but never had he experienced coupling
with one as generously endowed as Rohyr obviously was. Would Lassen
be able to bear it? It was not that he thought Rohyr cruel or
insensitive but surely it would be no easy thing to sheathe a sword
such as the king possessed.





Dael
became conscious of the other Elders’ averted gazes. They did not
pressure him with either word or look but Dael knew what they hoped
for. He glanced at Rohyr’s companions. Imcael was obviously
displeased while Yovan had adopted a neutral expression—he had said
his piece and now left matters to his nephew. Gilmael and Keosqe, on
the other hand, regarded him with sympathy but also, to the Elder’s
bemusement, some humor.





Keosqe
glanced at his royal cousin then shook his head with a wry smile.
Dael followed his glance and regretted it an instant later. Rohyr was
smiling, too, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes. Dael
understood then that the choice had already been made for him and
that his acquiescence was little more than a formality.





“Well?”
Rohyr said, his voice edged with mild impatience. “Are we agreed on
this or not?”





Dael
resigned his son to the inevitable. Drawing an almost painful breath,
he formally acceded. “’Tis as you wish, Your Majesty. Lassen is
yours from this day forth.”









Chapter
Three









Contract





Dael
listened to the clink and clatter of colliding kitchenware. If the
sounds got any louder, he would have to consider ducking behind the
stout kitchen door. Mithre’s aim was nothing to sniff at.





The
welcome dinner had been small and intimate, the chief officers of the
town militia and the Elders’ mates the only other folk present.
Throughout, talk had focused on the region’s chronic banditry and
when reinforcements would arrive. These would be drawn from the royal
army and the constabularies of the nearest fiefs of Edessa and
Qimaras. A grumpy Imcael had not hidden his displeasure at having to
send troops to this Veres forsaken region as he called it,
conveniently forgetting that if the region were overrun by brigands
and the like, his fief would come under threat as well. No mention
was made of the main proviso Rohyr had required in return for his
protection and aid.





Only
when the dinner drew to a close was the matter finally broached.
Gilmael took the Idanas aside ostensibly to inform them of the advent
of some of his people within the next few days. The Intelligence
Ministry had been monitoring the outlaw activity and been aware of
its rapid escalation far earlier than the Velarusians themselves.





“You
knew?” Mithre blurted out. He shook his head. “Of course you
knew, Dyhar.
Your people have their fingers in every pie in the land.”

Initially
alarmed by his mate’s boldness, Dael calmed down when Gilmael
chuckled. “We did anticipate calls for aid such as yours,” he
readily admitted. “And we let it be known that we would visit your
town and that the others would be welcome to present their requests
to the Crown here.”





Mithre
sighed. “I never thought I would live to see Tal Ereq become liege
property.” “You haven’t,” Gilmael corrected. “The Ardan
declined your offer of liege homage.” Mithre stared at him. “But
he granted our request.”





“He
accepted another concession,” Dael softly explained.





Mithre
noted his discomfort. “Are you permitted to share it with me?” he
warily asked.

“He
is,” Gilmael said. “Indeed, it is my cousin’s counsel that you
do so before it is made public. It’s you and yours who will have
the most to lose or gain, depending on your point of view.”





Mithre
looked from the enyran
noble to his spouse. “Dael, tell me,” he murmured, not altogether
sure that he wanted to know.

Dael
did, Gilmael’s presence lending him fortitude in the face of
Mithre’s mounting incredulity. Thankfully, Mithre only responded
with a curt, “I see.”

But
once they returned home, Mithre’s temper showed. He did not berate
Dael but he sent their servant home early and finished cleaning the
kitchen on his own with a vigor one would have thought sapped from
him after having spent the better part of the afternoon preparing the
formal evening meal. Dael winced at the near violence with which
Mithre stowed away the cookware. While Mithre was principal caregiver
in addition to bearer of the eldest and youngest Idana children, that
did not mean he was

physically
weaker or more domesticated than Dael. Bowing his head, Dael
muttered, “Forgive me.”





The
angry sounds ceased and he heard Mithre sigh. He glanced cautiously
at his spouse. Mithre turned around to face him, his expression
pained.

“You
had no choice,” he finally said. “‘Tis just that…” Mithre
peevishly rubbed his forehead. “Ah, if only I had spoken to you
before your meeting with him began. This might have been averted.
But, nay, that is wishful thinking. From the moment he laid his eyes
on Lassen, our son’s fate was sealed.”





“What
do you mean?” Dael asked.





Mithre
gestured to him to seat himself at the worktable then quietly
recounted the incident in the courtyard. When he was done, Dael
stared at him for some minutes. When he was able to speak again, he
said, “He mentioned seeing Lassen beforehand but I didn’t know
that’s what he meant. I only thought his proposal quite sudden.”





“It
was
sudden,” Mithre affirmed. “One swift perusal will hardly yield
thorough knowledge of anybody. Certainly not enough to stake a
relationship of any length on it. Yet you say he intends to keep
Lassen even should he wed another and maybe even beget sons on him.”





“He
also promised to acknowledge any children Lassen may give him,”
Dael added. “How strange that he should be willing to give by-blows
his name.”

“It
bespeaks a deeper regard than would be usual for a kept lover.”

Dael
frowned. “What are you suggesting? Surely you don’t believe that
he’s enamored of Lassen.”





“I’m
not suggesting that at all,” Mithre demurred. “Indeed, I don’t
understand his interest in our son. But if you had seen how he looked
at Lassen earlier and what Lassen felt when he did…”





“As
if he were a book and Rohyr was reading some of his pages,” Dael
mused. “The Ardan is inordinately gifted in the mind arts. Did he
see something of portent?”





“’Tis
the only logical explanation,” Mithre agreed. “Not that it
matters now.” He looked inquiringly at Dael. “Lassen must be told
soonest. Will you do it or shall I?”





Dael’s
shoulders drooped. “I’ll do it,” he decided. “Twas I who
agreed after all. But would you instruct him in what he’ll need to
know to—?” He swallowed with some difficulty. “To see to the
Ardan’s needs. I don’t want him to offend Rohyr unwittingly and
we too far away to guide him.”





Mithre
wanly smiled. “‘Twas time to begin instructing him. I just never
imagined I would prepare him for royal service. But, alas, there are
some things Lassen can only learn at the end of Rohyr’s sword.”





He
repentantly rubbed his mate’s back to ease his sudden fit of
coughing.





*
* * *





The
sun shone brightly on the meadows north of the town. Partially shaded
by the golden elms and drooping willows that lined its shallow banks,
a small lake provided refreshing play for the town children. It lay
some distance from the town proper; far enough that had the banditry
spread toward Tal Ereq’s vicinity, it would no longer have been
safe for any of the townsfolk to venture down to it. But since they
came under direct royal protection a fortnight ago, that peril no
longer existed.





The
constabulary troops from Edessa and Qimaras arrived first. A great
contingent of

soldiers
from the capital followed two days later. The townsfolk had watched
the company ride off toward the border under the command of Vaeren
Henaz of the Royal Army.





All
had expected Rohyr to return to the capital once the promised
military aid had been dispatched. But the Ardan stayed on until he
received word that the deployed troops were enough. Hardly surprising
though since he often led his forces into battle during critical
conflicts, the first being when he quelled an insurgency by Varadani
separatists in the northwestern province of Tenerith barely three
years after he came to the throne.

In
the meantime, representatives from Tal Ereq’s neighbors arrived in
quick succession. Rohyr met with them and granted his provisional
help while extracting major concessions in return. The townsfolk
counted themselves very fortunate that he had not demanded as steep a
price of them. Or at least, a price that would beggar the community
in terms of political autonomy.

That
price now watched the frolicking children unseen. Hidden by lush
foliage, Lassen sat on a low-hanging willow branch and wistfully
gazed at the merry youngsters. Not too many years ago he had been one
of their number. Now, not only had he left those halcyon days behind,
he would also leave the place where he had passed all those days. And
he would do so very soon.

Commander
Henaz had sent word that there would be no need for further
reinforcements. Faced with well-armed, professional soldiers, the
outlaw bands began to retreat whence they came. Whether Cattania
would permit them to cross into the principality once again was
unlikely and these bandits would be caught between the border guards
and pursuing Ylandrin troops.

Lassen
sighed dolefully. He wondered how he would fare in his new home and
the role thrust on him.

When
he learned that he was the lynchpin upon which the success of Tal
Ereq’s petition hinged, he blanched so alarmingly that Dael had
dosed him with a fortifying cup of blackgrape cordial. Afterward, he
had wept profusely, prompting Mithre to enter his room and join Dael
in consoling him. But when he became aware of Dael’s anguish at
playing so vital a role in his plight, he set aside his misery to
comfort his sire instead. Apprised of the situation, Yuilan and Fileg
alternated between sympathy for their youngest brother and awe at his
unexpected entrance into the royal household.

That
was ten days ago. All the while, preparations for his relocation to
the capital proceeded without cease. And Mithre sat him down one
evening and discussed what would be expected of him and what Lassen
should anticipate in the course of serving the king. Lassen flushed
when he recalled the particulars of that conversation.





He
was not some uneducated rustic. He knew what sexual communion
entailed. But it was one thing to know about the act in a general
way, quite another to be informed of the specifics of it and in
graphic detail. He closed his eyes and suppressed a whimper when his
belly fluttered with unfamiliar sensations.





He
had spoken with Rohyr just thrice and always in the presence of
others. He knew next to nothing that was not already public knowledge
about the Deir who would claim his innocence and order his life from
hereon.





Lassen
almost yelped when a hand gently clasped his shoulder. He opened his
eyes and stared disbelievingly at Rohyr, astounded that he had
deigned to join him on so unregal a perch as a tree limb. The king
was as simply clad as he in a plain shirt, long

breeches
and soft boots.





“I
didn’t mean to startle you,” Rohyr said, “But you didn’t
respond when I hailed you. So I thought it best to join you instead.”

Lassen
paled, anxious that he had given offense. “Forgive me, my liege, I
did not hear you,” he tremulously replied.

A
small smile hovered on Rohyr’s lips. “Unsurprising. You were deep
in thought.” He nodded toward the happy scene below. “You will
miss this.”

The
youth sighed. “I know no other life.”





Rohyr
regarded him silently for a spell. “Rikara is no bucolic haven,”
he said at length. “But I dare say you’ll find much to interest
you.”

“They
do say ‘tis beautiful,” Lassen ventured. “It is. And the
Citadel more so.”





That
intrigued Lassen. The Citadel was both a royal residence and a great
fortress. He could not quite imagine the two purposes consolidated in
a structure as wondrous as folk described it.





“Does
it feel like a home?” he impulsively asked.





Rohyr
smiled. “It does. I wouldn’t live there otherwise.”





Encouraged
by Rohyr’s easy manner, Lassen assayed another question. “Where
would you live then?”

The
king’s smile widened. “The estate in Vireshe perhaps. It was my
domain when I was still crown prince. But I assure you the Citadel is
a home not only to me but to the members of my household as well.”





Lassen
considered this then nodded. “Mayhap I shall also learn to call it
home,” he whispered.

His
woebegone expression prompted Rohyr to ask, “Do you want me to
release you?”

Startled,
Lassen said, “I would not have my sire foreswear himself.”





“I
see.” Rohyr pursed his lips. “Then if it was not he who had given
his word, you wouldn’t hesitate to ask to be freed.”

Lassen
was aghast. “Nay, your Majesty! I would still honor what was agreed
upon. I mean—” Fearing that he was compounding his error, Lassen
fell into stricken silence.

Rohyr
chuckled. Unexpectedly, the sound of it set Lassen’s skin a-simmer
and he blushed in acute embarrassment.

“Rohyr,”
the Ardan said. “Dyhar?”

“Call
me by name.”





Lassen
stared at him in shock. “I can’t do that!” he objected. “‘Tis
not meet to address you so-so familiarly.”

“And
why not when you’ll be far more familiar with me than any other in
all Ylandre?” Rohyr pointed out.

Lassen
gaped at him, his cheeks flaming. “If that is your wish, Majes—”
He broke off at the warning gleam in the Ardan’s eyes. “Rohyr,”
he amended, lowering his gaze.

Rohyr
gently chucked him under the chin. “It is.”





Lassen
drew a ragged breath. Forcing himself to meet Rohyr’s gaze, he
managed a shy smile.

Rohyr
shook his head. “Are you aware of the power of your smile?” When
Lassen

frowned
in puzzlement, he sighed. “I thought not.”





He
reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a tiny silk-covered box.
Rohyr placed it in Lassen’s hand and signed for him to open it.
Despite the season’s warmth, Lassen shivered as he lifted the lid.





His
breath hitched when he laid eyes on the gold earring within. It was
elliptical in shape, a sprig of royal holly delicately graven in the
middle. Each tapered end was adorned by a gem—at the top, a small
but perfect diamond and, at the bottom, a deep red heartsfire. Lassen
swallowed, perturbed by the earring’s significance.





Hearstfire
was the symbol of passion. A heartsfire stud signified that its
wearer was available so to speak while a single stone set in precious
metal indicated that he was either betrothed or in a long-term
liaison. A heartsfire coupled with one of the gems associated with
the aristocracy identified a blueblood’s concubine.





Lassen
flinched when he felt Rohyr’s breath upon his ear. He became aware
of Rohyr’s scent—fresh and clean with the faintest tinge of spicy
sandara,
a fragrant oil from the southern lands. It was an enticing scent and
suited the Ardan very well.





“So
soft,” Rohyr murmured, sifting his hand through Lassen’s hair.
“Leave it long.” When Lassen nodded, Rohyr returned his attention
to the jewel. “Yuilan informed me that Symon Barash is your most
renowned jewel smith.”





Lassen
nodded. “When?” he faintly asked.





“The
morn after your sire gave his consent for you to join me. This should
be an adamant,” Rohyr added, lightly touching a fingertip to the
diamond. “But it seems it’s impossible to acquire in these
parts.”

“They
are beyond the reach of most folk,” Lassen croaked.





“Not
mine,” Rohyr said. “Or yours from hereon. I shall have this
changed in Rikara.” He placed a finger on Lassen’s lips to
silence him when the youth started to protest.





Taking
the earring from its case, he instructed, “Wear this.”





Lassen
mutely obeyed. With slightly shaking hands, he removed the honey-hued
suncrystal stud from his left ear. He closed his eyes and quivered
slightly when Rohyr fastened the new earring in place. It felt
heavier and not only in the physical sense. With it came the weight
of the obligations he would take upon himself as a king’s leman.





“It
suits you, Las-min,”
Rohyr softly said.





Lassen
caught his breath, blindsided by Rohyr’s implicit familiarity with
him. The diminutive form of address was generally applied to a Deir
of junior years or rank and only when a close relationship whether
familial, platonic or professional was in place.

When
appended to the shortened form of the recipient’s name, it implied
intimacy such as existed between parent and child or mentor and
protégé. Or lovers. Rohyr addressing him thusly was an anticipatory
sign of the future state of their relations. He cautiously peeked at
the Ardan.





To
his shock, Rohyr gently brushed their lips together. The kiss was
brief and ever so light that Lassen half thought he had imagined it.
It left him severely shaken. His first kiss and it was his king who
had bestowed it. It struck Lassen all over again that all of his
firsts would henceforth be shared with Rohyr Essendri. He closed his
eyes and bit his lower lip to stop its trembling.

When
he dared to look at Rohyr once more, the latter was regarding him
sympathetically. He fought for calm and, achieving a measure of it,
said in a hushed voice, “I pray I will please you, Rohyr-dyhar.”

Running
his knuckles down Lassen’s rosy cheek, Rohyr replied, “You
already do.”









Chapter
Four









Displacement





Standing
among his fellow Elders in the town hall courtyard, Dael somberly
awaited his family.

It
would be hard to watch his youngest child ride out of Tal Ereq and
their lives. It was unlikely that Lassen would join them often enough
to make it feel like he was still a resident of the town. He would be
more a part of House Essendri than the family he was born into.





Dael
straightened when Rohyr walked up to him, his eyes drawn to the black
and silver asitra that perched on the king’s shoulder. The small
hawk was arguably the fleetest bird in Aisen and was employed as a
courier when speed was of the essence.

Some
True Bloods were gifted in mind-speech and could communicate by
thought alone over great distances. But it took an enormous amount of
mental energy to sustain a lengthy exchange and one so engaged often
required that others equally gifted channeled their strength to boost
his. Dael doubted that Rohyr required much assistance in this,
however, and wondered what need the Ardan had for a messenger hawk.
He was surprised when Rohyr urged the bird-of-prey onto his wrist
then extended the creature to him.





“She’s
gentle and well-trained,” Rohyr said as Dael gingerly accepted the
asitra’s hold on his arm. “And she knows the way to Rikara.
You’ll be able to communicate with Lassen as frequently as you
wish. This is paltry recompense for the loss of a son’s presence
but it may ease your grief.”





Dael
looked at the hawk wonderingly. He hesitantly stroked the asitra. It
slightly bated its feathers, then settled into his touch. Dael smiled
and turned gleaming eyes on the king.





“We
are indebted, Dyhar.”





Rohyr
snorted. “Hardly. It is I who is taking the greater treasure with
me.”





Lassen
entered the courtyard with his father and brothers, looking about him
with the air of one committing everything to memory. Keosqe
approached Mithre and gave him a small bundle.





“His
Majesty desires your son’s comfort,” he said. “This is better
suited for our journey than the cape he’s wearing.”





Mithre
unfolded the bundle to reveal a brown and black cloak. Of finest
wool, it was light despite its thickness. Mithre softly thanked the
enyran
lord and slung the cloak over his arm, briefly pondering what
travelling by translocation entailed that a warm mantle was advisable
on a summer day.





Meanwhile,
Lassen saw his things bestowed on board the baggage wain in which
sundry items of varying shapes and sizes were ensconced. Most were
gifts from Tal Ereq’s neighbors to Rohyr, given in the hope of
predisposing him to their petitions. But there were a few purchases
by members of the delegation. Several beautifully crafted baskets
from Mithre’s shop shared space with vividly hued sedyran
window and wall hangings and two capacious garden urns made from the
deep russet clay found only in

this
part of Ylandre.





When
Lassen came to him, Dael wordlessly hugged him, burying his face in
his son’s fair locks. When would he hold his youngest again,
breathe in his scent, or look into his eyes and hear his laughter?





Lassen
reluctantly withdrew from his embrace. Turning to face Mithre, he
started when his father reached for the ties at his throat, pulled
off his cape and handed it to Yuilan. Mithre draped the cloak over
Lassen’s shoulders. Lassen glanced down at the rich garment in
surprise as Mithre fastened it at the neck.





“’Tis
from the Ardan,” Mithre explained. “A fine gift, don’t you
agree?”





Lassen
swallowed and nodded. “I’ll do my best to make you proud of me,”
he said in a quavering voice.

“Oh,
my child,” Mithre whispered, pulling him into his arms.





At
last, he let Lassen go and led him to Rohyr. The king looked the
hushed family over.

“It’s
no easy matter to travel to Rikara by land,” he said. “Nonetheless,
you’re welcome to come whenever you wish to see Lassen.” He
considered the youth thoughtfully. “And it can be arranged for him
to visit you on occasion.”





The
Idanas’ expressions brightened somewhat. Struggling to smile and
hold back his tears at the same time, Lassen stepped away from his
family. He looked at Rohyr expectantly.





Rohyr
gestured to his steed. “You will ride with me.”





Lassen
blew his breath out then hauled himself onto the great beast’s
back. Rohyr swiftly mounted behind him.

The
delegation’s departure drew an even larger crowd than its
well-attended arrival. Folk thronged the main street all the way from
the town hall to the main gate, strewing the way with sprigs of snowy
royal holly, emblem of the Ylandrin ruling family, and clusters of
butter-hued bellflowers, the symbol of farewell.





Lassen
blinked back his tears and managed to smile at friends he spotted
along the way. But when the riders traversed the short distance from
town gate to wide plain beyond, he looked back and espied his family
ranged along the rampart, faces strained as they strove not to weep
while he could still see them. A sob caught in his throat.





Rohyr
reined in his mount, bringing the rest to a sudden halt, and turned
the zentyr about until they faced the town. Recognizing the
opportunity Rohyr had given him, Lassen gazed long at his parents and
brothers, doing his best to smile brightly at them. At last, he
raised his hand in farewell, then averted his face as tears slid down
his cheeks. He did not look back again as the delegation continued on
its way.

Up
ahead, the air faintly shimmered and Lassen became aware of an
intense stillness about him. Similar, he realized, to the sensation
he’d experienced when Rohyr had regarded him so steadily that first
day. The shimmer gave way to distinct light and movement—the former
muted as if seen through a fog, the latter waxing until he descried
the quickening undulations that portended a portal’s blossoming.

He
clutched at Rohyr’s arm as the party neared the portal. In the next
instant, they were enveloped in a silver shot grey mist. Lassen
stifled a yelp when the mist caressed his cheeks like an icy breath
despite his cloak’s protective hood.





In
what seemed like the blink of an eye, they were past the haze and
inside a shadowed tunnel. There was a whispery sound like wind
rushing through the passageway.

But
Lassen knew this was not possible for the air was so still and cold
it was almost oppressive. Far ahead, he could see a pinpoint of
diffused light and he wondered how long it would take to reach what
appeared to be the end of the tunnel.





Through
the corner of his eyes, he saw images and he turned his head to look
at them. A jumble of color and light met his startled gaze and he
realized that he was catching glimpses of the countryside as they
passed it by at a dizzying speed. He whimpered in distress.





Rohyr
pulled him back against his chest. “Close your eyes,” he
murmured. “If you must look, look straight ahead.”

Lassen
did as he was bid. He quickly came to appreciate the security of the
Ardan’s embrace. But at such close quarters, he also noticed
Rohyr’s scent once more. Coupled with being pressed against his
warmth, he felt the strange stirrings that flared whenever he was in
proximity to Rohyr. But for the first time, instead of apprehension
alone, he also knew excitement. He wondered when he had ceased to
fear the service he would render his king.





After
what seemed like forever but was probably no more than several
minutes, they slowed down. Lassen opened his eyes in time to see the
muted light rush toward them. He braced himself. Suddenly, they were
out of the corridor and in a vast meadow. Lassen blinked, disoriented
by the abrupt change from close passageway to wide-open space.





“Where
are we?” he wondered. “Ilmaren,” Rohyr replied.

Lassen
remembered that Ilmaren was in the central region known as the
breadbasket of Ylandre. Rikara was farther northwest.

“Must
you break transit when there is a change of direction?” he asked.
“Nay. But my cousin of Ilmaren is also travelling to Rikara. During
our last





communication,
he agreed to join us for this leg of our journey.”





A
horn sounded in the distance. Lassen turned his head and saw a large
city a goodly distance away, all gold and amber in the sunlight. He
thought quickly. Rohyr said that they were meeting his cousin, his
choice of words indicating that the latter was Ilmaren’s lord. That
could only mean the city before them was the capital of the fief.





“Is
that Althia?” he asked.





“Yes,”
Rohyr confirmed. “You know your geography.” “’Tis my second
favorite subject.”

“The
first being…?” “History.”





Rohyr
smiled. “You are not only comely but intelligent as well.”





Lassen
lowered his head bashfully, hiding his face behind the folds of his
hood. “They
come!”

He
looked up at the call and saw half a dozen riders exiting the city,
the lead rider astride a zentyr of magnificent proportions very
similar to the beasts Rohyr and his kin rode. Guessing that this must
be Rohyr’s cousin, he wondered if all the Essendris bred their war
steeds from the same pool of zentyra to achieve such uniformity of
size and strength.

As
the group neared, Lassen studied the Herun of Ilmaren with
fascination. He was built as his cousins, tall and lean and sleekly
muscled, and rode his steed with a warrior’s grace and agility. But
it was his striking countenance that piqued Lassen’s curiosity.

Silky
black hair shot through with strands of midnight blue framed features
that may have been deemed delicate were it not for the fief-lord’s
steely, almond-shaped eyes. They bespoke forebears who hailed from
the westernmost continent of Khitaira.





The
Herun deferentially nodded his head to Rohyr then broke into a grin
in response to Rohyr’s smile of welcome. They tightly clasped
hands, greeting each other affectionately. The fief-lord glanced at
Lassen.





“Lassen
Idana of Tal Ereq,” Rohyr answered his unspoken question. “Lassen,
my cousin Reijir Arthanna, Herun of Ilmaren.”

“It’s
a pleasure to meet you, Lassen-tyar,”
Reijir said, his muted upper midlands accent sounding less foreign to
Lassen’s ears than Rohyr’s distinct northern inflection.





“Your
Grace,” Lassen diffidently murmured as he bowed his head to the
Herun. Reijir spotted the earring in his left ear. His eyes glinted
with approval.





“You
have exquisite taste, Roh,” he said. “I envy you. Are there more
gems of such rare beauty to be found in Tal Ereq?”

Gilmael
quipped, “If there were, think you Kes and I would have come back
empty-handed?”

“Yes,
since you both know certain parties would geld you were you to bring
home more than linens to grace your beds,” Reijir smartly retorted.

Gilmael
sighed in mock resignation while Keosqe chuckled. Both reached out in
turn to grip Reijir’s outstretched hand and exchanged hearty
greetings with him.

“And
you, Uncle?” Reijir said when he turned to Yovan. “You are well,
I hope? You and yours?”





Lassen
observed the Essendris’ easy affection with each other. Even
stiff-necked Imcael unbent enough to smile and inquire after Reijir’s
well-being. Small wonder that, after all these millennia, they were
still the ruling House of the land. They were capable of a loyalty
that went beyond oaths of fealty. And it was plain that they nursed
great love for their king.

He
amended that assumption upon spotting the flicker of irritation in
Imcael’s face when Reijir briefly rode abreast with Rohyr to relate
news of the region in the manner of a vassal reporting to his
liege-lord. No, not all the Essendris equally loved the head of their
House. It was apparent Imcael resented being beholden to a monarch a
third of his age.

Lassen
recalled that Rohyr’s sire had wed late and fathered his only son
after it was thought he would not provide an heir of his loins. His
brother Imcael had then stood first in line to the throne. Lassen
could only imagine the disappointment of an ambitious prince to have
such power within his grasp only to watch it invested upon a nephew
decades younger than his own firstborn.





*
* * *





When
they arrived on the vast plain that the locals understatedly called
the Great Field, Lassen needed more than a few moments to collect
himself. It was hard to believe that just that very morning they had
been in Tal Ereq. Now here they were clear across a country that took
a mounted traveller at least a month to traverse.

Farms,
orchards and vineyards thickly dotted the landscape alongside
bustling villages and tiny hamlets. Yonder was a wide highway that
cut through the Great Field. Laden carts and wagons drawn by people
and beast alike hauled sundry goods up and

down
its length. There was a general air of prosperity that the more
isolated communities would be hard pressed to match.

While
the group made its way onto the highway, a guard raised the Ardan’s
standard. A strong breeze caught the banner and it unfurled,
revealing a spray of royal holly within a circlet of white-silver
against a deep blue field. With his standard raised, Rohyr lowered
his hood. The others followed suit.





As
the royal party continued along the highway, folk made way for them,
stopping and making gestures of obeisance to Rohyr. Many furtively
peeked at the youth who rode with the king in intimate fashion. The
oblique scrutiny made Lassen wish that he could pull his hood up once
more.





After
several minutes, they crested a low hill. “Welcome to Rikara,
Las-min,”
Rohyr softly said.

Lassen
stared at the panorama. “Veres almighty!” he softly exclaimed.





Rikara.
The Royal House’s millennia-long seat of power. Backdropped by
majestic, snow-capped Mount Sarak some three leagues behind it, the
city was grander and far more beauteous than Lassen had imagined.





It
was a massive metropolis that had somehow avoided the sprawl of most
large cities during its evolution from compact fortified market town
to ever expanding preeminent center of trade, culture and political
power. The silvery Azira neatly bisected the city and from this great
river ran many streams and canals while broad streets sliced across
in systematic fashion. The stark white stones of which the homes and
buildings were built appeared almost immaculate in the sunshine and
added to Rikara’s pristine appearance.





To
the east of the city center was a low hill and on this stood a walled
multileveled cluster of buildings of stone, steel and glass. This was
the fabled Citadel, fortress residence to countless generations of
Essendris.





*
* * *





There
was little pageantry when Rohyr entered the capital for he did not
favor pomp. But many of Rikara’s citizens lined the streets
nonetheless to welcome him home. Lassen became conscious once more
when they stared at him and descried his earring. Even before his
name was known, the news would quickly spread that Rohyr had acquired
himself a leman.





Lassen
strove to keep calm as they ascended the long road to the Citadel.
Peering upward, he saw that numerous archers and spear-bearers manned
the outer wall. Here and there, through apertures in the wall, he
caught glimpses of the stout ropes and well-oiled levers of
catapults.





He
was quite dazed by the time they passed through the Citadel gate into
the capacious bailey and dismounted. They then entered a large
courtyard fronting the royal keep. It was an expansive space made
welcoming by slender ivory birches, lush greenery and two graceful
fountains flanking the entrance. A stone-paved path lined with
faultlessly kept hedges and statuary led to a massive double paneled
door flanked by soldiers liveried in the silver and lapiz lazuli of
the Citadel Guard. Courtiers and retainers had gathered before it to
greet their king.





As
he walked behind Rohyr, Lassen let his eyes sweep up the pale walls
of the Citadel, overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of it all. He
surreptitiously studied the

waiting
crowd and wrinkled his nose at the wealth and influence trumpeted by
some in the richness of their clothing and accoutrements. A few were
more expensively attired than the king. Struggling to banish a wave
of homesickness, Lassen followed Rohyr into the Citadel.

Hardly
had they swept past the doors when retainers hurried to take their
cloaks. Rohyr and his cousins and uncles briskly peeled off their
riding gloves while they walked, the servants keeping apace to
relieve them of the items.





Just
beyond the entrance was a brightly lit octagonal hall with a domed
ceiling. A circular span of stained glass comprised the centermost
portion of the ceiling and through it sunlight streamed in
varicolored luminosity. Lassen curiously studied the shimmering
pattern cast on the middle of the white stone floor. It was a
stylized map of Ylandre.





To
the rear he saw a curving flight of stairs flanked by bronze and
marble balustrades. As he ascended the stairs, Lassen realized that
the basic design of the Citadel was much like a traditional Ylandrin
house. He recalled that the complex had been built first and foremost
as a home for its residents despite its vastness and political
significance.

Upon
reaching the upper floor, they proceeded down a lengthy gallery with
a soaring ceiling hung with many elaborately wrought lamps. To the
left was a mural-covered wall chronicling the great exodus of their
ancient forebears from their dying world and their taming and
colonization of Aisen, including the events of the Inception. Lassen
turned his gaze aside, scandalized by a graphically detailed
depiction of the sanctioned seduction of an aboriginal male by the
alien colonist upon whom he would beget the next generation.

The
tapestry-hung wall to his right gave way to a series of mullioned
floor-to-ceiling glass paned windows. They overlooked the north
district of Rikara with its elegant homes, manicured lawns and parks,
sparkling streams and the least congested portion of the Azira. The
quays were well-kept in comparison to the crowded docks in the less
affluent south district.

Enthralled
by the spectacular view, Lassen almost did not realize their passage
through another doorway. This one opened to an immense, elegantly
appointed chamber, a little longer than it was wide. Lassen caught
his breath when he saw the high-backed chair at the far end of the
chamber perched on a low dais. Artfully inlaid with gold and silver,
the chair was wrought of heavy nahra, a rare wood so dark in color it
was almost black. On its cushioned seat rested an ivory staff tipped
with a white-silver falcon with eyes of bluish adamant. Thus did
Lassen get his first glimpse of the ancient throne of the Ylandrin
monarchs and the priceless sceptre of Rikara.





Rohyr
and his relations were immediately engaged in talk about court
matters. Lassen alone of the party was idle. Feeling quite lost and
self-conscious, he furtively looked about the great chamber. He
started visibly when Rohyr gripped his shoulder and drew him near,
sliding his hand down to Lassen’s waist in a proprietary manner.





Lassen
managed to still his trembling as Rohyr introduced him. Though
obviously shocked, the courtiers acknowledged him, most dipping their
heads in respect. Some sought proof of his installation as the king’s
paramour. A few betrayed consternation and disappointment upon seeing
his leman’s earring.





“I
entrust Idana-dyhar
to your care,” Rohyr said to a small group of servants. Hearing the
high honorific, Lassen glanced at Rohyr with a slight frown. Since
when





did
a mere commoner of no esteemed profession merit such deference?
Granted he was

gently
bred and had been taught to comport himself properly. But he was not
an important member of the court and it felt inappropriate to be
treated as if he were.

At
a gesture from Rohyr, an elderly Deir stepped forward. His warm smile
soothed Lassen’s strained nerves.

“This
is Josel,” Rohyr fondly said. “He has been in my family’s
service since his youth and had a hand in raising me from my infancy
onwards.” He chuckled. “And a firm hand he needed with me, I
confess.”





“You
were more gamesome than most, Rohyr-dyhar,”
Josel agreed, his eyes twinkling.

Lassen
smiled at the familiarity with which the old servant addressed the
Ardan and the endearing scapegrace grin Rohyr flashed his erstwhile
caregiver.

“Josel
will take good care of you,” Rohyr told him. “You need only
inform him of anything you need.” He looked at the waiting
courtiers and sighed. “Go with him. Mayhap I shall find time to
join you tonight.”





Lassen
obeyed and followed Josel out of the chamber. Glancing back, he saw
that Rohyr was once more embroiled in court matters. An unexpected
surge of indignation on the Ardan’s behalf overcame him.





These
people did not seem to care that their king was newly arrived from a
long sojourn abroad and might wish to rest awhile before taking up
the reins of active governance once more. Sympathy for Rohyr followed
on the heels of his ire.





Rohyr
glanced up and met his gaze. A small smile curved his mouth. Lassen
felt the now familiar flutter in his belly. Managing a nervous smile
in reply, he turned and hurried after Josel.









Chapter
Five









Novice





“There
must be a mistake.”





Door
after door bore the insignia of a member of the royal family. The
heavy door at the far end of the corridor displayed the unmistakable
crest of the Ardan of Ylandre.

“There
is no mistake, Dyhar,”
Josel replied.





“But
this is the royal residential wing, isn’t it?” Lassen protested.
“I’m not a member of the royal family. I don’t belong here.”

“On
the contrary, it’s customary for the Ardan’s leman to abide
here,” the old retainer assured him.

Lassen
subsided into stunned silence.





Along
the way, Josel pointed out the one other apartment currently kept
ready for occupancy. But Rohyr’s uncle preferred to stay at his
townhouse in the city proper and seldom stayed over at the Citadel.
Lassen was relieved that he would not have to constantly encounter
the dour, openly disdainful Herun.





It
must be lonely to live here, he mused. With both his parents gone and
his kinsfolk rarely in residence, Rohyr lived by himself in luxurious
isolation. Well, not any longer, Lassen thought when he walked into
the elegantly appointed apartment that would be his home. It was
composed of three adjoining chambers—a spacious sitting room, a
sleeping chamber with a balcony overlooking the gardens and a private
bathing room with its own commode. This last had Lassen shaking his
head.





Latrines
were generally located outside residences. To have a commode deep
within a building and in an upper story bespoke elaborate and costly
plumbing the likes of which was not within the reach of simpler folk.
To the country bred youth, it was a nigh unbelievable extravagance.





“Only
in this wing was the plumbing designed to accommodate indoor privies.
For the security and convenience of the royal family and their
guests,” Josel clarified. “And it also eases the work of the
household staff. It’s not easy to carry chamber pots to the lower
levels in order to empty them. It was a rather messy affair in the
days before these modern conveniences or so the stories go.”

Lassen
examined the luxurious fixtures. Instead of a washstand, there was a
built-in sink. There was also a bathing tub but it was much larger
than any he had seen and was partially embedded in the floor for a
half sunken appearance. Both were serviced by water taps. Lassen
almost whistled in appreciation at the prospect of no longer having
to draw water from an outdoor well in order to bathe.

“What
is this?” he wondered as he inspected a tiled space partitioned off
from the chamber by a divider wrought of thick glass blocks. Slightly
above his head was a curved metal spout and jutting out from the
inner wall was a shallow stone shelf upon which reposed a selection
of soaps.





Josel
drew him out of the space and turned on one of the taps below the
spout. Water gushed out in a heavy spray.

“It’s
a bathing chute,” Josel said. “Would you like to try it?”

Lassen
eagerly nodded. The servant smiled and indicated the other tap. “This
provides hot water.”

“Hot
water?” Lassen repeated incredulously. “How is it done?”





“Water
is heated at intervals and stored in special tanks that keep it hot
for long periods of time. The tanks release their contents whenever
the hot water taps are opened.”

“Do
all the houses in the city have running water?”





Josel
shook his head. “Unfortunately, not all can afford to install the
necessary plumbing into their homes. However, the city provides
running water for its citizens. In lieu of community wells, there are
public spigots in every district. Some folk do draw directly from the
river or depend on deep wells but that isn’t advisable since the
water hasn’t been cleansed for consumption.”

“Are
you saying tap water is potable?” Used to boiling water to render
it safe for drinking, Lassen was impressed.

“So
long as it’s drawn from the city government’s waterworks, yes, it
is potable. Of course, such an extensive system is possible only if
there is a major waterway nearby.”





Sensing
the youth’s reluctance to undress in his presence, Josel withdrew.
As soon as he left, Lassen shed his clothes and stepped into the
bathing chute enclosure. A few seconds later, he was squealing and
giggling as water cascaded down on him. Lassen also discovered he
could regulate the temperature of the water for a nice warm shower.





He
was not too pleased with the assortment of soaps, however. Their
aromas were too sophisticated for his taste. He stepped out of the
cubicle and searched the small pack of personal effects he had
carried with him from Tal Ereq. To his relief, he found a bar of his
favorite herbal soap. When he lathered himself with it, the familiar
scent made him feel less uprooted.

Coming
out of the bathing room, he saw that his belongings had been neatly
put away. Josel had also arranged a selection of clothing on the wide
bed. Lassen blew his breath out in some vexation.





About
to retrieve a simple dun-hued tunic and plain buff breeches from the
long antique wardrobe, he stopped and reconsidered. Josel would show
him something of the keep even if he requested that a more extensive
tour be put off until the following day. He would be seen by a number
of folk and they would appraise his appearance. He had to make a good
impression to avoid becoming a bad reflection of Rohyr’s taste in
lovers.

He
looked at the array of garments on the bed once more and finally
selected a blue tunic embroidered at the collar and cuffs and dark
grey breeches to go with it. The tunic would mark him as a Half Blood
due to its briefer length and looser cut but it suited his fair
coloring and slender frame.





Almost
as soon as he finished dressing, Josel reentered the bedchamber with
another servant who fetched his used clothing. The old retainer
noticed his uneasiness and gently said, “I did not look in until I
deemed you decently attired. I love Rohyr like my own son and it’s
not my intention to discomfort his leman.”





“Oh,
I don’t mind being tended to on occasion,” Lassen explained. “But
I am unused to being waited on and even less showing myself to
others. ‘Twill be hard enough doing so for Rohyr.”





Josel
smiled sympathetically. “He won’t force you to do anything before
he has properly prepared you for it. But once he takes you to bed, I
doubt you’ll have thought for aught else but his pleasuring. I
assure you, he’s a most accomplished lover.”

Lassen’s
eyes widened at his frankness. Saints!
Were blunt references to private matters of no consequence around
here?

“Forgive
me, Dyhar,”
Josel apologized. “I forget that customs are not the same
everywhere. You don’t speak openly of such things in your town?”

Lassen
shook his head. “‘Tis bandied about only amongst intimates,
though my adda
did teach me something of what Rohyr may expect of me.”

Josel
pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It was prudent of your father to
instruct you, Dyhar.
But Rohyr’s expectations of his lovers are not what many believe of
him.” Seeing
Lassen’s
confusion, he said, “Ah, I’m only muddling matters further.
Suffice to say that Rohyr doesn’t believe in excluding his partners
from the taking of pleasure. Now, how do you wish to fix your hair?”

With
the sudden change in topic, Lassen’s embarrassment subsided and he
turned his attention to the styling of his flaxen locks. A blush
warmed his cheeks at the memory of fingers rubbing strands of his
hair between them and Rohyr softly requesting that he leave his
tresses long.





He
sat at the dresser and allowed Josel to plait his hair for him.
Perhaps being waited on was not all bad, he thought, as the servant
deftly twisted his locks into place. At the very least, he could be
certain the back of his head was perfectly coiffed with no wayward
strands sticking out every which way.





Josel
led him afterward into the sitting room where he discovered a light
midday meal laid out on the small dining table. Thankfully, it was
simple fare—cool mead, crusty bread, a hearty stew and fresh fruit.
The fruit was sweet and flavorful but rather odd-looking—thick and
finger-shaped with a bright yellow peel and soft pulpy flesh.





“We
call it sunfruit but the southerners’ name for it is plantan,”
Josel informed him. At Lassen’s puzzled frown, he explained, “We
import it from South Vihandra.”

Mention
of the neighboring continent reminded Lassen that, while the North
Continent was now commonly referred to as such by its inhabitants,
its official name and indeed the name found on any map of Aisen was
North Vihandra.





“Must
we explore the keep today?” he asked Josel after the meal. “Would
you like to walk in the gardens instead?” Josel offered.

Lassen
readily assented. He felt confined, accustomed as he was to houses
where reaching the front and back doors did not entail a short hike
from one’s quarters. As they walked, Josel pointed out the many
chambers, hallways and galleries and their functions. At all times,
Lassen was aware of folk observing him. He reckoned they were
probably summing up his potential uses to them and debating whether
he would be a valuable conduit to Rohyr and worth their time and
attention.





He
hoped he would not become entangled in the intrigues of court life
though he knew this was unrealistic. Dael had warned him that if his
intimacy with Rohyr appeared sufficient for Lassen to make requests
of the king, there would be attempts to bribe or befriend him. But
the thought of asking anything in tacit exchange for sexual favors
sickened Lassen and he doubted he would ever be able to bring himself
to undertake such dealings.





Josel
took him to a less frequented part of the gardens, a semi-enclosed
area reserved for the royal family’s use. Lassen walked about,
taking in his fill of fresh air and curiously inspecting the
profusion of exotic blooms and greens that shared space with more
familiar flora and foliage. His pleasure however was tempered by the
feeling that

the
place was deserted. Lassen wondered if he was the first visitor to
the enclosure in a long while. It impressed on him once more that
none of Rohyr’s relations resided with him.





Thinking
about what must be a lonely existence for the Ardan, he said, “Does
he see his cousins often? They seem extraordinarily close to him.
I’ve seldom seen such devotion before, even amongst the older
families of Tal Ereq.”





Josel
smiled. “Rohyr grew up in their company, or at least those who
spent much of their early youth in Rikara. And they are indeed
devoted to him. But it’s as much due to his loyalty to them as it
is a function of their kinship. They know Rohyr would strain the
limits of the constraints placed upon him out of love for them. And
so they return it in full measure. They are the brothers he does not
have.”

“Then
he’s not so alone after all,” Lassen said with relief. “Thank
Veres for that.” When Josel’s smile warmed even further, Lassen
realized his concern for Rohyr had





earned
him the old Deir’s approbation and likely the beginnings of his
loyalty as well.





*
* * *





Come
evening, Josel informed Lassen that Rohyr would join him for dinner
in his suite. As Lassen donned the loose shirt and trousers and light
slippers the old Deir had prepared, he wondered if he would be
expected to perform his duties this very night. By the time Rohyr
appeared, he was as tense as a drawn bowstring.

He
felt the rush of warmth into his cheeks at first sight of the king.
He seemed more handsome than ever, his fine form pointed up by the
simple style and soft fabric of his clothing. Lassen struggled to
compose himself. It would not do to act like a provincial bumpkin
whenever he was in Rohyr’s presence. But Rohyr only smilingly
greeted him and led him to the dining table.

The
meal both entranced and intimidated him. The dishes were more
sophisticated than anything he’d dined on from the frond salad with
caramelized haronuts and edible flower petals and the tiny freshwater
fingerlings plunged live into boiling oil and served whole and crisp
to the piquantly sauced breast of rainbow-plumaged tarmican. And
delighted though he was with the freshly churned fruit ice at the end
of the meal, the presence of the chilled sweet in the middle of
summer emphasized the rarified social sphere he was now part of. Who
else could afford to have ice transported from Mount Sarak’s
perpetually half-frozen lakes and streams?





Throughout,
they were plied with the appropriate beverage to go with each course,
even unto the sparkling wine at the end of the meal that further
intensified the flavor of the fruit ice. The contrast to the plainer
and comfortingly familiar midday repast was jarring. Lassen wondered
if this was what the king dined on most days.





Afterwards,
Rohyr ushered him to the long couch facing the hearth where Josel
served them Rohyr’s favorite siryana wine. As soon as the dishes
were cleared, they were left alone. Lassen tensed.





But
Rohyr sat back and idly regarded the rosy depths of his wine. Lassen
began to relax as well. Until Rohyr pulled him close to nuzzle his
hair. He caught his breath. Hearing Rohyr sigh, he glanced sideways
at him.





“I
like your soap,” Rohyr said. “It has a sweet refreshing smell,
yet it doesn’t mask your scent.”

Lassen
made a mental note to write to his parents and ask them to send him a
goodly

supply
of Velarusian herbal soap.





“Did
Josel show you around?” Rohyr asked.





“A
little,” Lassen replied. “‘Tis a bit too much to absorb
everything in one afternoon.”

“Indeed,”
Rohyr agreed. “Forgive me for not seeing to it myself.
Unfortunately, work always accumulates in my absence no matter how
diligent my people are.”





“But
Your Majesty,” Lassen protested. “I don’t expect you to tend to
me when there are more important matters at hand.”

“Rohyr,”
the king reminded him.





Faintly
blushing, Lassen complied. For the next few minutes, they did not
speak again but savored the peace and quiet with only the chirping of
crickets coming through the balcony to break the silence.





At
length, Rohyr stirred and glanced at Lassen. “What do you wish to
know, Las-min?”
he murmured. When Lassen looked at him in surprise, he added, “I
can sense your
curiosity.
Don’t be afraid to ask any question of me. I won’t bite, I
promise.”





Hearing
the good humor in Rohyr’s voice, Lassen huffed a nervous giggle. “I
was just thinking that the Citadel seems easy to invade because of
all the glass and open galleries,” he admitted. “But I suppose
that is deceptive.”





Rohyr
nodded. “It is indeed. This is a fortress despite all the
modifications that have made it appears less of one. Rest assured the
Citadel is extremely well fortified. Its frame is made of stone and
steel and the glass used in the large windows is thick and not easily
shattered. It will be difficult for any invader to breach our
defenses. Not that Rikara itself will be subject to invasion anytime
soon. The last time an enemy penetrated Ylandre so deeply that they
laid waste to liege property was during the so-called Ferrenda
Interregnum.”





Lassen
had brightened when Rohyr began his discourse. Diffidence forgotten,
he eagerly faced the king. “I know something of the period but not
all the details. It seems such a troubling part of our history that
my teachers were reluctant to dwell on it.”

“What
do you know of that time?”





Lassen
recalled what he had been taught about the ambitious rulers of the
now defunct nation of Varadan. “Horem Ferrenda took advantage of a
rift in the royal family when Rovar, eldest son of Wylan Essendri,
sought to depose his ailing sire in the belief that ‘twas time he
stepped aside,” he duly recited. “His attempted usurpation and
subsequent rebellion nearly tore the country apart and divided the
Ylandrin nobility and military. This allowed the Ferrendas to sweep
across the northwestern border into our country.”





“That
is correct,” Rohyr said. “And even then they failed to take
Rikara. So they fell back on Ziana instead and declared it the new
capital of the occupied territories. They ruled the northwest for
nigh on seven years. But Wylan named his second son Diorn heir and
commander of the loyalist forces. Four years into the occupation,
Diorn succeeded in quelling Rovar’s revolt. He was far more
ruthless than his sire and dealt with the rebels accordingly, even
executing his own brother and the bluebloods who had supported him.”

“And
used the vacated titles and accompanying lands to reward the nobles
who fought under his banner,” Lassen interjected, obviously
absorbed in the account.

“The
following year when Wylan died and Diorn ascended to the throne,”
Rohyr affirmed approvingly. “He also preempted future attempts at
insurrection from within the

ranks
of the aristocracy by demanding oaths of fealty and liege homage from
all his nobles. Oaths that stand to this day. A Herun who so much as
speaks sympathetically of any instance of rebellion against the Crown
can be charged with sedition.”





“It
must have been quite easy to extract those oaths from the newly made
fief-lords and barons given the wealth and privileges he had bestowed
on them,” Lassen remarked, fascinated by the historical
maneuverings that had shaped Ylandre’s present political structure.
“And it put pressure on the rest to follow suit, didn’t it, lest
they be suspected of harboring disloyal leanings.”

Rohyr
regarded him with such open appreciation, Lassen’s bashfulness
returned. He nervously gestured to the Ardan to continue. Smiling
faintly, Rohyr obliged.

“So
with the nobility now solidly behind him, Diorn rallied the Royal
Army and concentrated on driving the Varadani out of Ylandre. And
this is where the tale turns black. Do you recall the reversion of
the Varadani to the worship of the ancient pagan god Xeras?” When
Lassen nodded, Rohyr said, “I had thought no other transgression
equal to that deed, that they dared mass apostasy in favor of a
barbaric deity long repudiated by our forebears. The Ferrendas proved
me wrong.”





Barely
concealed revulsion now limning his speech, the Ardan went on. “Once
Diorn united the Ylandrin forces, he was able to turn the tide and,
by the last year of the occupation, had routed the greater part of
the Varadani army and regained so much territory that Horem became
deathly afraid of defeat and retribution. Hearing that Diorn was
preparing to march on Ziana, Horem ordered that sacrifice be offered
to Xeras. His victims were the priests and servants of the Temple of
Ziana. They were ritually defiled on the Horn of Xeras, then left to
bleed to death before that unholy altar.”





Lassen
shivered at the harsh timber that shaded Rohyr’s voice. The Ardan’s
eyes gleamed darkly, as if he were seeing something that filled him
with sorrow and rage.

“When
his entreaties predictably went unanswered, Horem had the city burned
then fled the approaching Ylandrin forces. He was captured just
before he gained the border and dragged back with his sons to face
punishment. When Diorn saw what had been done to Ziana, he ordered
that Horem and his family be impaled in the main square of the city.
On the same horn with which the priests and temple servants were
slain. Diorn then invaded Varadan, subjugated it and annexed it to
Ylandre.”





This
part of history Lassen knew by heart. Varadan ceased to be within a
mere decade of its conquest. A third of the old kingdom became the
fief of Vireshe and from thereon was held by the Ylandrin crown
prince until he ascended to the throne. The remaining two-thirds made
up the Autonomous Province of Tenerith. Every now and then,
self-styled Varadani separatists rose up in the province, invariably
claiming to have uncovered descendants of one of Horem’s sons and
demanding that Tenerith and Vireshe reunite and regain their ancient
sovereignty.





Unexpectedly,
Rohyr turned the tale back to when the Ylandrin army first came upon
the smoking ruins of Ziana. By some miracle, the temple remained
intact though badly scorched in places. Within were found the corpses
of the butchered priests and servants.





Rohyr’s
voice dropped almost to a whisper. “But in a small room inside were
also discovered the bodies of the temple acolytes, most just past
their majority. They had taken poison rather than be violated and
offered up to a heathen god. The only poison available was the
embalming potion used on the dead.”





Lassen
shuddered. Embalming kept the dead whole and sound for the duration
of the

customary
ten-day mourning vigil.





Rohyr’s
eyes glistened as he finished the tale. “The agony they had known
before they died… The way they had curled up together, holding on
to each other for comfort in their last moments. And their faces—all
contorted and ashen. Deity’s blood, I can’t bear even the thought
of it.”





Lassen
frowned in confusion. From the anguish in Rohyr’s voice, one might
think he had actually witnessed the horror of that day.





Rohyr
noticed his expression. “There were many eyewitness accounts of
that tragedy and they were chronicled in great detail,” he
explained. “I perforce read them all and was much troubled after.
It made for grim reading and I can never truly forget. Ah, let us
speak of less disturbing matters.”





They
fell silent for a brief spell. At length, Lassen hesitantly asked,
“May I finish my schooling? I’d like to attend university. ‘Tis
my parents’ wish as well.”

The
king nodded. “I’ve already instructed Josel to make arrangements
for you to enroll at the Rikara Academy. Mithre told me that you have
two years of secondary school to go.” When Lassen nodded eagerly,
Rohyr continued with an indulgent smile. “You may also go to the
State University. My only condition is that you always make your
schedule and whereabouts known to Josel and me. And don’t ever take
your earring off. It will be your insurance against ill-treatment.”

“Ill-treatment?”

Rohyr
stroked the curve of Lassen’s ear, then ran a fingertip over the
earring. “You are newly come to the capital and don’t hail from
any of the cities. It’s unfortunate but bigotry and elitism are not
uncommon amongst True Bloods and there are some who go so far as to
mistreat those they deem beneath them. University students of high
birth coined the terms enyra
and sedyra,
did you know that? But as long as you are known to be mine, you won’t
be subjected to that unpleasantness.”





Lassen
promptly colored at the reminder of his role.





Rohyr
softly chuckled. He took their wine glasses and set them on the side
table. “Eager as I am to teach you your duties, I know enough to
give you time to accustom yourself to your new home. But it’s not
too soon to learn a few lessons in the art of pleasuring.”





Before
Lassen realized what he was about, Rohyr leaned forward and caught
him in a gentle kiss. When Lassen gasped, Rohyr took advantage of the
parting of his lips and slipped his tongue between them. Lassen went
still, stunned by such intimacy. But when Rohyr slanted their mouths
together, he unthinkingly yielded to the deeper caress. He was
swiftly locked in a kiss so molten he might have swooned and fallen
had he not been ensconced in Rohyr’s arms.





His
father had told him that he would share kisses with Rohyr but this
tender pillaging went beyond anything he had imagined. He moaned as
Rohyr’s tongue swept the recesses of his mouth, tasting him and
tempting him into a like response. Lassen hesitantly thrust his
tongue against Rohyr’s, thrilled at tasting him in turn.





He
heard Rohyr groan. An instant later, he was pinned against the couch,
lost in a scorching kiss that banished all sentient thought from his
mind. The only things that mattered were Rohyr’s mouth on his and
the Ardan’s body beneath his clutching hands, all firm flesh and
hard muscle. His arms crept around Rohyr in mindless need.





Rohyr
released his lips to explore his ears, jaw and throat. Inundated with
pleasure,

Lassen
intuitively molded himself against the king. A hand alighted on his
chest. Through the soft fabric, Rohyr thumbed a nipple to a hard nub.

Someone
moaned. Lassen realized that it was he who had uttered the wanton
sound. He knew so little and that innocence conspired to render him
utterly tractable to Rohyr’s sensual onslaught. Panic and pleasure
collided and he mewled in distress.





Rohyr
stopped and drew away. To Lassen’s confusion, the cessation of
sensation left a void inside him. He opened his eyes and stared at
Rohyr, relief warring with frustration.

“I
shouldn’t have pressed you,” Rohyr whispered.





“Nay,
I-I am yours to do with as you wish,” Lassen stammered, anxious not
to offend but also affected by their aborted intimacy. “Please let
me serve you.”

“Hush,
sweet one,” Rohyr murmured. He dropped a kiss on Lassen’s
forehead. “That can wait. For now, get you some rest. It’s been a
long day and you must be weary.”





Lassen
blinked. Without warning, lassitude overtook him and he clapped a
hand over his mouth to cover a yawn. He gazed at Rohyr a little
owlishly.

Sleep
well, Las-min.

The
silent command gently brushed his mind and Lassen could do naught but
obey it. He closed his eyes and soon fell into dreamless slumber.





Rohyr
carried him into the bedchamber. Laying Lassen down, he pulled off
his slippers and drew the bedcovers over him. He thoughtfully
regarded the youth’s comely face, his eyes gleaming at the prospect
of eliciting Lassen’s full passion, a tantalizing sample of which
he had tasted this eve.





Yes,
it would be better to introduce his leman to bodily pleasure in
stages. Better and much more enjoyable for both of them.









Chapter
Six









Initiation





Learning
his way around the Citadel unnoticed was nigh impossible, Lassen
discovered in the days that followed. Meals proved a gauntlet as he
was forced to greet and make small talk with just about every
courtier he encountered from the moment he set foot in the main
corridor until he finally took his seat at Rohyr’s table in the
great dining hall. Once settled at the royal table, he came under
scrutiny that lasted the duration of the meal. He wondered when he
would be able to walk about without feeling like a circus beast on
display.

He
preferred to have his meals in his quarters but he knew that would
only give rise to talk. And it would not be mere talk about a
perceived eccentricity. The foregone conclusion would place Rohyr’s
choice of concubine in a bad light. Lassen was not sure why but he
felt protective of Rohyr and did not want his reputation besmirched
even the slightest by misperceptions.

The
kindest folk were the palace retainers. Like Josel, most hailed from
families whose service spanned generations. They were fiercely loyal
to Rohyr and predisposed to being warm and obliging with whomever he
deemed an intimate.





The
soldiers and guards were also generally amicable but many were given
to ribaldry, especially when in the presence of a comely face or a
nicely shaped rump. Lassen knew they meant no harm when he overheard
them placing wagers as to which of his charms Rohyr had sampled thus
far. Nevertheless, his face burned all the way to his ears and he
requested that he and Josel descend from the battlements before he
heard another bawdy remark about himself.





The
courtiers on the other hand varied widely and there was no judging
one by the actions of another. For that matter, there was no telling
if a blueblood’s demeanor one day would still stand by the next. So
much rested on their respective ambitions and the extent of their
influence on Rohyr or the scant handful of nobles who formed his
innermost circle.

Lassen
renewed his acquaintance with some of them when they came to the
Citadel. Keosqe kindly asked after his well-being when they bumped
into each other in one of the myriad corridors of the keep. So did
Rohyr’s Uncle Yovan after he emerged from a meeting with his fellow
advisors. And Gilmael sought him out to introduce his twin who, as
chief royal archivist, visited the Citadel most days and could be
easily reached if Lassen needed help or counsel. It had been
difficult not to stare overmuch when confronted with Zykriel’s
startling likeness to Gilmael. Had Zykriel’s hair not been styled
somewhat differently than his brother’s, Lassen doubted anyone
would be able to tell them apart. Thankfully, he had not had the
misfortune of recrossing paths with haughty Imcael.

“I
hope you’re enjoying yourself.”





Lassen
shyly smiled as Rohyr came to his side and looked out at the vista
from the open gallery in the west wing of the keep. It was late
afternoon and this was the first Lassen had seen of him all day.

Rohyr
slipped a hand around Lassen’s waist and drew him close. “Exploring
my home isn’t too terrible an adventure, is it?”

“‘Tis
not terrible at all,” Lassen assured him. “And I’m looking
forward to exploring Rikara as well.”

“But
why are you alone? Where is Josel?”

“Oh,
he was seeing me back to my rooms, but he was called away to settle
some quarrel or other. A dispute between two squires, I gathered.”





The
king snorted. “Poor Josel. It is he they always send for when the
young ones fight. But then, seeing how he tamed me, I suppose it’s
inevitable.”

Lassen
grinned. “Were you that wild?”

“Much
to my parents’ despair,” Rohyr admitted. “Yet I fear much of it
was their doing for they indulged me to a fault.”

“Because
you were their only child,” Lassen guessed.





Rohyr
looked keenly at him. “Yes, they didn’t always know when to
discipline me. Josel braved their displeasure to tell them the truth
and show them by his example how to deal with me. Thank Veres they
listened to him and I am as you see me now—a most estimable and
well-mannered Deir.”





Lassen
burst into chuckles. “What? You disagree?”





Lassen’s
laughter mellowed to a gentle smile. “Not in the least. You are
more than well-mannered. You’re kind and gallant and ‘tis not
difficult at all to like you.”

He
started when Rohyr shifted him about to face him and held him so that
their bodies molded together. Lassen gulped as their groins pressed
close.

“Have
you indeed learned to like me?” Rohyr murmured, looking at him from
beneath half-lidded eyes.

Lassen
drew a shaky breath and nodded. His cheeks turned rosy when Rohyr
cupped his face to kiss him. But not so much from being kissed as
from doing it in a public place. He was no longer a stranger to the
act after all.





Each
evening, before Rohyr retired to his own chambers, he spent an hour
or so with Lassen in his. Ardent kisses filled a goodly portion of
that time as well as the caress of hands and fingers that sent the
strangest and most enjoyable of feelings racing through Lassen’s
body. The youth knew that he was already being taught his duty for
all the leisureliness of Rohyr’s pace.

He
felt something stir down yonder. His breath caught when he realized
that it was not only Rohyr who showed evidence of physical arousal.
His own length rapidly firmed as it rubbed through his breeches
against Rohyr’s shaft. It was not that he had not responded thusly
prior to this. But never had he felt so hard, so hot, so … needful.





He
moaned in protest when Rohyr broke their kiss. He stared at the king,
pleading for something he could not quite define.

“Come,”
Rohyr said, ushering Lassen to the youth’s quarters.

Hardly
had they entered the apartment when Rohyr backed Lassen against the
door and tugged his shirt collar open. Lassen whimpered when Rohyr
lowered his head and kissed the length of his throat down to the
hollow at its base. Lost in the welter of sensation, Lassen did not
register the hand that slipped beneath his clothing until a nipple
fell prey to Rohyr’s venturing fingers. He stiffened in shock.

Lassen
shut his eyes tightly, wondering when the maddening stimulation would
stop.

A
moment later, his shock increased when a gust of cool air caressed
his heated skin. Lassen opened his eyes and regretted it as soon as
he did.

The
Ardan had undone his tunic and shirt to his waist and now gazed at
the pebbles of flesh he had exposed. Idly rubbing his thumb over one,
he studied the two visible physical traits that distinguished
breeders from all other Deira—their plumper nipples and slightly
wider and paler areolae, a difference noticeable as early as birth.





Rohyr
lifted his eyes to meet Lassen’s. A slow smile spread along his
mouth. Lassen was unable to tear his eyes away as Rohyr bent down.
Several tongue flicks





against
the rosy bud left the youth gasping erratically. But when Rohyr
fastened his lips around the firm flesh and drew upon it, Lassen
could not stifle a shuddery cry.

Between
licking and sucking the tiny peak, Rohyr swiftly reduced Lassen to
shaking, moaning helplessness. He had never imagined that certain
parts of his body could be so sensitive.





“Dyhar,
please, I… Ah, what are you doing to me?” he almost wailed.





His
answer was a hard, plundering kiss that left him clutching
desperately at Rohyr. Keeping their mouths engaged, Rohyr lifted him
off the floor and carried him to the bedroom, kicking the door shut
behind him to seal them within the privacy of the sleeping chamber.





Lassen
could not look at Rohyr as the Ardan laid him down on the bed. This
is it, he fearfully thought. He would be shorn of his virtue and
fulfill his designated role.

“Don’t
be afraid, Lassen. I won’t despoil you.”





The
youth opened his eyes at that murmured assurance. Rohyr was gazing at
him with equal parts sympathy and mirth.

“At
least, not wholly. Not yet,” he added with a positively wicked
smirk. Lassen groaned. “Oh, Veres,” he whispered. “You are
cruel to tease me so.”

Soft
laughter greeted his words followed by the press of Rohyr’s lips on
his. Lassen tensed, then told himself to relax. Rohyr had promised
that he would not take him just yet. But even if he broke his
promise, it was fruitless to panic over it. He belonged to Rohyr and
the Ardan would have him eventually whether it was this day, tomorrow
or a fortnight hence. Best to resign himself to his defloration and
trust that Rohyr would take good care of him.





He
shivered as his belt was removed and his clothing was completely
spread open. Rohyr ran his hands over his sides and chest, teasing
his nipples until they ached deliciously. All the while Rohyr did not
part their lips but embarked on a more thorough exploration than ever
before. By the time he lifted his mouth from Lassen’s, the youth
could no longer think clearly, much less do more than instinctively
return Rohyr’s embrace.





The
undoing of the buttons of his breeches alerted him to the imminent
exposure of more of his body. He stared beseechingly at Rohyr while
suppressing a surge of his innate modesty. His breeches came open,
followed by the unlacing of his drawers. Rohyr’s fingers slid under
the loosened garment.





Lassen
half reared when Rohyr curled his hand around his shaft and gently
stroked it. Choked whimpers escaped him followed by gasped groans.
The fondling was briefly halted when Rohyr pulled his breeches and
drawers down around his thighs to bare his groin.





Freed
from its confines, Lassen’s member half rose, stiff and faintly
flushed, the

capped
head glistening with the milky fluid of emergent semen. It was still
a pale rose in hue as was natural for the shaft of a Deir not yet of
age. As he further matured, it would turn a darker shade as would the
seed pouch underneath.





Lassen
shivered when Rohyr ran his fingers through the sparse golden curls
on his groin then gently fondled his seed pouch before returning to
lightly stroke his length.





“You
fit my hand so well, Las-min.
Shall we see if the same can be said of my mouth?”





Lassen
swallowed. “You can’t mean to…” he started to say. He bit
back his protest. “If-if that will please you,” he whispered
instead.

Rohyr
glanced down at the flesh he held and smiled. “I’m certain it
will.” He bent and licked the rim of Lassen’s ear, setting the
youth a-shiver. “And you had best pay attention for I may require
the same service of you one day,” he huskily added, ending with a
chuckle when the youth tightly shut his eyes.





He
moved between Lassen’s legs, dropping kisses on his torso as he
steadily moved lower. Lassen’s body bore signs of nicely developing
musculature; he would be utterly ravishing in form one day. The
thought of that form lying beneath him, legs spread for his pleasure,
further whetted Rohyr’s anticipation.





Reaching
Lassen’s groin, he nuzzled the springy curls around the base of the
youth’s shaft, grinning at the nervous inhalation of breath that
elicited. He eyed the swelling flesh and the tender sac beneath. It
was tempting to slip his fingers under and beyond that soft pouch but
Rohyr knew that if he touched Lassen thusly, he would not be able to
stop himself from taking him then and there. The youth trusted him.
Rohyr did not care to break faith with him out of a mere lack of
patience.





He
turned his attention to Lassen’s shaft instead. He licked off the
slippery fluid that had gathered on its rounded tip before running
his tongue up and down the rosy column. Lassen’s muffled hiss
spurred him on and he took the hardened flesh into his mouth. A low
moan greeted this initial sensual salvo and he applied himself to
pleasuring Lassen within an inch of his life.

Sucked
repeatedly nigh to the base of his shaft, Lassen did not know whether
he wanted to push farther into Rohyr’s mouth or flee altogether.
The sensations were exquisite, almost excruciatingly so, and, while
one part of him revelled in them, the other was overwhelmed almost
beyond bearing.





Not
that Rohyr would have let him flee. When he half twisted in an
involuntary bid to escape, Rohyr held him down and drew on him even
more hardily. Lassen pressed a fist against his mouth in a desperate
attempt to hold back his cries





It
did not take long for him to climax. He had no experience of one and
had not the slightest idea how to delay its onset. After spending
himself endlessly or so he felt, he gazed at Rohyr in wordless
amazement. His eyes widened when Rohyr licked his lips.





“That
was quite a mouthful you bestowed on me,” he teased. “And it was
sweeter than any I’ve ever tasted.”

“I
can’t-can’t believe you-did that!” Lassen blurted out.





Rohyr
grinned. “Expect it whenever the chance presents itself. It’s a
measure of how much I enjoyed this taste of you.”

As
he spoke, he shifted position slightly and his groin brushed against
Lassen’s leg. Lassen lowered his gaze to the impressive bulge
therein. He looked up uncertainly and found Rohyr grinning at him.

“Dyhar?”





Rohyr
raised his hand and ran his thumb along the youth’s lower lip.
“Kiss me, Las-min,”
he unexpectedly said.

Lassen
gulped. It was one thing to respond to Rohyr’s kisses; altogether
another to initiate one. He hesitantly lifted his head and pressed
his mouth against Rohyr’s. Heartened when the king returned the
kiss, he dared to slip his tongue between Rohyr’s parted lips.





Rohyr
groaned at the timid incursion. He pressed Lassen down and sealed
their mouths in a torrid caress. Lassen gasped when his nether parts
were cupped and fondled anew. Aroused, a desire to please Rohyr took
hold and he reached for the buttons of the Ardan’s breeches and
undid them. He tugged the tie of his drawers loose and caught his
breath when warm, rigid flesh prodded his groin. He wondered what to
do, then made an inarticulate sound when Rohyr shifted above him and
their lengths slid against each other.





Rohyr
took Lassen’s hands. Lassen drew in a shuddery breath when they
were wrapped around the paired columns. Instinct took over and he
began to stroke their shafts jointly. In this he did not need
instruction and his movements slowed or quickened, his touch
lightening or intensifying accordingly.





He
soon felt the resurgent pressure in his belly and he hastened his
stroking, hurrying them both toward the rapture he knew was just
around the corner. When Rohyr broke their kiss, he saw that the
king’s eyes were shut tight and that he was breathing shallowly,
his shoulders and arms stiff with the strain of trying to control
himself.





It
was Lassen’s first time not only to bring another to pleasure but
also to make him lose himself to it. He impulsively recaptured
Rohyr’s lips and was borne down hard. Rohyr ravaged his mouth in a
kiss that stole the very breath from him.





The
tight coil in his groin steadily unravelled and he pumped his hands
vigorously. He heard his name groaned against his lips followed by
sharp gasps, a stifled moan and the first spurt of warm cream on his
fingers. It only took a moment’s realization that he had brought
Rohyr to completion to trigger his own. The coil within him came
undone and, with a muffled cry, he climaxed once more.

It
was a long while before he became fully aware again of his
surroundings. Gathered into an embrace, he turned into it and pressed
his face into the comforting warmth of a cradling shoulder. The faint
scent of sandara
reminded him of who held him and why. He blinked, then looked at
Rohyr.





The
king lay with his eyes closed, his cheeks still faintly flushed from
his orgasm, his lips slightly parted as slight puffs of breath
slipped through. He looked achingly handsome and Lassen could not
resist the urge to steal a kiss.





A
smile curved Rohyr’s lips at the stealthy caress. He opened his
eyes and lazily regarded Lassen. “I trust you enjoyed yourself?”

Lassen
blushed but smilingly nodded. “I’ve heard many a tale about this,
but none were enough to make me truly understand.”

“Words
are seldom sufficient,” Rohyr agreed. He glanced down and smirked.
Lassen followed his glance. His blush deepened.

His
belly was generously stippled with the pearlescent mingling of their
seed. More clung to his fingers and he snatched up the edge of the
rumpled bedding to wipe himself off. Rohyr snickered. He took the
sheet from Lassen’s fumbling hands and cleaned him

of
the milky essence.





“Don’t
let this abash you,” Rohyr said when he was done. “A good tumble
will always leave a mess behind. The messier it gets, the more
satisfying a coupling is likely to be.”





Lassen
did not quite know whether he was being serious or facetious. And so
he hid his burning face against Rohyr’s shoulder.

“There
is something I must discuss with you,” Rohyr murmured after a
spell. “Did your parents tell you about viratha?”

Lassen
nodded. “Aba
said you would imprint me but he didn’t say how.”





Rohyr
ran his fingers through the shining strands of Lassen’s hair. “I
shall place a command in your mind in the course of a coupling. It
will prohibit you from knowing desire for anyone else even if you
feel affection for him. And in the unlikely event that someone
attempts to force himself upon you, it will alert me to your
situation and impel you to resist to the utmost of your ability. Or
should your strength fail, perish from the shock before the act can
be completed.”





When
Lassen paled, Rohyr held him closer. “No one would dare incur my
vengeance by harming you. And as for inhibiting your desire, it’s a
precautionary measure, given my position. But I want you to be
truthful with me should you come to love someone. I would rather
release you from service than keep you by force, knowing you want
another.”

Lassen
pondered his words. “’Tis as much for my protection as yours,”
he said at length. Musing aloud, he continued, “There are some who
would seek anything to use against me should they believe what sway
they have with you has been weakened by mine. ‘Tis foolish for I
care not for such things, but I suppose I can’t say the same for
many at court.” He looked at Rohyr trustingly. “I wouldn’t
refuse even if you gave me the choice. Do as you see fit, Dyhar.”





Rohyr
stared at him. With a soft exhalation, he lay back and pulled Lassen
partly atop him, his arms encircling him. He stared at the ceiling
with an expression the youth could not quite identify.





Lassen
regarded him curiously for a while, then decided he knew too little
about Rohyr to fathom his various moods and reactions. He rested his
head on the latter’s breast. Listening to the steady beat of his
heart, he felt the gentle up and down of Rohyr’s chest with every
breath he drew.





There
would be time enough later to better know the Ardan. But this much
Lassen already realized—it would not be difficult to lose his heart
to Rohyr Essendri.

He
wondered if this was his fate. And on the heels of that realization
followed a question. Was such a fate boon or bane?









Chapter
Seven









Ownership





“Have
you imprinted him?”





Whatever
he thought of Imcael’s tactlessness, Rohyr did not say. His uncle
merited courtesy if nothing else. But seated at Imcael’s right,
Reijir Arthanna rolled his eyes tellingly.





“Nay,”
Rohyr evenly replied.





“Wherefore
the delay?” Imcael demanded, slamming his palm down on the
tabletop. “He mingles with some of the wealthiest and most
influential Deira of this realm. It will go to his head and he’ll
be all too ready to fall for whatever blandishments come his way.
Mark my words, you’ll find yourself cuckolded and saddled with
someone else’s bastard if you don’t bind his mind soonest.”

Rohyr’s
mouth tightened slightly but he only said “Lassen isn’t gullible.
Nor is he a fool to jeopardize his good fortune for the sake of
someone of lesser name than mine.”





“Oh,
he could were he foolish enough to believe himself in love,” Imcael
insisted. Rohyr’s eyes gleamed. “Does this mean you agree that he
esteems love above wealth





and
privilege?” he mildly inquired.





Imcael’s
eyes widened in horror at having attributed a virtue to his nephew’s
concubine. Before he could respond, Reijir quipped, “That hardly
makes him the sort to indulge in empty affairs. You’ve truly found
yourself a prize, Cousin.”





Rohyr
suppressed his grin. He regarded Imcael who looked ready to have a
fit. “Don’t fret, Uncle. Lassen knows his duty, as I do mine. I
assure you, if he bears any by-blows, they’ll be my
by-blows. And
none will precede my lawfully begotten heir,” he emphatically added
when Imcael began another round of protests. “Now, what say we tend
to your concerns about the policing of the borders?”

“I
thought Vaeren had everything well in hand,” Reijir said. “What
has caused you displeasure, Uncle?”





With
practiced ease, the two distracted Imcael from the issue of Rohyr’s
leman and drew him back to the original reason for his visit. It was
a good three-quarters of an hour however before Imcael was satisfied
that Rohyr understood his resentment over having to deploy a goodly
portion of his herunic forces to eastern Velarus. When he finally
departed, his nephews heaved sighs of relief. They looked at each
other across the table and broke into rueful grins.





“My
thanks, Rei,” Rohyr said.





Reijir
made a dismissive gesture. “What are cousins for if not to help
each other endure overbearing, sanctimonious relations?”

Rohyr
chuckled briefly. “He is rather unpleasant.”





“Rather
unpleasant?” Reijir repeated. “That is an egregious
understatement. It’s to your credit that you’ve never yet raised
your voice with him. Were I in your place, I wouldn’t be so patient
or kind.”





“I’m
not such a saint as all that,” Rohyr demurred. “But I don’t
care to descend into the gutters with him. It’s already crowded
enough down there.”

Reijir
snorted. “Still, I own myself just as surprised that you haven’t
imprinted Lassen,” he admitted.

“I
would rather he learns to enjoy fulfilling his duties to me first.”
Reijir stared. “You haven’t bedded him yet, have you?”

Rohyr
dipped his head in confirmation

“Whence
this sudden restraint?” Reijir asked. “You’re no libertine, but
neither have you ever denied yourself a great desire nor delayed the
granting of it.”





Rohyr
sighed. “I don’t want to overwhelm him. He’s young and innocent
and I have taken him away from everyone and everything he holds dear.
I thought it prudent to give him time to accustom himself to his new
life.”





Reijir
studied him. “It would please you to be held dearest of all he
holds dear, wouldn’t it?” Rohyr shrugged but Reijir knew him too
well. “And you’re certain you’re not mistaken about him?”





Rohyr
squarely met his gaze. “I am not mistaken.” He rose to his feet
and Reijir did likewise. “Had Uncle Imcael not stood on his right
of seniority, I would be done with my meeting with Gilmael by now. I
had best get back to him. What of you?”





“I
was supposed to join Keiran for the midday meal but it’s too late
for that now. Ah, don’t worry; he’ll understand once I tell him
the reason for my delinquency.”

Rohyr
had to grin. A tenured instructor at the State University, Reijir’s
brother enjoyed gossip and intrigue to an inordinate degree.

Reijir
snickered. “Indeed, he’ll deem me a saint for sacrificing my
peace of mind to help you bear through dear Imcael giving you a piece
of his.”





*
* * *





Lassen
peered up and down the corridor before hurrying to his apartment.
With Imcael temporarily in residence, it was all the youth could do
to avoid bumping into him, especially when the Herun’s quarters
were just two doors away from his. He would not soon forget Imcael’s
reproachful expression when he espied Rohyr leaving Lassen’s suite
late one night.





He
did not know why the Herun had decided to stay at the Citadel. Imcael
had suddenly shown up a fortnight ago with Reijir in tow and demanded
an immediate audience with his royal nephew, ignoring the fact that
Rohyr was in the middle of a meeting with Gilmael. He also pointedly
informed Lassen that it was not a leman’s place to meddle in
official business, never mind that Rohyr had asked Lassen to be
present since Gilmael’s report had pertained in part to the welfare
of his hometown. In turn, Rohyr had welcomed his uncle, apologized to
Gilmael and bade him wait on his return and, lastly, mildly rebuked
Imcael for his impoliteness toward Lassen.





That
had earned him a frown and Lassen a black scowl, but Rohyr quickly
ushered Imcael out of the conference chamber and took him to a
smaller audience room. Gilmael and Reijir exchanged looks of
exasperation before Reijir turned on his heel and followed the pair.





Well,
whatever they had talked about must have prompted Imcael to stay on
and virtually dog Rohyr’s every step. Something his nephew had done
greatly displeased the Herun and he was apparently determined to
ensure that this failing would be addressed without further delay.

Lassen
had just come from the dining hall and a most uncomfortable supper.
Rohyr

refused
to banish him from his table and that had worsened Imcael’s temper.
Hence, every meal he inflicted with his presence was tainted by
silent rancor. Had it not been for Yovan‘s droll remarks and the
humorous quips of Gilmael’s brother Zykriel, they would have dined
in near intolerable silence tonight as well. Nonetheless, the tension
had been so thick the head cook could have sliced it with the
long-bladed knife he used to carve the roast swylboar.





Entering
the bathing chamber, Lassen saw that a warm bath had already been
drawn. Bless Josel, he thought, as he quickly stripped, then sank
into the sudsy water. A few minutes later, he felt much better and
could feel more charitable toward Rohyr’s surly uncle.





Sighing,
he lathered his arms and chest. When his fingers passed over his
nipples however the memory of lips sucking and a tongue laving those
pert buds suddenly came to mind. He stifled a whimper and closed his
eyes.





His
tutelage had continued apace. Each day invariably found him at one
point or another in Rohyr’s company and in his arms. The Ardan did
not always take their encounters to the point of near coupling as he
had that dizzying afternoon. But there was no mistaking his intent to
show Lassen the pleasures of the flesh and teach him how to receive
as well as bestow them.

Lassen
licked his lips. Only the other day, he had learned how to pleasure
Rohyr with his mouth; a highly agreeable exercise it turned out.
There had been something exquisitely intimate about the act—his
first full sight of Rohyr’s shaft, the thrill of running his tongue
up and down its formidable length and wrapping his lips around its
impressive girth, the sounds of Rohyr’s gasps and groans and the
moment of his orgasm when he caught Lassen by the shoulders, bucked
up and spilled himself into the youth’s mouth.





The
taste of that warm and opulent mouthful had added to Lassen’s
already heightened lust and he had desperately sought to caress
himself to release. But Rohyr had pried his hand away, rolled him on
his back and stroked him to completion. All the while he had kissed
Lassen almost senseless, shamelessly tasting the lingering flavor of
his own essence on Lassen’s tongue.

Roused
by the memory of that scarlet interlude, Lassen had reached down to
take his stirring shaft in hand. He now shuddered as he rapidly
pulled on the firm column. Before too long, he spent himself with a
moan, his seed mingling with the fragrant bath water. Trembling, he
waited for the aftershocks of his climax to subside. At last, he
lazily opened his eyes. And met Rohyr’s piercing gaze.

The
Ardan stood at the foot of the tub, leaning against the wall, his
arms folded across his chest. He was clad in a silken shirt left
unbuttoned to reveal a trim yet muscular torso and drawstring
trousers that rode low on his lean hips. His hair was damp from his
own bath. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips while his eyes
roamed over what he could see of Lassen’s body through the
dispersing suds.

Lassen
sucked in his breath. Color flooded his face and he lowered his gaze,
unable to speak or maintain eye contact after having his wantonness
revealed. Rohyr came around the tub and, cupping his chin, compelled
him to lift his face. He kissed Lassen hard and long, drawing his
tongue into a sensual duel.





“Come
to me when you’re done,” Rohyr murmured, rubbing his thumb over
Lassen’s lower lip. With that, he turned and left the room.

Lassen
hastily finished bathing. Padding out afterward to his chamber, he
stopped short when he saw the nightshirt Josel had laid out on the
bed. As with his regular nightshirts, it was close-necked,
long-sleeved and calf-length. There, the similarities ended. Fastened
at the collar by a single button, the garment opened up front nearly
to the navel. The ensuing gap ensured that a sliver of skin showed
through. Not that so minute a glimpse mattered much when the fabric
itself was so thin and fine that it revealed rather than hid the body
it covered.

Lassen
stared in dismay at his reflection in the mirror. He could make out
the color of his skin and the details of his body through the filmy
material, particularly the telltale shadowy mound at his groin. And
in the absence of drawers, it was apparent that said body part was
meant to be seen.





He
donned a dressing robe over the thin garment lest he encountered
anyone in the hallway. Taking a deep breath, Lassen walked the short
distance to Rohyr’s apartment.

The
moment had finally come. He would awaken in the morning shorn of his
bodily innocence.

Lassen
paled when Rohyr opened the door to admit him then visibly shivered
as the Ardan closed it behind them. Rohyr lifted one eyebrow at
Lassen’s reactions.





“This
is no merlion’s den for you to tremble so,” he commented. “Unless
you deem me a frightful creature.”

“Nay!”
Lassen protested. “I could never deem you anything less than
splendid, Rohyr-dyhar.”

Taking
his courage in hand, he lifted his face and pressed a trusting kiss
to Rohyr’s jaw. Rohyr went still at the caress. An instant later,
he caught Lassen to himself and drew him into a searing kiss, his
hands making short work of Lassen’s robe. With little more than
their scanty garments between them, the warmth of their bodies as
they touched seemed as scorching as a firebrand to the youth.

Lassen
moaned when Rohyr slid his hands over his flanks, back, and hips
before they cupped his buttocks and pulled him tight against him.
Their shafts rubbed tantalizingly against each other through their
clothing.





With
a groan, Rohyr broke their kiss. He touched his forehead to Lassen’s.
“You are more temptation than is possible for anyone to resist,”
he murmured.

He
led Lassen through the sitting room into the sleeping chamber. In
Lassen’s anxiety, everything was a blur of color and texture. The
only thing that clearly stood out was the huge, canopied, four-poster
bed that dominated the bedchamber. Built from precious nahra, it
looked almost twice as wide and half again as long as Lassen’s own
large bed.

Lassen
vaguely noted the thick feather mattress, luxurious down pillows,
crisp snowy linens and gauzy white curtains that could be drawn to
conceal the bed and its occupants from casual scrutiny. Something
gleamed in the muted light, drawing his eyes to the bedside table. He
gulped upon spotting a small wide-rimmed bottle of colorless, scented
oil.

He
felt the feathery stroke of his consciousness. A come hither
sensation that made him aware that he was being watched with
appreciation. It set his body aflame. To his dismay, his nipples
stiffened slightly and his shaft lifted in nascent arousal. Lassen
closed his eyes and waited.





He
did not wait long. Rohyr gently clasped his shoulders and guided him
onto the

bed.
Lassen tried to becalm himself. But he quivered when he felt the warm
slide of Rohyr’s hand on one thigh, caressing him from knee almost
to groin.

The
gentle tug at a nipple impelled him to open his eyes and he looked
down to see Rohyr sucking one peaked bud through the thin fabric.
Farther below, his hand stroked Lassen’s thigh, scarcely hidden by
the shirt hem. Both images were nigh unbearably erotic and Lassen’s
groin tightened accordingly.





Rohyr
looked up and their eyes met. The king smiled and shifted upward to
capture Lassen with one of his inimitable kisses. Lassen avidly
responded and pressed his body against Rohyr’s with abandon.





Rohyr’s
hand came up between them and unfastened the single button at
Lassen’s throat. The garment parted and Rohyr slid his hand
underneath to touch the stiffened nipples now revealed. Lassen arched
into his touch. The king drew back and gazed at him, the hungry
glimmer in his eyes causing the muscles in Lassen’s belly to
clench. Without a word, Rohyr gripped the hem of his nightshirt and
drew the garment up and off Lassen’s slender form.





For
the first time, he lay completely naked before Rohyr. Lassen remained
as still as he could while his royal lover had his fill of this first
sight of his bared charms.

“Too
much,” Rohyr murmured huskily. He doffed his shirt and trousers.





Lassen
gaped at him. Saints!
Here was no soft, throne-bound sovereign, but a battle-honed, warrior
king of striking beauty, steely grace and an endowment that left
Lassen’s mouth dry from mingled admiration and perturbation. He did
not stop staring until Rohyr drew him close and engaged him once more
in a spate of torrid kisses.





He
clung to Rohyr, reveling in the feel of naked skin and unshielded
warmth against his body. As he yielded further to Rohyr’s sensual
assault, he only vaguely felt the king’s hand as it moved down from
his shoulder to his hip and finally to his thighs. Even when Rohyr
parted his legs and reached between to cup his seed pouch, he did not
pay much heed.

But
Rohyr’s fingers moved lower and he lifted the tender flesh to
uncover the small lipped opening that was the most telling indication
of the Deira’s descent from the ancient Naere—the seed channel
more commonly known as the sheath. He brushed his fingers against the
sensitive flesh.





Lassen
gasped. He tried to pull away but Rohyr held him fast. “Oh Veres,
what are you doing?” he moaned as he perforce endured the teasing
slide of Rohyr’s fingers and the burgeoning bliss that came with
it. “Please-don’t… I can’t—”

“Don’t
think, Las-min,”
Rohyr murmured. “Just feel.”





The
young sedyr
could do little more than obey. With every stroke, his pleasure
mounted until he raised his hips in an unconscious effort to spur
Rohyr into slipping his fingers between the delicate folds of flesh
that guarded his sheath. Rohyr obliged and pressed a finger into the
moist passage beyond. Lassen reared at the unfamiliar intrusion but
Rohyr continued to caress him, setting off the chain of bodily
changes that turned a Deir and rendered him the sheath to his
partner’s sword. Not that Rohyr planned to take him by genital
penetration. Until Lassen reached his thirtieth year, breaching his
seed channel was strictly forbidden.





Lassen
whimpered as his seed pouch contracted, receding upward and slightly
inward, and tightened into a small fleshy sphere to completely
uncover the glistening orifice behind it. When Rohyr looked
searchingly at him, Lassen closed his eyes, unable

to
endure the scrutiny. Thus, he did not see Rohyr reach for the oil
and, though he sensed him as he shifted downward between his upraised
knees, he did not realize what Rohyr was about until he felt the
gentle swipe of his tongue. He almost stopped breathing, shocked that
anyone should use his mouth on so private a part of his body.

“Nay,
this isn’t right!” he blurted, reaching down in protest.

Smirking,
Rohyr briefly met his gaze. “Who told you that?” he archly asked
before employing his tongue once more, ignoring the clutch of
Lassen’s hands on his shoulders.

Overcome,
Lassen fell back with a lingering moan. Mithre had said that it was
not unusual to employ one’s mouth for the purpose of pleasuring a
partner, but the more common manner of oral play was to suckle the
shaft. The sheath was not as frequently stimulated in the same way
and, since Mithre could not imagine Rohyr agreeing to be serviced so
and even less servicing anyone thusly, he had not gone into detail
about it.





Inarticulate
mutterings spilled from Lassen as sheer sensation superseded all
lucid thought. And that was before that wicked tongue dipped into the
virginal channel. He cried out as he was pierced repeatedly. But when
he reached down once again, it was to run his fingers through Rohyr’s
dark locks, unconsciously encouraging the sensual pillaging of his
graces.

So
lost was he in pleasure that he did not notice the insertion of a
well-lubricated finger up his backside until it slid in to the
knuckle. By then it was too late. And too much. With a strangled
keen, Lassen came undone, caught in the throes of an orgasm that
seemed to go on forever until he thought he would swoon from the
sheer intensity of it.





Struggling
to corral his scattered wits afterward, he gulped in air while his
madly pounding heart strove to calm down. When his vision and reason
cleared somewhat, he realized that Rohyr’s finger was still deep
inside him. He squirmed a little when Rohyr twisted the finger and
the intrusion became more acute. He stopped wriggling when Rohyr
placed a restraining hand on his hip.

“You’re
so tight,” Rohyr murmured roughly. “I must prepare you or it will
hurt overmuch when I take you.”

Lassen
took a shaky breath and nodded his comprehension.





Mithre
had told him about defloration. The sensation of a rear breaching was
different from a first sheathing. The former burned before subsiding
into a dull ache as the snug ring of muscles that guarded the rectum
stretched to accommodate entry. The latter, on the other hand, stung
then lapsed into mild soreness when the fragile remnants of the once
protective membrane midway inside the sheath tore upon penetration.
Either way, Mithre had warned him to expect some discomfort if not
pain.





The
insertion of more fingers made him wince. Assuredly, each addition
coaxed his arse to open up further but Lassen doubted any amount of
preparation could loosen him enough to withstand the entry of a shaft
as impressive as Rohyr’s. He braced himself for the worst.





Of
a sudden, Rohyr caressed something and rapturous sensation erupted in
Lassen’s belly. The youth gasped in surprise, then half sobbed as
he was stroked within over and again until he was bearing down on
Rohyr’s fingers, seeking the wondrous feelings they wrought.





When
Rohyr withdrew his fingers, Lassen softly protested their removal.
But Rohyr slipped his hands under his parted knees and lifted them
and something large and blunt and slippery slid between the cheeks of
his buttocks. Lassen tensed.

“Let
me in, Las-min,”
Rohyr softly said.





His
breath coming in nervous huffs, Lassen willed himself to relax and
permit his body’s breaching. He felt the momentary nudge of flesh
against his entrance before it slipped past and pushed into him.
Lassen let out a strangled gasp as he was steadily stretched and
filled. He closed his eyes to stem his tears over the burn of thick
flesh sliding into his untried backside. Striving to adjust to the
discomfort, he did not realize at once that Rohyr was holding still
and awaiting a sign from him that he was well.





The
pain decreased to a mild throb. Indeed, the pain had been nowhere
near as bad as he expected. Rohyr had been extremely careful with
him. The thought warmed Lassen and he lifted his legs and wrapped
them around Rohyr’s waist.





“Are
you certain?” Rohyr asked.





Lassen
drew a steadying breath. Managing a tremulous smile, he whispered,
“Show me how to please you.”

Rohyr’s
eyes gleamed appreciatively. He shifted position and delivered a
shallow thrust. When Lassen did not flinch, he deepened the next few
thrusts. Silk bound muscles gave way before spearing flesh and opened
up further with each invasion until Rohyr was well seated inside
Lassen. He began to drive into Lassen, caressing him deep within as
he had earlier done with his fingers.

Once
again, sweetly addictive pleasure swept through Lassen and he lifted
his hips to sheathe Rohyr as much as he could, desiring the intense
sensations each thrust fetched him. In answer, Rohyr grasped him
behind his knees and pushed them back against his chest. Lassen
whimpered as he was impaled to the hilt. He could not move as much
but it mattered little for the position allowed deeper, more acutely
felt penetration. The repeated slide of Rohyr’s generous length
into him lifted him ever higher into an intensifying





storm
of rapture. He made a litany of Rohyr’s name, moaning it helplessly
with every inward stroke.

Before
too long, Rohyr’s measured lunges and murmured assurances faded as
he, too, careened toward completion. His thrusts quickened and his
breathing roughened as his pleasure spiralled beyond his control. But
he managed at the last to snatch back some vestige of mastery and,
staving off his climax by sheer dint of will, reached between their
heaving bodies to curl his fingers around the rigid shaft that
prodded his belly. He briskly stroked it. A spate of harsh sobs burst
from Lassen.

“Please!”
he cried out, unable to voice what exactly it was he wanted.

Moments
before his climax hit him, Rohyr fastened his lips on a nipple.
Groaning around the plump peak, he spent himself, shuddering with
every fulsome gush of his seed. A few seconds later, staccato cries
rent the air and frantic fingers raked his back as Lassen came to
explosive release, the draw of Rohyr’s lips on his nipple and the
contracting of his muscles around Rohyr’s shaft heightening every
sensation and lengthening his rapture. While his orgasm slowly faded
away, Lassen clung to Rohyr as a castaway might hang on for dear life
to a boulder in the midst of a stormy sea.









Chapter
Eight









Enchainment





Rohyr
carefully pulled out of Lassen and gently rolled them onto their
sides. There was no need to clean up. Only a few drops of seed
stippled the flaxen curls on Lassen’s groin. When a turned Deir
orgasmed, he produced very little semen if at all.





He
leisurely ran his fingers through Lassen’s tousled hair,
occasionally kissing his damp brow. The affectionate gestures soothed
the lad. He calmed down to Rohyr’s satisfaction and snuggled
against him, laying his head on the king’s shoulder. Rohyr smiled
against his fair locks.





At
length, he reached behind Lassen and gingerly probed his bottom.
Lassen winced and stiffened.

Rohyr
sat up and, turning to his bedside table, pulled open the topmost
drawer. Lassen watched curiously as he retrieved a small glass jar
filled with a slightly translucent substance with a bluish hue.





The
king unscrewed the cover of the jar and scooped up a dollop of what
appeared to be a loose cream with his fingers. It had a mild minty
fragrance. Setting the container aside, he turned back to Lassen.

“Roll
over, Las-min,”
he instructed.





Lassen
hesitated at first, eyeing the cream suspiciously, but finally did as
he was bid. He tensed as his legs were parted then jerked and gasped
in protest when Rohyr slid his fingers up his aching rump. But the
dull pain quickly gave way to a bearable twinge and, after a short
while, he sighed and relaxed.

“Better?”
Rohyr murmured.

“Very
much,” Lassen almost purred. He looked over his shoulder to meet
Rohyr’s amused gaze. “What is it?”

“A
medicament developed by my physician. It numbs the pain of an injury
while it helps it heal. You should be quite recovered by morning.”

Rohyr
scooped up another generous amount of the cream.





Lassen
blushed as Rohyr smoothed more of the salve into him. A ridiculous
reaction, really, when only minutes earlier, he’d had far more than
Rohyr’s fingers up his arse. Still, the king’s tending of his
post-coital aches felt just as intimate as their coupling. It was not
only his body that Rohyr soothed with his care but also his spirit.

Lassen
wondered at the deepening warmth he felt toward his lord and lover.





*
* * *





He
awakened to the feel of kisses on his back, shoulders and nape.
Woozily turning his head, he started when his chin was cupped and his
mouth caught in a plundering kiss. By the time he was released, he
was fully awake.





Befuddled,
Lassen glanced at the antique timepiece that graced the bedside
table. It was just three hours past midnight. Rohyr was certainly no
laggard in concupiscence, he thought, before the tender marauding of
his ear by lips and teeth nearly robbed him of

coherence.





“Veres
preserve me,” he whimpered, whether in apprehension or yearning
Lassen was not sure.

“You’re
so sensitive,” Rohyr whispered when the mere dip of his tongue into
Lassen’s ear made the youth tremble. “And noisy,” he added with
a grin as his leman’s moans escalated into soft cries.





“I’m-I’m
sorry,” Lassen managed to gasp.





“For
what? I enjoy hearing you, Las-min.”
Rohyr’s fingers crept into Lassen’s rear to probe his readiness.
“Especially when I am well up your backside.”

Unthinkingly,
Lassen bore down on the invading digits as sensory memory recalled to
him the pleasures of being fulsomely speared and filled.

“Eager
are we?” Rohyr gently teased. “Nay, that‘s—I’m not—”

Lassen’s
protests ceased when Rohyr’s legs shifted between his own and
nudged them apart. His upper leg came to rest on Rohyr’s thighs,
spreading him for penetration. He caught his breath when tumescent
flesh eased his buttocks apart then pressed in. Rohyr slid into him
until his groin was flush against Lassen’s buttocks. There was no
discomfort, however, for Rohyr’s shaft was well slicked and
Lassen’s entrance was nicely stretched from the night before.
Furthermore, his rear passage was still coated with the medicinal
salve and the copious remnants of Rohyr’s semen.





Rohyr
thrust repeatedly into Lassen. He was pleased when Lassen pushed back
in turn to take in as much of Rohyr’s shaft as he could. The youth
was capable of much passion and would be a most fulfilling partner
when he matured and learned more of the love-arts. Even now, innocent
and inexperienced as he was, he had satisfied Rohyr’s needs the
previous night. Indeed, he had exceeded his expectations and Rohyr
was tempted not to proceed to the next step.





Lassen
did not notice the invasion into his consciousness at first. The
pleasure and desire that seeped into every corner and cranny of his
body clouded his perceptions enough that it was some time before he
realized not all of it was his. It was then that he detected another
presence in his mind, powerful and compelling.





And
it waited. For what, Lassen did not understand. What he did remember
was how Rohyr had once browsed through his mind and that the
experience had been unnerving. Almost terrifyingly so.





He
shut his eyes, frightened amidst his rapture. Fearful whimpers forced
their way past his lips, as loud to his ears as his uneven
inhalations.

“Afraid?”
he heard Rohyr say.





Lassen
nodded. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to offend you,” he apologized
in a shaking voice.

Gentle
fingers caressed his cheek and soft lips left a trail of kisses along
his shoulder to the side of his neck.

There
is nothing to fear. Trust me, sweet one.





Lassen
trembled at the mental caress. It was almost as potent as the hard
shaft that filled him. Like a wave washing over a rock-strewn shore
to eddy or settle into shallow pools amidst the nooks and crevices,
it crept over and into his consciousness. An intoxicating haze of
pure rapture that was not of the body alone slowly overtook him,
seducing and ensnaring him until he could not bear to wait but needed
completion of

some
kind. He reached behind and grasped Rohyr’s hip in a mute plea.
Rohyr answered it and pressed deep into him with every forward
thrust.

Lassen
felt a slight nudge in his mind that urged him to open up to the
sensual encroachment, permit it to enter, take hold and fulfill his
unspoken yearning. It was this considerate request for entry that
eased his fears. With a sigh, he gave himself over to Rohyr’s
control.





You
are mine alone, Lassen. With no other will you share yourself.





It
was akin to being swept into a maelstrom where there was only Rohyr
to anchor him. His face, his scent, his voice and touch. And his
shaft inside him, joining them in the most intimate physical act
possible between two beings. As a rolling climax swept through
Lassen’s body, so did an otherworldly rapture inundate every recess
of his consciousness.

The
surfeit of pleasure was more than he could bear. His ragged
ululations resounded through the chamber and beyond.





*
* * *





Josel
stood patiently at the bedchamber door. It was not a pleasant duty
but it was demanded of him and so he waited.

You
may tell him,
came the silent command; a curt whisper in his mind that bespoke
barely
contained displeasure.

Frowning
in distaste, the elderly servant walked out of the sitting room and
made his way to Imcael’s suite. Rohyr disliked revealing details of
his private activities and Josel liked being privy to them even less.
But, Saints above, the Ardan’s uncle was so obstinate.





Imcael
himself opened the door with a jerk, eyes bleary with sleep. Whatever
reprimand he’d thought to unleash died on his lips when he saw who
had disturbed him so early in the day.





“Well?”
he impatiently demanded. “It is done,” Josel quietly replied.
“You’re certain?” the Herun pressed.

“I
listened and heard, Your Grace. He is wholly in the Ardan’s
thrall.”





Imcael
wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Threw himself at my nephew, I
wager,” he snorted. “But what can you expect of common folk?”





Josel’s
lips twitched but he stayed his tongue. Useless to protest Imcael’s
prejudiced assessment of Lassen’s conduct. Rohyr knew the truth and
that was what mattered. When Imcael dismissed him, he stiffly bowed
and departed as swiftly as possible without appearing to be in
unseemly haste to get away from the fief-lord.





*
* * *





Lassen
came to with a moan, startled into full awareness by the sensation of
being filled. He vaguely realized that he was on his back beneath
Rohyr, legs loosely wrapped around the king’s waist. He gasped as
Rohyr speared him deeply.





“My
lord…?” he half stuttered, half groaned as he was cleaved
repeatedly.





Rohyr
paused and leaned down to kiss him gently. “This will have to be
the last for now,” he murmured. “Else you won’t be able to sit
comfortably for a goodly while.”

“Not
able to sit…? Why won’t I—?” Lassen paused as he became aware
of a throbbing in his arse that had not been there at the onset of
their pre-dawn coupling. Frowning in confusion, he suddenly noticed
light streaming through the cracks in the draperies. Bright sunlight.
He blinked. Last he recalled it was still some two hours shy of
daybreak when Rohyr awakened him.





“How
long…?” he began to say when he espied mirth in Rohyr’s eyes.
“How often?” he faintly asked instead.





Rohyr
chuckled huskily. “Enough that you’ll need to apply the salve
frequently and religiously today.”

Lassen
caught his breath. It was disconcerting to realize that he had
repeatedly coupled with Rohyr through the early hours of the day
while in a fugue. And hugely enjoyed it if his disjointed memories of
intense pleasure and overriding desire were any indication.





Color
flooded his cheeks. He had not thought himself capable of such
lustfulness. “Was it really necessary?” he weakly asked.

Rohyr
stroked his flushed cheek. “Even were it not, my need to have you
is not so quickly satisfied. You are much too delectable, my beauty.”





Lassen
moaned with the resumption of his body’s piercing. For several wild
heartbeats, he could do naught but stare at the Ardan, his growing
affection for him strengthened by Rohyr’s many kindnesses and
compassion. Not to mention his exceptional handsomeness and nigh
perfection of form, which Lassen had come to appreciate even more now
that he lived in daily proximity to him.

He
gazed at Rohyr in artless worshipfulness. “I hope I satisfied you,
my liege.” Rohyr regarded him intently. “You are no mere
bed-treat. In your arms, I can lose

myself
for a while. Forget my cares and simply be Rohyr. Your bed is a
refuge to me. Your body my haven.”

Lassen
stared at him in wonder. About to speak, he felt a tug, there in the
back of his consciousness. He recalled the incursion of another
consciousness into his mind and the strange, unsettling sensation of
being opened and read and, finally, bound. Full understanding finally
came to him as he remembered being completely under the Ardan’s
control, yielding to his desire without hesitation or resistance.

He
was essentially Rohyr’s to do with as he wished, when he wished,
where he wished and no one could undo the hold his royal lover had
over him.

It
should have frightened him beyond bearing, this mental thralldom. But
thus far, Rohyr had never treated him as if he were a mere piece of
property, to use or discard as he pleased. He had not bedded him as
soon as he set foot inside his halls nor had he taken Lassen without
care for his apprehensions or lack of experience. Lassen had placed
his trust in him and Rohyr had proved time and again that his trust
was well-founded.

He
felt the pull again. More than a request, less than a demand, it
enticed him rather than forced him into compliance. Lassen’s desire
heightened at so subtle a caress. He wove his arms around Rohyr and
ran his hands down his strong back.





“I
pray you will always find your ease in me, Rohyr-dyhar,”
he whispered. Rohyr made no answer but caught him in a scalding kiss,
prying his lips apart to





pillage
Lassen’s mouth and swallowing the youth’s moans.





He
would enjoy teaching his leman the many ways to pleasure him. All the
more when complete possession of his body was no longer restricted.
But there would be no

need
to teach him how to please Rohyr outside of their bed. Lassen simply
gave himself over to the role as if born to it.

As
if he had been made for Rohyr’s delight alone.









Chapter
Nine









Lover





The
Citadel, in the 3006th year of the Common Age





Lassen
wiped the sweat from his brow and neck to the resonating clash and
clang of swords behind him. He tucked the tendrils of hair that had
escaped his long braid behind his ears and glanced back to see who
still remained on the field.





He
was no high-born True Blood whose station behooved him to learn the
battle-arts. But he was part of the royal household, a member of
Rohyr Essendri’s inner circle, and that was reason enough for him
to train as the Ardan and his kin had since they were old enough to
lift a broadsword.





Lassen
nodded his thanks at the squire who had handed him a tall cup of
water poured from a flagon embedded in cracked ice. He gulped down
the chilled liquid, refilled the cup, and strode to a pair newly done
with their sparring. He offered the water to his lover of ten years.
Rohyr accepted the cup with a smile and drank deeply of it.
Meanwhile, an attendant passed a towel to Lassen.

“You’re
finished?” Rohyr inquired.





“I
am,” Lassen affirmed as he plied the towel on Rohyr’s face, nape
and bare arms. He watched Rohyr hand his sword to a squire in
exchange for a pair of knives. “But I take it you mean to
continue.”





“Only
one last bout,” Rohyr said. “There will be a number of
petitioners at court today. Best I see to them early else I shall
have no time or energy for aught more than sleep tonight. That is not
my idea of a good way to end the day.”





He
brushed his lips against Lassen’s before turning to face his new
opponent. Lassen shook his head fondly at the king’s
indefatigability.

As
he made his way along the perimeter of the drill yard, he passed some
newly arrived visitors. Gentry and minor nobility from the
countryside, he surmised, not only from their less cosmopolitan
attire but also from the way they comported themselves.

They
ogled Lassen appreciatively in turn. But when they espied his leman’s
earring they burst into speculative talk. Some did not trouble to
lower their voices.

“Is
it white-silver?” one asked with awe as he eyed the costly piece.

“How
presumptuous of him!” sniffed another. “Doesn’t he know that
only members of the Ardan’s family may bear white-silver?”





“How
can he when he’s just a simple-minded provincial?” a third added
derisively. “I wonder what Rohyr saw in him to elevate him to so
undeserved a station.”





“He
is comely,” the first Deir pointed out grudgingly. “He likely
contents our Ardan well enough.”

Lassen
gave no indication that he had heard. After all these years, he was
used to being discussed with admiration, curiosity or disparagement.
Nevertheless, it still rankled when he was shown disrespect either by
the ignorant who were not aware of the difference between an official
concubine and a casual bed-partner or the knowledgeable who
disapproved of his liaison with Rohyr and let him know it so long as
Rohyr was not

present.
Lassen disliked them far more than those who did not know enough to
make sound assumptions. But either way, he had little regard for folk
who were so full of themselves they could belittle others on the
basis of their perceived inequality.





“For
now,” the third Deir snorted. “Rohyr will bore of him and he’ll
find himself out on the streets before he knows what’s happening.
If he has any wits at all, he’ll save every coin and trinket he
earns spreading his legs for the Ardan!”





Stung
by the utter crudeness of that last statement, Lassen turned to speak
up in his defense. There were some things that could not be borne.

“Do
you actually believe Rohyr pays for his leman’s services? You
betray your simple-minded provinciality, lackwits.”

The
trio emitted a collective gasp of indignation and whirled around to
rebuke whoever had addressed them so insultingly. Only to pale when
they came face to face with Dylen Essendri il
Teris. The words they’d thought to flay him with died on their lips
and they scrabbled to appease Rohyr’s half-brother. Dylen ignored
their fawning apologies.

“You
dare seek an audience with His Majesty yet demean one of whom he is
very fond,” he scornfully said. “Obviously you have not been
informed that the surest way to gain the Ardan’s sympathy is
through his leman’s good graces. I suggest you leave before word of
your shameful behavior reaches my brother. Unless you relish being
thrown into a cell for a sennight to reflect on your rudeness toward
Idana-dyhar.”

The
combination of contempt and threat plus Dylen’s use of the high
honorific with Lassen’s surname thoroughly impressed the error of
their thinking on the three. They hastily exited the yard, sidling
around Lassen with their heads bowed. Lassen flashed Dylen a grateful
smile. Dylen winked at him before he returned to the company of the
brethren Gilmael and Zykriel.

Lassen
liked Dylen. He always treated Lassen with utmost respect though he
was brother to the king. This was probably due in part to Dylen’s
humble beginnings. But Lassen believed that even had Dylen been born
into Rohyr’s circle from the start, he would still possess that
core of kindness and regard for others. He was also very sharp-witted
and observant and could be ruthless in the discharging of his duties
as Gilmael’s adjutant. Dylen was a valuable addition to Rohyr’s
group of trusted intimates.

He
was not the only one. Lassen spotted Riodan Leyhar as he came over to
have a word with Gilmael, his light bronze hair a bright contrast to
the twins and Dylen’s dark tresses. The young diplomat was being
groomed to succeed his ambassador sire.





Riodan
did not return Dylen’s cool greeting in kind but addressed him with
a deference that was puzzlingly humble. Lassen knew that Riodan and
Dylen had been acquainted with each other prior to becoming part of
Rohyr’s inner circle. But what drove Dylen to behave with such
aloof politeness toward Riodan he did not know nor had he attempted
to find out. All in good time, his Aba
Dael oft said. If the details of their common past were meant to be
shared with the others, it would happen. No one had any business
prying into theirs.





“Las!
Am I very late?”





Lassen
grinned as young Shino Essendri barrelled down the stone path that
linked the lower rear gallery and back gate to the barracks compound.
Black curls in charming disarray and hastily donned shirt all askew,
Shino was the picture of a youth long past the threshold of unruly
puberty but not quite on the verge of orderly adulthood. Orphaned

with
the death of his sire, one of Rohyr’s untitled Essendri uncles, he
became his royal cousin’s ward three years ago.

“Rather,”
Lassen dryly replied. “Didn’t you set your alarm, Shin?”





The
lad sighed and attempted to comb his tousled locks into some
semblance of order. “The confounded thing fell off the bedside
table and got smashed.”

“You
mean you knocked it off when it disturbed your sleep,” Lassen
corrected him with a smirk. When Shino sheepishly shuffled his feet,
Lassen relented and said, “Go. The others are still about.”





“And
Rohyr?”





“He’ll
be done soon but Tenryon won’t mind taking you on.” “Tenryon is
there?” Saying no more, Shino dashed off.

Lassen
shook his head. Tenryon Hadrana was the Herun of Ziana and Rohyr’s
mentor in the mind arts. The scions of the ruling House of the former
city-state were known for their prowess in the gifts of the mind;
equal to the Essendris it was said. Tenryon was a force to reckon
with. It was fortunate for the realm that he was not only Rohyr’s
ally but a close friend as well.

Shino
worshipped the very ground upon which Tenryon set foot. Rohyr alone
stood higher in his regard and that was only by a half-step at most.

Lassen
went on down the path and entered the Citadel proper. There would be
time enough for a bath before he saw to his morning duties. He was
especially looking forward to visiting the home for orphaned children
run by the monks of the Order of Saint Ambrion.





He
settled for a warm shower to save time. Afterward, he looked himself
over critically in the mirror. His hair he wore long as Rohyr had bid
him though he frequently tied or braided it into a queue. He was also
very fair of complexion. His skin simply refused to color further
than the faintest hint of a tan. But his relative paleness belied his
physical maturation.

Ten
years of rigorous exercise in the drill yard, riding across the Great
Field and hunting in the sprawling forest at the foot of Mount Sarak
had put their stamp on him. Though willowy of form, his body was hard
and sinewy, his slender limbs supple and strong. His face had changed
as well—his cheeks had lost all remnants of roundedness and were
now handsomely sculpted, as were his nose and jaw.

Contrary
to what those newcomers believed, Lassen had also undergone
considerable edification all these years. He had achieved his
parents’ desire that he finish his education and graduated with
scholastic distinction just a year and a half ago. That same year, he
also attained his majority and Rohyr had gifted him with the
white-silver earring that adorned his left ear.

He
touched a finger to it, recalling the general shock over the thought
that Rohyr deemed him worthy of the privilege to wear the precious
metal that was the exclusive province of sovereign rulers and their
immediate families. But Rohyr had always had a penchant for doing the
unlooked for. He had taken Lassen as his leman against expectations
and the protestations of a few. And he had then bestowed on him many
of the privileges and responsibilities that by tradition were enjoyed
or carried out by members of the royal family alone.





Lassen
quickly dressed and pulled on a sturdy cloak. But as he was about to
leave, Josel forestalled him.

“There
are two envoys from Tal Ereq here to see you, Dyhar.
I took the liberty of taking them to the blue chamber. Will you meet
them?”

“But
of course,” Lassen promptly replied. “‘Tis not often that I get
to speak with folk from home.”

The
blue chamber was so called because of its midnight blue carpet and
the cobalt-hued drapes that framed the windows. Lassen was surprised
when he saw who awaited him within. While it was not unusual for the
jewel smiths and craftspeople to come to the capital, the same could
not be said of the town Elders whose professional pursuits were in
fields that had naught to do with trade and travel. He wondered why
Mykal and Owyn had seen fit to journey all the way to Rikara.





“Dyhar,”
Mykal murmured as he and Owyn dipped their heads deferentially.





“Ah,
please don’t stand on ceremony with me,” Lassen protested. “You
are my sire’s closest friends and as kin to me. I’m glad to see
you after so long.”

They
smiled, pleased by the warm greeting. Lassen signed to them to take
their seats at the oval table in the center of the room.

“In
Adda’s
last letter, he wrote that all is well in Tal Ereq,” he said. “It
must be so if you were able to squeeze in enough time to travel so
far.”





Owyn
sighed. “If only our journeying were for pleasure. But in truth, we
came to beg an audience with the Ardan.”

“And
we hope you can help us gain it soonest,” Mykal added. “We were
very fortunate that Commander Henaz offered to bring us here by
translocation.”

Lassen
frowned. Trouble was a-brewing if something had engaged the sympathy
of Velarus’ constabulary commander enough to risk leaving his post
that he might hasten the Elders’ journey to the capital.





“What
has happened that you need to speak directly to His Majesty?” he
inquired. “And why didn’t Aba
or Adda
write me about it?”

“I
dare say they feared their message would fall into the wrong hands
and cause you much aggravation thereafter,” Mykal explained.
“Particularly if it should be Imcael Essendri’s hands.”

Lassen’s
belly did a flip-flop. “What has the Ardan’s uncle done?”





“He
has denied eastern Velarus passage through and around Anju. The move
has cut us off from the rest of Ylandre.”





An
oath nearly escaped Lassen. Bringing his indignation under control,
he visualized the political geography of southeastern Ylandre.

Eastern
Velarus was carved out of Cattania after the principality’s defeat
in its war with Ylandre. Narrow and bow-shaped, Anju was a minor fief
that had originally been located northeast of old Velarus, almost a
third of its border adjoining Cattania. But as that border was rife
with treacherous bogs and pools of quicksand, the Cattanians had
never attempted to cross into Ylandre through the fief.

With
the annexation of eastern Velarus, the western end of Anju came to be
sandwiched between the two territories, almost plowing into the
middle of the province where it curved southward. The main roads that
connected eastern Velarus to the rest of the province and Ylandre at
large either passed through the fief or skirted around it. Either
way, Anju’s Herun had the power to control those roads.

“Why
would he do such a thing?” Lassen wondered.





Mykal
shrugged. “Who knows what whims drive these nobles? It could be
spite for

having
had to succor us against his wishes all those years ago though ‘tis
a terribly long time to hold a grudge.”

“And
overly late to indulge it now,” Owyn added.





Lassen
frowned. “But how did he accomplish this? Anju isn’t his to
direct.” “But ‘tis his son’s to rule,” Owyn said. “Imcael’s
second consort Naral was the





brother
of Javan Kardova, the late Herun of Anju. The coronet has now passed
through Naral to his only son, Tyrde Kardova thar
Essendri.”





Lassen
swiftly mulled over the information. He knew Imcael had wed twice and
that both spouses had predeceased him. His first Heris, his herunic
consort, was a cousin of Essendri descent. His second consort hailed
from House Kardova. His first marriage begot two sons while the
second produced one.





The
eldest, Mahael, was soft-spoken and phlegmatic of disposition. He was
not as warm as Rohyr’s other cousins but neither was he as overtly
hostile as Imcael. Ronuin, on the other hand, was very affable but
quite dull. However, he was unequivocally loyal to Rohyr and for that
Lassen would forgive him any amount of tedium borne in his company.

He
was unfamiliar with the youngest son, Tyrde, save for talk around
court that, of all Imcael’s progeny, he was the least close to
Rohyr. Lassen wondered if it was because Tyrde had presumably spent
his growing years being groomed to be Anju’s Herun to the extent
that he did not even carry his sire’s surname but rather his
birthing father’s. The term thar
simply designated the High House Tyrde alone of the Kardovas belonged
to.





“Unless
it pertains to national security, Rohyr will grant no private
audiences this week,” Lassen informed them. “You’ll have to
address him in public and the rolls of petitioners are long. I’m
not certain if they’ll accept further names at this point and on
such short notice.”





The
Elders looked distressed. “The blockade has been in effect for nigh
four weeks now and already we keenly feel its bite,” Mykal said.
“Can’t you help us, Lassen? Surely His Majesty will listen to
you.”





Lassen
hesitated. He could do as they asked. But should word of his
intervention get out, and he had no doubt that it would, his
detractors would pounce at the chance to besmear his name.





Thus
far, Rohyr had ignored most of the rumors floated by his leman’s
naysayers because they tended to be patently false. But let there be
one grain of truth in any charge and he would be forced to examine it
at the very least. A few had arisen in the past decade and all had
had to do with the rare occasions when Lassen had acted on behalf of
his province and its peoples. For this reason did the Idanas inhibit
themselves from making any requests through Lassen lest they invited
accusations of nepotism as well. Throughout, Rohyr had maintained his
faith in him. Lassen did not wish to give him reason to regret that
trust.





Lassen
made his decision. Best to be open about his intentions that no
further motives be attached to them other than the simple desire to
assist his townsfolk and their neighbors. After all, it was common
knowledge that Rohyr had made Lassen the main proviso that had gained
Tal Ereq its protectorate status. Lassen’s critics might still find
fault but subterfuge would not be one of them.









Chapter
Ten









Rumblings





Lassen
made his way to the formal audience chamber. The fifth bell had
sounded and the day’s petitions were underway. He had considered
waiting until the next day but eventually decided to get the matter
over with soonest. There was no predicting Rohyr’s temper after
listening daily to a litany of complaints and requests from those of
his subjects fortunate enough to be included in the supplicant’s
list. The chances of catching him in a fair mood were greatest today,
when the more petty or unreasonable of the demands made on him had
not yet annoyed him past his normal equability.

He
had dressed with care, choosing a dress tunic of forest green cut in
the sedyran
fashion that would enable him to stand out among Rohyr’s enyr
dominated courtiers. Its short sleeves exposed the cream-hued shirt
beneath while the thigh-length hem, close-fitting breeches and soft
boots showed his sleekly muscled limbs and slender feet to advantage.
His hair he left loose save for the tiny plaits above his ears that
held his locks from his face. Lastly, he had donned a silken mantle
pinned over one shoulder with a simple gold brooch.





Lassen
paid the stares that followed him no mind as he walked up to the
chamber entrance. He looked for Mykal and Owyn amidst the waiting
throng and saw them standing towards the rear of the line. They were
not on the rolls and would not be permitted to enter the chamber
unless Lassen secured a place for them among the officially
acknowledged petitioners. He beckoned to them to approach the door
then quietly entered.





The
guards dipped their heads respectfully as he wordlessly slipped past
them to take a place alongside the courtiers standing nearest the
door. Sooner than he liked, those in proximity to him noticed his
presence. He gave no sign that he heard their curious mutterings but
simply waited. He did not wait long.





At
the far end of the room, Rohyr sat on the black wood throne of
Ylandre, the sceptre of Rikara loosely cradled in one arm. Flanked by
his cousin Keosqe on one side and his uncle Yovan on the other, he
patiently listened to an elderly petitioner.





From
his travel-stained raiment, Lassen knew the Deir hailed from afar—the
seaward fief of Glanthar or thereabouts if the fisherfolk’s basket
at his side was any indication. Sure enough, as soon as Rohyr
promised to address his complaint, the petitioner lifted the basket
and pulled aside the cloth that covered it to reveal an offering of
salted, dried blue eel from the Samaran Sea west of the North
Continent.

Many
wrinkled their noses as the pungent aroma of the delicacy wafted
across the chamber. But Rohyr did not allow even a flicker of
distaste to show. Instead, he briskly thanked the old petitioner for
his gift and bid one of the squires to take it to the kitchens
forthwith. Concealing what Lassen knew to be a grin with his hand, he
sat back to await the next supplicant.

In
the next instant, he straightened and looked about searchingly. His
gaze alighted on Lassen. Heeding the king’s command, Keosqe signed
to the attendants to hold the succeeding petitioners back awhile.
Rohyr lifted the sceptre and pointed it at his leman.

Lassen
approached the throne at a measured pace, ignoring the whispers that
accompanied his every stride. Coming before Rohyr, he bowed low
before him.

“Wherefore
the pleasure of your presence, Las-min?”
Rohyr softly inquired, the familiar form of his name Lassen’s
signal to straighten up.

“I
wish to request an audience with you, Dyhar,”
he replied. “For certain of my townmates who’ve come hotfoot to
plead for your aid.”

Rohyr
glanced at the chamber entrance. Mykal and Owyn stood just outside
the door, hopefully awaiting permission to enter. Rohyr looked at
Lassen once more.

“You
so rarely ask anything of me, I can only imagine what dire
circumstance has compelled you to appeal to me now. I will hear them
out.”

Lassen
beamed his thanks and stepped to one side as, at a gesture from
Keosqe, the Elders came forward.





Surprise
met their recounting of the blockade. Even Keosqe whose business it
was to keep abreast of such events had not anticipated it.

“There
was no indication of this whatsoever?” Rohyr questioned.

Keosqe
shook his head. “Had there been, either Gilmael or I would have
been apprised of it by now.”





“Then
it was a sudden move on their part,” Yovan surmised. “And they
counted on the distance and isolation of eastern Velarus coupled with
the dearth of translocation adepts in the region to keep news of it
from reaching us too soon. They did not foresee Vaeren sympathizing
with the Velarusians.”





“But
what in heyas
do they hope to gain by it?” Keosqe wondered.





Rohyr
frowned. “What indeed? Kes, have Tyrde explain his actions. Make it
clear that we require his answer within the day. I’ll contact Uncle
Imcael myself.” He looked at the Elders. “If Qimaras and Anju can
give me no good cause for it, I will have the blockade lifted
immediately.”





The
two glanced uncertainly at Lassen. His smile assured them that the
unspoken order for Imcael and his son to cease and desist was as good
as done, Rohyr’s diplomatic wording notwithstanding. Relieved, the
Elders thanked the king profusely. Following tradition, they also
tendered Rohyr a gift of appreciation—an exquisitely crafted brooch
depicting the four-rayed Star of Veres.

While
the Elders were ushered out of the chamber, Lassen also took leave of
the king that he might keep them company before they left the
capital.

I
expect to see more of you this eve, Las-min.





“Shall
I go to your rooms?” Lassen softly inquired. Rohyr murmured, “Nay,
await me in yours.”





*
* * *





Lassen
slipped out of the bed and went to the bathing chamber. He relieved
himself then washed away the milky rivulet that trickled down the
inside of his legs. The slight tenderness between his thighs and a
mild twinge in his rear told of a night of indulgence.





Rohyr
had been insatiable. Lassen perforce pleaded rawness and offered him
his arse instead. Whereupon Rohyr took him twice more before he was
finally relieved of the surfeit of tension that had manifested itself
in his sexual voraciousness. Rohyr had meant it when he said long ago
that Lassen would be his haven from the problems and pressures of
rulership.

He
revealed one of those vexations just before slumber took them.





“Tyrde
was flexing his muscles and Imcael didn’t see fit to discourage him
from doing so,” he said as they rested after their last torrid
bout.

Lassen
lifted his head from Rohyr’s shoulder and peered at him. “You’ve
communicated with Imcael?”

Rohyr
nodded. “Of course, he couched the admission in fair words,
claiming Tyrde was only reminding the Velarusians that Anju isn’t
to be trifled with. Why they thought your people needed reminding, he
declined to explain. And Tyrde was swift enough with his apology as
well. Keosqe’s emissary waited only for the length of time it took
for Tyrde to compose his reply before returning here.” He sighed in
exasperation. “If they wanted attention, they certainly got it,
though Veres knows there are less offensive ways of going about it.
Neither Imcael nor Tyrde could believe that I would countenance such
a course of action once word of it reached me.”





“But
if they knew you wouldn’t condone it, why did they proceed?”
Lassen pursed his lips. “A test?”

Rohyr
smiled humorlessly. “Of the limits of my tolerance now that Tyrde
is come to his title. Imcael and his sons are my closest kin who
stand in line to the throne. Yet I feel no great affinity with any of
them as I do with the others, or even Tenryon or Riodan. I should
love my sire’s only brother and his family best, but I don’t. Or
more to the point, I can’t.”

“You’ve
shared so much more with the others,” Lassen murmured. “And they
love you for yourself, not because you wear the crown.”

“True.
Imcael resents it to this day that it is I who wears it and not he.”





“Have
you ever worried that he would…” Lassen hesitated then pressed
on. “That he would try to wrest it from you?”

Rohyr
shook his head. “He resents me but he does not hate me so much that
he would attempt to depose me. He’s still my uncle and did love my
aba
well. And for all his ambition, he is loyal to me.”





Lassen
did not question Rohyr about the means by which he had ascertained
his uncle’s fidelity. He suspected though that Rohyr had made good
use of his prodigious talents.





All
True Bloods possessed the latent power to wield the mind gifts though
the degree of strength varied. However, not all knew how to tap that
power to the fullest or learned to use it competently. Even among the
Essendris the level of skill differed and not all scions of the Royal
House were taught how to harness their power proficiently.
Surprisingly, Imcael was not as adroit as one would expect of a
prince who had once been thought to succeed his then childless
brother. Lassen wondered whether it was simply due to a lack of
proper training or if the Herun had been unfortunate enough not to
inherit the Essendri potential in full.

“What
of his sons?”





“There
is nothing to fear from Mahael or Ronuin. But Tyrde is an unknown
quantity,” Rohyr admitted. “He’s only a few years older than
you and the last time he came to court was before your arrival. I
haven’t seen or spoken with him since.”





Returning
to the bed, Lassen looked down at his sleeping lover. He gazed upon
his features, so comely even in repose, before his eyes travelled
down the length of his splendid body. He knew every inch of that
body. Just as Rohyr knew his. There was not a

part
of him the king had not uncovered, plumbed and owned over the course
of their liaison. And still, each time he bedded Lassen, it was with
the same driving lust as when he had plucked his virginity or
divested him of the last of his innocence when he reached his
thirtieth year.

Lassen
abruptly turned away, the mere recollection of that night enough to
unsettle him. His memories of the dinner in his honor were hazy,
distracted as he was by the way Rohyr had eyed him throughout the
meal. He could not clearly recall the jests that had peppered the
dinner conversation or the sympathetic glances Rohyr’s cousins cast
his way as the evening progressed and Rohyr’s forbearance wore
thin. But Lassen would always remember the moment when, instead of
more wine, Josel served him a narrow crystal flute filled with a
clear, cerulean-hued liquid.





Mirash.
Ingested after a meal, it inhibited the viability of the womb by
causing its
lining
or seedbed to reject infiltration by semen. Lassen had not thought he
could blush as deeply as he had upon laying eyes for the first time
on the potent conception suppressor.

The
others had considerately turned their attention elsewhere while he
slowly downed the liquid. Its flavor was akin to sweet wine but with
a mild astringent aftertaste that was a reminder of mirash’s
medicinal purpose. Needless to say, by the time dinner ended, Lassen
was so high-strung he could barely utter coherent goodnights to the
others.





His
bedding that eve had been markedly different from the first time he
lay with Rohyr.

His
lover often turned him when they coupled to heighten Lassen’s
sensitivity and pleasure. But this time, with genital penetration at
hand, Rohyr had lengthened their foreplay to ensure Lassen would
receive him with a minimum of discomfort. The prolonged stimulation
left the youth in such a state of anticipation and need that, when
Rohyr finally entered him, Lassen no longer gave much thought to the
sharp sting that came with the tearing of the vestigial membrane
within his seed channel, so focused was he on the throbbing emptiness
inside him that begged to be filled. So happy had he been to
completely belong to Rohyr that he’d shamelessly reached down
between them to ascertain for himself that they were at last joined
in reproductive intercourse. It had thrilled him to the core to feel
Rohyr’s shaft move beneath his fingers as it slid in and out of his
sheath.





Lassen
snatched up his robe and pulled it on as he walked to the balcony.
The night air slightly cooled his heated cheeks and he let out a
shuddery exhalation. The memories were too stirring for comfort. He
squeezed his thighs together, cursing under his breath.

Despite
the mild soreness therein, his body yearned to be pierced once more.





There
was no helping it. He was hopelessly addicted to the joy of Rohyr’s
possession of him.





He
blunted the sharp pang of wanting by turning his thoughts back to the
problem of Imcael and his youngest son. Lassen worried that their
actions were only the beginning of something else. He could not shake
the sense of foreboding that Imcael was hatching some scheme that
would have a profound impact not only on his nephew but also on his
nephew’s leman. He had no grounds to explain why he felt so, he
simply did.

Lassen.





He
looked back. Rohyr was awake and watching him.

Come
back to bed.

The
summons was enough to make Lassen forget his anxieties for the
moment. He

returned
to Rohyr’s side and slid into his embrace. Rohyr rolled him beneath
him and sealed their lips together.

In
truth, the Ardan was just as much a refuge to his leman. There was no
room for thoughts or feelings other than rapture when Lassen lay in
Rohyr’s arms. The world and all its problems receded before the
relentless tide of his passion.









Chapter
Eleven









Bargain





Torrents
of water lashed at the windowpanes with the fervor of end of summer
storms. The second wet season of a northern Aiseni year had begun and
would hold sway for the next month or so until the cool dry weather
of autumn supplanted the rains.





Lassen
checked the window latches. A strong gust of wind could wrench an
insufficiently secured window open and smash it against the keep
walls. He stared out at the greyed vista to see if the Azira was
swollen enough to cause concern.





The
great river that wound its way through the very heart of the capital
did not overflow its banks as a rule, even after near endless
downpours such as they had experienced in the past few days. But on
the rare occasions it did, flooding in the low-lying districts
occurred.

“Has
it risen overmuch?”

Lassen
turned around. “The waters are still safely below the banks.”





Rohyr
sat in his great chair before the hearth. The table beside it held
two mugs of mulled wine, an empty glass and a stack of
correspondence. The Ardan was engaged in reading a letter. Or trying
to, judging from the frown that marred his brow. Sure enough, he
suddenly huffed and crumpled the missive in his hand.





“Is
it too much to ask that one learns to write legibly if he refuses to
let a scribe do it for him?” he acidly commented, glaring at the
offending document.

Cool
fingers alighted on the sides of his forehead from behind and rubbed
them. He sighed after a while and, reaching for Lassen’s wrist,
pulled him to come around and sit on his lap. Lassen obligingly
straddled him.





“Is
it important?” he asked.





The
letter was from the steward of one of the numerous royal holds
scattered throughout Ylandre. Rohyr made it his business to know how
his estates were faring and oft made sudden visits when he had time
to spare or demanded regular reports when he did not.





“Who
knows?” Rohyr irritably replied. “If there is aught in it that
needs tending to, it’s lost in a swamp of atrocious scribbling.”
He tossed the letter onto the table. “Remind me to have Gilmael or
one of his people decipher the confounded thing. They may be able to
make some sense of it. They are used to the gibberish of encrypted
messages after all,”

Lassen
chuckled. He ran his hands through Rohyr’s hair, letting the dark
strands slide between his fingers. A moment later, he caught a
shuddery breath when Rohyr nuzzled his throat before trailing kisses
along its length. Rohyr’s hand crept under the hem of his shirt to
fondle the wakening bulge in his crotch.

“You
have a number of letters to read,” Lassen moaned.

“They
can wait,” Rohyr roughly murmured. Lassen’s legs securely wrapped
around his waist, he rose to his feet and bore his leman to the bed.

The
rain continued to clamor for entry into the cozy confines of the
chamber. It clamored unheeded as the couple made good use of a rare
afternoon of leisure. Lassen

watched
Rohyr move above him, mesmerized by the strength and beauty of this
Deir who owned him so wholly. Ten years onward and the experience of
taking Rohyr inside him never palled; never lost the thrill he had
known when they first joined their bodies.





He
clung to Rohyr as the Ardan repeatedly speared him; inwardly stroking
the sensitive walls of his seed channel that wrought so much pleasure
the frictional contact was enough to bring him to completion. Lassen
enjoyed coupling with Rohyr not only for the physical enjoyment of it
but also because of the exquisite closeness he felt to the king
whenever he took him into his body. In these moments, he could
believe that he was more than Rohyr’s lover. He could pretend that
he was his love as well.





Lassen
gasped helplessly as his climax overtook him. He clutched at Rohyr
while his body quivered in the throes of his release, his sheath
spasmodically gripping Rohyr’s embedded shaft. Already swept up in
the storm of his own completion, Rohyr groaningly swore as his
pleasure heightened further. Lassen softly laughed in between shaky
intakes of breath.

It
was always a pleasure to see Rohyr so caught in rapture’s thrall
that he was reduced to uttering imprecations over his loss of
control. In the fulfillment of his avowed role in Rohyr’s life,
Lassen found contentment and deepest joy. If he had a regret, it was
embodied in the emptied glass beside their mugs of mulled wine.





Lassen
savored the rush of warmth within him that made its way to his belly.
He bit his lip as it dissipated soon after reaching the vicinity of
his womb. Had he not earlier consumed mirash,
the warm sensation might not have faded but flared instead into a
spreading heat that would have signified the infiltration of his
seedbed by Rohyr’s ejaculate. He knew the familiar pang of sadness
when the warmth petered out.

Not
that it was advisable for him to get with child while he was still
below breeding age. Though his seedbed had probably reached its
fertile stage, it did not mean his womb was developed enough to house
a child. It was highly unlikely he could carry one to term and
miscarrying was no thing to take lightly. It could cost a young
bearer his life for Deira below reproductive maturity tended to bleed
overmuch in the wake of losing a babe.





But
even were he of breeding age, Lassen doubted he would ever have a son
by Rohyr. The king had said that he would not balk at siring children
on his leman once he had done his duty of begetting heirs on his
official spouse. However, he had never promised Lassen that he would
indeed get him with child. After all, there were the sensibilities of
his future Ardis to consider.

Rohyr’s
consort would likely endure Lassen’s continued presence. It was not
uncommon for Deira to keep their lemans even after wedlock,
particularly in arranged unions, which were more the rule than the
exception among the aristocracy. Nobles who openly resided with their
concubines rather than their lawful spouses were not unusual. But
bastard children were another matter entirely. Not all bluebloods
countenanced the siring of potential rivals to their own progeny.
Among the highest born nobles, it was more expedient to simply
disallow the begetting of children outside of the legally recognized
union.





Lassen
stifled a sigh as Rohyr pulled out of him, careful to conceal the
pang of loneliness he experienced each time they parted their bodies
after making love. He could not bring himself to confess his feelings
to Rohyr. His pity would only add to Lassen’s sorrow over loving
one who could never truly be his.

*
* * *





The
heavy rains did not hinder Imcael Essendri. He rode straight to the
Citadel as soon as he arrived in the city. When he dismounted in the
bailey, the grooms led his sopping wet steed away to be rubbed down
in the stables while the retainers took his dripping oilskin cloak
and replaced it with a warm mantle then plied him with hot spiced
wine. To his escort of four, they offered strong ale and a warming
spell before the great hearth in the servants’ hall. Throughout,
though all were curious as to why Rohyr’s uncle would brave such
foul weather, none dared mention it lest they received a tongue
lashing from the fief-lord. Imcael was always afforded the respect
due his station but the people did not love him.





If
Rohyr was surprised by Imcael’s unexpected arrival, he did not show
it when he received him in his study. Nor did he display annoyance
when the Herun demanded an audience with him as soon as possible.
Rohyr simply could not dispense with his sense of obligation to his
uncle.





Dylen
was not as constrained, however, and inquired about Imcael’s haste
and presumption, as Rohyr might were he not a monarch faced with a
relative he loved but whose company he preferred to do without. Dylen
was impeccably tactful as expected of one whose former trade
necessitated judicious language. But Imcael had never been known to
tolerate so much as a smidgen of an affront. Consequently, he was in
a huff when he retired to his rooms to change into dry clothes,
leaving his nephews to discuss his advent. Neither missed his failure
to answer the question Dylen put to him.





“What
is so important that it couldn’t wait for fairer weather?” Dylen
remarked. Rohyr sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Uncle Imcael
thinks the world revolves around him. Anything that troubles him he
deems necessary to bring to my attention forthwith.” He rose to his
feet reluctantly. “Just this morn, I felt sorry for you. Now I





envy
you and wish I were the one leaving for Vireshe.”





Dylen
snorted. “You think travelling in a storm preferable to meeting
with him?” “Anything is preferable to meeting with him!” Rohyr
exclaimed. “And it’s not as if





you’ll
be in the rain the whole length of your journey.”





Dylen
grinned. While his mental powers did not match Rohyr’s in breadth
or strength, he possessed the Essendri potential and could generate
translocation portals, the best-known hallmark of gifted True Bloods.
He risked a real drenching only in the time before he entered the
corridor and after he exited it. That is, if it was pouring as
heavily in Vireshe as it was in the capital.

He
drew on his cloak and made to leave. But before he opened the door,
he turned and looked at his brother, his brow creasing into a frown.

“Take
care, Roh,” he said. “Don’t let him badger you into a course of
action you might regret.”

Rohyr
stared at him. “Do you suspect something in the offing?”





Dylen
shook his head. “It’s only a feeling I have. That blockade of
Velarus last month? There has to have been more to it than mere
conceit.” He exhaled. “I suppose my unease stems in part from my
dislike of him. I can never forget how he opposed your taking me into
the family fold or the way he looks down on my adda
to this day.”





Rohyr’s
lips tightened. But he could not blame Dylen.





Begotten
on a Rikaran hethar
by the late royal consort Dyrael on the eve of his binding to his
king-cousin Keldon, Dylen’s standing in court rested entirely on
his

immediate
kinship to Rohyr. Imcael had been horrified to learn of an Essendri
by-blow who was sprung of a member of that elite fraternity whose
company and sexual favors could be had for the highest of prices.
Even worse, Dylen had practiced the profession himself for years
before Rohyr discovered his existence and formally recognized him as
his brother. Imcael had been vocal with his dismay, retreating only
when Dylen fought back and eventually giving grudging respect to his
law-brother’s proud bastard.





“I
fear his ambitions not for himself, but for his children,” Dylen
said. “There are things he may do for them that he’d never think
of doing for his own sake. Whatever the cause, I don’t trust him in
this and neither should you.”





Rohyr
grimaced. He never discounted Dylen’s opinions about anyone; his
brother was a good judge of character. But he had also always trusted
Imcael implicitly no matter how much the Herun irked him.

“I
shall keep your counsel in mind.”





Dylen
regarded him sympathetically. “I know you believe him incapable of
treachery and likely you are correct. But it’s a weakness that can
be exploited and you must guard against that. It’s not as if our
family has not known betrayal by its own flesh and blood.”

“That
is ancient history,” Rohyr said a little sharply





“And
history can repeat itself,” Dylen quietly reminded him. He walked
back to Rohyr and gripped his shoulder, his terre verte eyes somber.
“I may hold no love for Imcael but I would never be unjust about
him. Surely you know this, Ardan-tyar.”

Rohyr’s
budding anger swiftly dissipated. When he first came to court, Dylen
had addressed him with strictest propriety. Only after a year had
Dylen finally felt at ease enough to call him by name. It took two
more years to convince him to drop the titles and honorifics
altogether. A reversion to formality was indicative of Dylen’s not
quite vanquished uncertainty of the permanence of his place in House
Essendri or in Rohyr’s affections.





“I
do know it, Dy,” Rohyr replied. He clapped his hand over his
brother’s and squeezed it. “Rest assured, I will proceed with
caution.”

Made
uneasy by Dylen’s concern, Rohyr checked who of his coterie were
currently in town and asked them to attend his meeting with Imcael.
The Herun was taken aback to find him accompanied by Yovan, Gilmael
and Riodan Leyhar. Nonetheless, he did not demand that they leave but
stated the reason for his visit in his typical blunt manner.





The
others were patently nonplussed. Even Rohyr stared at him in open
disbelief. It was Yovan however who responded first.

“How
can you even consider binding Tyrde to Lyam of Cattania?” he said
with scathing acerbity. “Would you have him beget heirs for the
Dimaris? That is tantamount to handing Anju over to them on a gold
platter.”

“Lyam
is not the heir presumptive,” Imcael objected.





“But
his sire is, Your Grace,” Riodan pointed out. “Moreover, Hanon
Dimari stands as Regent and governs in his nephew’s name. There is
no surety that young Aranel will survive to his majority and take on
Cattania’s rule. Regicide isn’t unheard of in their history after
all. And in any case, a union with a Cattanian prince would ensure
that a Dimari will one day rule Anju.”

“So
it would,” Imcael readily agreed. “But he would still be beholden
to the Ylandrin Crown.”

“For
how long?” Yovan challenged. “Anju shares her easternmost bounds
with

Cattania
and has direct control of the main thoroughfares of eastern Velarus.
What if a Dimari Herun should decide to ally himself with his
Cattanian kin? He could easily permit the inflow of enemy forces into
Ylandre before we could learn of it soon enough to effectively repel
such an incursion.”

Rohyr
looked askance at Imcael. “I trust that isn’t what Tyrde had in
mind when he blockaded eastern Velarus last month.”

Imcael
scoffed. “Tyrde is no fool. He knows he would be charged with
treason.” “But a Dimari lord may not feel so constrained,”
Gilmael reasoned. “He would have





Cattania
to retreat to.”

“You’re
already assuming what Tyrde’s heirs might do!” Imcael growled.

“It’s
our duty to assume the worst, Uncle,” Gilmael reminded him. “And
even if the worst does not happen, kinship with the Anjuin Herun will
in all likelihood embolden the Dimaris to exert influence on him and
through him on eastern Velarus.”





“A
flimsy excuse—”





“Which
they would not be above using to foster dissent in the southeast,”
Yovan interjected. “Cozening its folk with promises of prosperity,
more say in the governance of the land and greater attention to their
needs which, admittedly, the Ylandrin Crown can’t match given the
present political dispensation. Lest you have forgotten, Imcael, that
was how they gained a foothold in Velarus before.”

“Keep
in mind, too, that we’ve kept the peace in the region for ten years
now,” Gilmael continued. “Even a century hence, the greater
number of Velarusians won’t remember the Cattanians’ brutality
and rapaciousness and might consider a nearby Dimari overlord
preferable to a distant Essendri ruler. I wouldn’t put it past the
Cattanians to invade Velarus once again on the pretext of liberating
its citizenry.”

“While
the Varadani separatists continue to produce Ferrenda pretenders and
stir up unrest in Tenerith,” Riodan commented. “Ylandre would be
beset by strife on two fronts.”

Gilmael
dipped his head in affirmation. “Exactly.”





Imcael
shrugged dismissively. “Be that as it may, I came only to inform
Rohyr of the proposal, not to ask him to grant Tyrde permission to
accept it.”

Riodan
gaped, his diplomat’s poise overtaken by sheer incredulity. “You
would still proceed?” he blurted. “Even if His Majesty can’t
possibly approve this course of action?”





Imcael
raised his chin defiantly. “I carry the blood royal, as do my sons.
We have the right to wed whomever we please.”

“And
thereby invite treason into the very heart of our House.”

“How
dare you accuse me of treacherous intentions, Yovan,” Imcael
snapped. “Fie on you to even think it when I’ve held my hand all
these years though I stand so close to the throne!”





“Not
you, Imcael, or your sons,” Yovan retorted. “But you can’t
guarantee that Tyrde’s children or theirs will remain as loyal to
the Crown as you are.”

“And
can any of us here claim that?” Imcael countered. “No one of us
can foretell the future and say with any assurance that all will be
well if we follow this course or another!” He clenched his hands
angrily on the table. “I have only ever wanted what is due my sons.
Verily, I shouldn’t have allowed Mahael and Ronuin to wed outside
of our House to Deira of lesser blood.”

Gilmael
shook his head. “Uncle, their mates hail from families of
unimpeachable

bloodlines.”





“But
they are princes of this realm and should have wed those of like
royal heritage,” Imcael shot back. “I should have insisted on
Essendri kin. As it is, the purity of our House has already been
seriously compromised by ill-advised unions.”





While
Gilmael and Riodan uncomfortably lowered their eyes, Yovan glowered
at Imcael in indignation over the unsubtle jab at his family. Imcael
had never made secret his opinion of the binding of Yovan’s father
to an untitled Deir of the lower aristocracy and taking his surname
to boot. He had also deplored Yovan’s marriage to one of the heirs
of Clan Cordona. Wealthier than some entire cities the family might
be with their extensive network of banks and financial institutions,
but they were still commoners whose antecedents had started out with
a money-lending stall in the commercial district of Rikara. In
Imcael’s opinion, they had no business infusing the loftiest House
in Ylandre with their plebeian blood.





Thank
Veres his brother was not present, Rohyr thought. Dylen would have
been terribly offended by the indirect slur to his gentle father.
Shunting aside his irritation, he returned his attention to the
problem at hand.





Long
centuries past, House Kardova ruled Anju, a sovereign duchy before it
was absorbed by Ylandre. The Kardovas had kept their ancient laws of
succession and governance save where they came into direct conflict
with royal legislation. This set the fief apart from the others in
that the Anjuin Herun had greater latitude than his peers in the
manner of his rule. That and the fact that no member of their House
ever took a spouse’s surname. Not even if that surname be Essendri.





Because
of Anju’s small size and relative unimportance in the regular
affairs of Ylandre, Rohyr’s forebears had seldom interfered in the
Kardovas’ rule of the fief or compelled them to break with their
traditions. But now Anju had suddenly risen in significance thanks to
the confluence of the Cattanian regent’s desire to regain territory
and Imcael’s ambitions for his remaining unwed son.

“You
didn’t travel here just to inform me of Tyrde’s marital
prospects,” Rohyr said. “Else you would have simply wed him to
Lyam and related the details to me afterward.”

Imcael
nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t come here to gossip but to
negotiate for a better situation for my son.”

“What
is there to negotiate?”





“I’m
not eager for a Cattanian marriage either. Their continued aggression
against Ylandre does not sit well with me anymore than it does with
you. But even you have to admit that a binding between one of our
princes and theirs will go a long way to securing some peace at our
eastern border.”





“Or
open the door to more incursions in the future,” Yovan sniped.





Imcael
glared at him. “We’ve already discussed that, Yovan. Have the
courtesy to let me offer Rohyr an alternative.”

Rohyr
heaved an impatient sigh. “Speak plainly, Uncle. What alternative?”
Imcael folded his arms defensively. “Only this. That whilst I am
pleased to have





Tyrde
marry a fellow prince, I would much prefer that he be from House
Essendri. Your sire wed a cousin after all.”

The
reference to his parents’ marriage shocked Rohyr into brief
speechlessness. Forcing down his anger, he stared hard at Imcael.

“My
sire loved my father,” he retorted. “He wouldn’t have wed him
otherwise.”

“I’m
not suggesting that Keldon didn’t love Dyrael,” Imcael clarified.
“But Dyrael also being the son of our Aba
Joren’s brother Raval contributed to the attraction. Else why think
you did Keldon bide his time while Dyrael matured further when there
were others of our House who were already of age and would have done
just as well? Mayhap even better considering their greater years.”





A
dangerous gleam lit Rohyr’s eyes. “Are you implying Adda
did not discharge his duties satisfactorily?”





“Nay,
only that he had to learn so much that others of our cousins already
knew. But that is neither here nor there. My point is Keldon chose to
wait for a child to grow up because he believed in keeping our
bloodline as pure and noble as possible. And we all know that the
surest way to achieve this is to kin-bind or wed with those of equal
nobility to ours. You would serve Ylandre best by following your
sire’s example.”

“Not
to mention your family’s interests, eh, Imcael?” Yovan snidely
commented. While Imcael glared daggers at Yovan, mild-mannered Yovan
looked ready to do

Imcael
bodily harm. Rohyr moved to preempt a bout of fisticuffs.





“What
you’re saying in essence is that you will accept Cattania’s
proposition if I decline yours,” he grimly stated.





“That
is the toll of it,” Imcael haughtily agreed. “Think on it,
Nephew, and be quick about it. Yea or nay, I’ll have your answer
forthwith.”

Rohyr
stared at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. Imcael
stared back with ill-concealed belligerence. Rohyr tightly gripped
the armrests of his chair. Remembrance of Dylen’s warning
exacerbated his sense of betrayal. Never had he thought that Imcael
would willfully disregard their familial bond for the sake of
personal aggrandizement. It was extortion, pure and simple, and no
less injurious than overt treachery.





He
fought down the urge to throttle his uncle. He was Ylandre’s sworn
protector and that entailed keeping the realm free from foreign
encroachment. Whether he could stomach Imcael’s methods was beside
the point. And he could not deny that Imcael’s proposal was more
politically palatable than Cattania’s. He willed his revulsion at
the prospect of mating with a virtual stranger to subside to
tolerable resignation to the demands of duty.





“Very
well, Uncle, I accept your proposal,” he bitterly acceded to the
dismay of the others. “But it will cost you,” he snapped when
Imcael smiled with nauseating smugness.





The
Herun’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”





Rohyr
took little comfort in his uncle’s discomfiture. “First of all,
Tyrde and I will bind by handfasting; there will be no fane rites.”
Overriding Imcael’s indignant protests, he swept on. “Tyrde had
best expect nothing more of me than what is legally and officially
due him. Our relations will be restricted to the getting of heirs.”





Imcael
scowled. “That is unseemly!” “And coercion isn’t?”

“This
isn’t coercion—”





“Pardon
me, Uncle, but I fail to see how it can be deemed otherwise,” Rohyr
brusquely interrupted. “Furthermore, you shall inform Tyrde that,
once we wed, he will take the name Essendri, as will any and all
children I sire on him. I won’t permit a child of mine to bear a
different name or take another upon espousal. Henceforth, it will be
Essendris who rule Anju, not Kardovas. Do I make myself clear?”

The
corners of Imcael’s mouth twitched upward before he appeared to
force them down. Rohyr frowned. Had Imcael almost smiled? Without
warning, the latter’s mental shields slammed down.





The
king curiously regarded his uncle. Why did Imcael suddenly guard his
thoughts? Had he misconstrued Rohyr’s reaction for a mind-probe?
That was absurd since Rohyr did not make it a practice to intrude on
the innermost thoughts of his kinsfolk or friends. For Imcael to
hurriedly shut him out meant that he was concealing something.





It
was tempting to break through those shields and find out what Imcael
was hiding. But that was the way of despots and Rohyr refused to set
foot on so treacherous a road. Once one made it a habit to attain
one’s desires by dint of the extraordinary gifts of which one was
guardian, it was extremely difficult to break the habit and return to
being less than godlike.

That
sense of entitlement doomed the Ferrendas more than twelve centuries
ago and had much to do with the Dimaris’ ill-fated Velarusian
venture some four hundred years back. Now all that remained of the
former was a cadet line of little consequence while the latter could
only wage futile campaigns to regain lost territory and prestige.





Rohyr
did not care to follow their examples. He would have to discover what
Imcael held back some other way.

“You
have no objections thus far?”





Imcael
rolled his eyes. “Are there any more of these stipulations?” he
growled. “Yes, one last. As soon as we are wed, you will retire to
Qimaras and show yourself





no
more at court unless it is at my express behest.”





There
was a concerted gasp at his pronouncement. Imcael goggled at him, all
traces of arrogance evaporating.

“You
can’t banish me from court!” he protested.

“I
just did,” Rohyr caustically replied. “Since I came to my throne,
I’ve put up with your demands and atrocious behavior toward even
those undeserving of it. I refuse to continue bearing with you on top
of wedding one of your brood!”





He
ignored Imcael’s stricken expression, the first he had seen on his
uncle’s face since Keldon’s funeral fifteen years past.

“I
don’t love you less, Uncle,” Rohyr quietly stated. “But it’s
time you realize that you can’t forever force your whims on me and
never pay a price for it.”





*
* * *





Lassen
said nothing for the longest while. He stared at his hands where they
rested atop his knees, tightly clasped to still their trembling. He
had always known it would come to this and done his best to steel
himself for it. To no avail.





After
several minutes more went by and he still did not speak, Rohyr
reached for his hands and took them between his own. Lassen looked
up, his eyes glistening.

“Will
you still have need of my services?” he whispered.





“More
than ever,” Rohyr replied. “Why else do you think did I stipulate
a handfasting?”

Why
else indeed? A handfasting was a purely temporal marriage, recognized
by the state alone. Absolute connubial fidelity was not required in
that the keeping of long-term lovers by either party was permitted
though promiscuity with different partners was not. By insisting on
one, Rohyr had ensured the continued acceptance of his liaison with

Lassen.
Nevertheless, the thought of Rohyr binding to another wounded Lassen
deeply. Rohyr pulled him onto his lap and tenderly cradled him.
Lassen pressed his face to





Rohyr’s
shoulder. A faint shudder passed through his body as he struggled
against his heartache.

“I’m
so sorry, Las-min,”
Rohyr murmured.

Lassen
nodded forlornly. Rohyr hugged him closer in empathetic sorrow,
feeling the waves of anguish and despair that rolled off his leman as
if they were his own.









Chapter
Twelve









Price





To
make amends for the bare bones simplicity of a handfasting rite, the
marriage of Ylandre’s king was celebrated with all due pomp during
the feast that followed in the great reception hall of the Citadel.





Jewel-hued
hangings and fragrant garlands of royal holly and mint blossoms
festooned the hall. The long tables were covered with costly damask
and set with gold and crystal ware. Minstrels sang and dancers swayed
to the lilting strains of gittern, flute and harpsichord while
liveried retainers passed around trays, bowls and flagons of the
finest food and drink the royal kitchens and cellars could produce.

Resentful
he might be of being forced him into an unwanted union but Rohyr did
not vent his rancor on his new consort. Whatever his sire’s
machinations, Tyrde did not deserve ill treatment. Nor would it serve
Rohyr to besmear his reputation for fair dealing.

He
and Imcael had forged an uneasy truce at best. Keeping it had tested
just about everybody’s forbearance.

The
king and his uncle discussed the handfasting date as if they were
negotiating a political alliance. Rohyr flatly refused Imcael’s
insistence on a winter wedding. They finally compromised on the
following midsummer. But the interim months had been far from
pleasant.





Rohyr
only half-heartedly participated in the preparations for what was
supposed to be a milestone in his life. Lacking information on what
he might desire for his nuptials, his staff resorted to gathering it
from the one source who most likely knew. Lassen cooperated to ensure
his lover’s binding would not be marred by embarrassing errors.
Imcael almost had conniptions when he found out.

Unwisely,
he threatened to end the betrothal he had forcibly brokered. An
acrimonious altercation erupted, the likes of which the keep’s
residents had not witnessed in recent memory. It necessitated
intervention to bring back the peace.





“You
have the delicacy of a drunken burhog run amok in a glassware stall!”
Yovan exasperatedly chided Imcael in the aftermath of the quarrel.
“Take heed, Imcael. Rohyr can be pushed only so far. Were you not
Keldon’s brother, you would have passed the bounds of his patience
long ago.”





“Which
would you prefer? A sleeping draught or a mind touch?” Eiren Sarvan
tartly inquired that night of a still fuming Rohyr. “And don’t
tell me it’s none of my business. It becomes my business when
Lassen is worried enough to send for me at this unholy hour and beg
for some way to sedate you.”





Cousin
to the Ardan and Rikara’s foremost physician, Eiren was said to be
the greatest healer in the entire country. Calm and reserved by
nature, he was not given to impassioned displays and his
uncharacteristic outburst quickly quelled Rohyr’s.





Imcael
seemed to realize the error of his actions for he apologized to
Rohyr. The apology was duly accepted but the tiff further widened the
rift between them. And with Imcael’s imminent banishment from
court, there was little chance of it being mended.





Hardly
had that tempest been settled when the prospective consort arrived on
the tail

end
of the spring monsoon. Rohyr welcomed his intended with due
hospitality and little more. But chastened perhaps by the king’s
simmering animosity, Imcael kept his opinions to himself for a
change. In any case, he could not complain about his son’s
accommodations or the utter correctness with which everyone comported
themselves.

If
it galled him that said correctness was born out of protocol rather
than true amicability toward Rohyr’s betrothed, he held his tongue.
After all, they did not know Tyrde. For now, all his son could
command was due deference to his office to be. Loyalty would come
later.





Rohyr’s
group of intimates was another cause for concern. Imcael’s sons
were not part of that group even if they were Rohyr’s closest blood
kin besides Dylen and Imcael himself. He observed their demeanor as
they welcomed Tyrde and his brothers. They were cordial and
courteous—and that was all.





There
was none of the intense and affectionate camaraderie characteristic
of those who formed Rohyr’s trusted circle. They would suffer or
die for each other if need be. And like it or not, Rohyr’s paramour
seemed to have earned that same regard. Not so his sons, Imcael
reluctantly admitted. The compunction was not there.





For
once, he rued his insularity about his children’s upbringing.
Mahael attended court regularly as was expected of the heir of a
major fief. Ronuin sometimes accompanied him while Tyrde had visited
on a number of occasions in his early years. But they had not lived
in Rikara for any length of time that would have enabled them to
forge close ties with Rohyr. Small wonder they were not part of his
coterie now.

Imcael
watched as Rohyr took his place beside Tyrde to lead the traditional
wedding jig. Watched and noted Rohyr’s less than high spirits. Oh,
he smiled, made nary a mistake and imbued each step with the proper
liveliness. But there was something lacking.





Afterward
the couple joined a quartet of cousins—Yovan’s sandy-haired son
Rysander, Ranael Mesare of the Royal Army and the brethren Aeldan and
Ashrian Mithani. That Tyrde scarcely knew any of the four and had
little in common with them became evident all too soon. He did not
long remain by Rohyr’s side but took his leave to sit with Ronuin
and his spouse instead.

Imcael
sighed. Tyrde had his work cut out for him. He wondered if his
youngest was up to the challenge.





It
was some time before Rohyr rejoined his consort. Not an offensively
long time but it was clear to astute observers that here was no love
match. Even Rohyr’s attire bore testament to his lack of enthusiasm
for the occasion. He was clad in the customary nuptial colors of
cream and gold but there was little of the resplendence expected of
the ruler of a great realm. Only the heavy collar of white-silver
links and square-cut adamants marked him as royalty. And in lieu of
his crown or even a ceremonial coronet, he wore a plain gold circlet.





But
the most telling sign of all was the way he periodically twisted the
wedding band of entwined gold and white-silver on the middle finger
of his right hand. Not in the manner of one unused to wearing a ring
on that finger but rather as if it were too tight and he wished he
could remove it.





After
a few minutes conversation with Tyrde, Rohyr scanned the hall until
he spotted Lassen. His leman was seated at one of the far tables.
Engaged in conversation with Eiren Sarvan and Reijir Arthanna’s
brother Keiran, he showed no sign of unease though he

must
have felt it at a feast celebrating his lover’s binding to another.





Conspicuous
by his absence or presence, Lassen had chosen to endure the latter.
Snubbing Rohyr’s nuptials would have sparked criticism however
unjust. Though it cost him, Lassen made a quiet appearance, dressing
appropriately but not so well lest he be accused of vying with Tyrde
for attention.





He
maintained a discreet distance from the royal couple. Rohyr could not
help a surge of pride at his impeccable behavior along with a pang of
regret that he should have to conduct himself thusly in the first
place. After ascertaining that all was well for the moment with
Lassen, he returned his attention to the Deir who was now his legal
spouse.





Last
he had seen his cousin was close to fourteen years ago, just before
Tyrde attained the age of consent. He was comely even then and
promised to gain in beauty as he further matured. Well, that promise
had been fulfilled.





Tyrde
was every inch a scion of the Royal House—tall, well-built and very
handsome. He shared some similarities with Rohyr but not enough to be
mistaken for his brother. For one, unlike north-bred Imcael, Tyrde’s
speech was of southeastern Ylandre. For another, his hair was a
bright golden auburn, a Kardova trait. Lastly, he did not have the
distinctive rimmed irises that were usually the mark of Essendris of
the direct line of descent. Then again, neither his sire nor siblings
possessed it though, surprisingly, Rohyr’s half-brother Dylen did.





Rohyr
stifled a sigh. It would be no chore to bed so fair a partner. But he
could not be happy doing so primarily for the purpose of begetting
heirs. If only he could feel more for Tyrde than token amiability and
casual desire.

He
shouldn’t have had to attend.





Rohyr
glanced up to meet Tenryon Hadrana’s indigo gaze. They easily
slipped into full mind speech, which only the most gifted adepts were
capable of lengthily sustaining.





To
not do so would have invited talk, he
silently replied.
And you’re not accustomed to talk?

I
am. But even after all this time, Lassen avoids it if he can.





And
so he has come to watch his lover marry another. It’s a high price
to pay for decorum’s sake.

He
is strong.





Strong
enough to stomach your connubial bedding?

Rohyr
suppressed a grimace. I
don’t know. I can only hope.

We
will stay by him when the moment comes,
Tenryon assured him.
But only you will be able to truly comfort him.

I’ll
need comforting myself. Rohyr
glanced up at his mentor. Tenryon met his brief,
imploring
gaze. I’ve
lain with many but never unwillingly. And I’d hoped that I would at
the
very least feel some affinity for the bearer of my children even if I
didn’t love him. This … arrangement … shrivels my very soul.





Tenryon
gripped his shoulder in comradely fashion but Rohyr knew it for what
it was when he felt the slight consoling squeeze. The Herun leaned
down to murmur into his ear.





“Take
heart, Roh-min,”
he said. “It’s too soon to say that this is the end. And even you
can’t scry what the morrow holds.”

He
met Rohyr’s curious frown with a small smile then straightened and
walked away. Rohyr watched him thoughtfully. After a while, he took
leave of Tyrde to mingle

once
more. His seat did not remain vacant for long. Imcael sat beside his
son, his eyes bright and his mouth turned up in rare cheer.

“I’m
so proud of you,” he said. “You were born to be Ardis of this
land.”





Tyrde
smiled back. “And I hope I continue to do you proud, Aba.
Especially when I give you grandsons.”

Some
of Imcael’s pleasure faded. He glanced to his side and quickly
espied the Deir who had shared his nephew’s bed for a decade now.
It would be no easy matter to supplant Lassen Idana in Rohyr’s
regard. The sedyr
had given no one cause to complain and, by all accounts, had served
Rohyr’s needs most fulsomely.





The
Herun sighed. Tyrde was beautiful and enticing by any standard but
even Imcael had to admit that Lassen possessed that indefinable
something that went beyond mere beauty and engaged more than simple
lust. It was not only Rohyr’s desire that Tyrde would need to wrest
from his leman but also his affection and respect.





His
eyes still on Lassen, he said, “I only regret that I couldn’t
secure his fidelity to you as well. Beware his paramour. He is a
formidable rival.”

Tyrde
followed his sire’s gaze. “He’s comely enough. But I am Rohyr’s
recognized mate and the designated bearer of his heirs. Surely ‘twill
not be so difficult to dislodge the Half Blood from my spouse’s
esteem eventually.”





Imcael
shook his head. “Don’t underestimate Rohyr’s regard for him.
I’ve spent the last ten years trying to get him to end their
lamentable affair. When Rohyr pursues a course, there’s no
gainsaying him. That tow-haired upstart has become almost a part of
our House; even taking upon himself some of the duties of one born to
the blood.”





“But
not the privileges I trust,” Tyrde murmured. “Surely, Rohyr
didn’t go so far.” “He didn’t,” Imcael grudgingly conceded.
“Well, save for that damnable earring.” Tyrde studied Lassen,
noting the gold earring set with diamond and heartsfire that hung
from his ear. In contrast, Tyrde flaunted the white-silver,
adamant-adorned earring





of
an Ardis in addition to his binding ring.





“He
isn’t wearing it now,” he remarked. “And he has attired himself
quite simply for a royal feast. Methinks he’s taken pains to avoid
upstaging me. Quite commendable.”

“Are
you defending him?” Imcael asked in surprise.

“Of
course not. I’m only pointing out that he’s apparently willing to
uphold the dictates of duty and protocol. Perhaps I may find
something there to work on.”

“Work
on?”





“To
convince him to leave royal service. Rohyr may prove difficult to
persuade, but what of his leman?”

Imcael
regarded him with some amazement. “Verily, I never considered that.
But I advise you to proceed with caution. He’s no credulous
halfwit. And you must be wary of Rohyr as well. Neither you nor I
could withstand a breaching of our shields were he resolved to know
our minds.”





“I
won’t give him cause to read my thoughts,” Tyrde assured him.
“Trust me, my lord. You will have a say in the rule of Ylandre even
if you don’t wear the crown.”





The
Herun frowned. “Have a care what you say, Tyr-min.
Rohyr’s intimates won’t hesitate to bring word to him of any
suggestion of treachery.”

“Treachery?
I merely implied that I would ensure you returned to your position of
eminence at court. Surely no one can fault me for desiring to recall
my sire from exile.”





Imcael
pursed his lips. “Still, tread softly. You have no allies at
court.”

“As
yet,” Tyrde agreed. “Rest assured, I shan’t waste time making
them.” His eyes wandered to Rohyr who was speaking with guests from
the Province of Fenycia. “Starting with my dear spouse. He’s even
more beautiful than I remember. Coupling with him will be no hardship
at all.”

Imcael
had to smile. “And you’ll not want for a skilled lover either if
the gossip I’ve heard is true.”

“I’ll
know for myself this very night,” Tyrde smirked. “And he’ll
learn the vast difference between a spouse and a mere leman,” he
added, pointing his chin in Lassen’s direction.





Seeing
the hard look in Tyrde’s eyes, Imcael suddenly felt a twinge of
sympathy for Lassen. Whence it stemmed, he did not know but it was
unusual for him to feel anything that remotely resembled compassion
for Rohyr’s lover. He regarded his son, then looked at Lassen
again, confused by the emotion, fleeting though it was.





Meanwhile,
the time for the consummation rite came too quickly for Rohyr. He
forced a smile as he rejoined Tyrde and took his hand to lead him out
of the hall to a spate of bawdy cheers led by Mahael and Ronuin. If
Tyrde noticed that his cousins were a tad more restrained, he did not
show it but beamingly followed Rohyr, displaying his elation at the
prospect of bodily union with his handsome spouse.

Just
before he left the hall, Rohyr looked for Lassen. He spotted him
standing a little behind Dylen and Tenryon, doing his best not to
watch Rohyr leave with Tyrde. Rohyr silently called to him but Lassen
would not meet his gaze. Or rather, could not. Eyes lowered, cheeks
pale and shoulders drooping, he was a picture of misery.





Feeling
as if he were committing a sin beyond redeeming, Rohyr walked out the
door, Tyrde’s hand fast upon his arm.





*
* * *





He
awakened at daybreak the following morn. It took him a moment to
recognize his surroundings. The last he had spent any length of time
in the Ardis’ suite was many years ago when his Adda
Dyrael still lived. Since Dyrael’s death from illness, Rohyr had
not reentered the apartment save once before Tyrde’s arrival and
that had only been to approve his staff’s refurbishments.





He
glanced to his side. Tyrde still slept soundly, his titian locks
tousled about his face. Rohyr sighed and sat up.





Last
night had been pleasant enough where his body was concerned. Tyrde
was no innocent. He had known what to do and how to do it and mutual
completion had been easy to attain. Now if only the pleasures of the
flesh were enough to fill the void inside.

Rohyr
took a deep calming breath then scowled. The scent that rose from his
skin was Tyrde’s mingled with his own.





He
slipped out of bed and pulled on a dressing robe. Leaving a brief
note on the writing desk explaining that he was accustomed to
starting his day early, he exited the bedchamber. He made his way out
of the apartment, sweeping past the handful of nobles gathered in the
sitting room to whom had fallen the duty of ascertaining that the
royal marriage had been consummated. Their greetings died away when
they espied his expression.





Halfway
down the corridor, Rohyr passed Lassen’s door. He slowed down and
looked at it. But before he could make a move, he saw Josel hurrying
toward him.

“Dyhar,
shall I have a bath drawn?” the elderly retainer inquired. When
Rohyr did not answer but continued to stare at the door, Josel softly
added, “He has already left for the day.”





Rohyr
jerked his eyes back to Josel. “Left?” he repeated incredulously.
“The first bell hasn’t even rung!”

Josel
averted his gaze. “Idana-tyar
mentioned something about attending to duties he had neglected during
the preparations for yesterday’s celebrations,” he murmured.

Rohyr
winced. “Did he say when he would return?”





Josel
shook his head. “But I gathered he would be back quite late, Dyhar.
He, ah, mentioned that he wouldn’t have his supper here.”

Silence
met his announcement. At length, Rohyr muttered, “I see.” He
looked at the door once more. “Inform me when he returns,” he
tonelessly instructed. “And, yes, please draw me a bath.”





Josel
solicitously ushered him to his apartment, wishing he could take
Rohyr into his arms and comfort him as he had when he was a child.





*
* * *





The
night was old when Lassen returned to the Citadel. He trudged his way
to the royal wing, his body as tired as his heart was sore.





He
had planned this many weeks back. Planned that he would spend the day
after Rohyr’s binding in incessant activity so that he would not
constantly think of his loss. He had visited as many charities in
this one day as would ordinarily require a sennight.





Walking
down the hallway to his quarters, he studiously avoided glancing back
at the door at the other end of it. The Ardis’ apartment was where
Rohyr would likely spend the night now and many more to follow until
Tyrde got with child.





Tyrde
Essendri tir
Kardova. Lassen swallowed hard. It did not lessen the hurt one whit
to know that Rohyr had wed Tyrde against his will. He dearly wished
there was some drug Eiren could prescribe that would ease the pain of
heartache.





He
entered his suite and headed straight for the bathing chamber. He
badly needed a warm bath to soothe his tired body and fraught nerves.
Filling the tub however would take too long and he opted for a brisk
shower instead, hoping there was enough hot water stored in the
Citadel reservoirs.





As
he bathed, he wondered if Tyrde would demand that he be moved to
another apartment in the keep. Lassen hoped not. This was his home,
his refuge. One he had oft shared with Rohyr over the years. Many
times had Rohyr foregone returning to his own suite for days on end,
save to dress for court, ignoring tradition in the process much to
the consternation of some.

After
all, the point of placing the royal couple’s apartments at opposite
ends of the wing was to ensure the security of the succession. When
the king wished to lie with his consort, he went to the latter’s
apartment for the night. But he did not linger there as a rule. For
in the event of calamity or war, the chances of both Ardan and Ardis
dying were far less if they maintained separate living quarters for
the most part. This was particularly important if the Ardis was with
child. The stricture had once applied to royal concubines as well
for, in the ancient days, it was not unheard of for a sovereign to
sire heirs on his leman either because he had no intention of
marrying or his legal consort was barren. A pity such a recourse was
no longer accepted in Ylandre, Lassen wistfully thought.

He
vexedly turned off the hot water tap and welcomed the sting of cold
that followed. It was foolish to nurse such fantasies. Best to resign
himself to the many lonely nights to come.





Shivering
afterward, he desolately dried himself. Strange how previously he had
never been lonely even when Rohyr was not with him. The mere
knowledge of his lover’s presence in the keep had been enough to
content him. Lassen pulled on a robe and stepped out of the chamber.
He stopped short.





Rohyr
stood by the bedside window, staring at the dark outside. But he
sensed Lassen as soon as the latter entered the room. For a long
moment, they gazed at each other. Lassen caught his breath at the
look in Rohyr’s eyes. And then Rohyr held out his hand.





Lassen
wordlessly went into his arms and was enfolded in a tight embrace. He
turned his face into Rohyr’s neck and breathed in his distinctive
scent. Rohyr buried his face in Lassen’s fair hair.





“I
sought you first thing this morn but you had already gone,” he
quietly said. “Forgive me,” Lassen murmured. “I didn’t think
you would have need of me so soon





and—”





Rohyr
cut him off with a swift kiss. “Hush, I know, I know.” He closed
his eyes and tilted his head so that their temples touched. “But I
did need you. By Veres, I didn’t think it possible to feel so alone
whilst sharing a bed with another.”





And
your body. Lassen
firmly pushed the thought away and took comfort in his
lover’s
words instead. That Rohyr should still want him after spending the
previous night with his consort was a balm to his aching heart. Tyrde
might be Rohyr’s legally acknowledged spouse but Lassen was his
freely chosen lover of many years standing.

“Come
to mine,” he whispered.

While
Rohyr undressed, Lassen poured himself a cup of mirash
and hurriedly downed it. They would need to prolong foreplay or
initially engage in anal intercourse to give the suppressor time to
take full effect. No matter. It was not the mere joining of their
bodies that Rohyr wanted but the exquisite intimacy born of the
entire experience from seduction to final consummation.

Lassen
shed his robe and joined his lover. Rohyr pulled him flush against
his body and virtually stole the very breath from Lassen with a spate
of kisses more scorching than the fire that crackled in the hearth.
Lassen hungrily clung to him.





Midnight
was long past when they finally succumbed to the pull of sleep, their
bodies spooned together and still joined for Rohyr had not seen fit
to withdraw from Lassen after their last bout. Lassen drowsily
listened to Rohyr’s breathing as it lengthened and deepened. He
inhaled the aroma of their mingled scents and found it as soothing as
it was intoxicating.

Just
before slumber overtook him, he smiled at the thought that he would
probably find it quite uncomfortable to sit for long the coming day.
But he counted the discomfort well worth it after having been so
thoroughly owned by his beloved. He suspected Tyrde had known only a
fraction of the passion Rohyr had lavished on Lassen all these years.
His smile widened when Rohyr drew him back even closer against his
tall frame, his shaft securely harbored within Lassen’s body.









Chapter
Thirteen









Discord





“How
long do you think before he shows his fangs?” “He’s already
begun.”

Ranael
Mesare frowned. Not that Tenryon Hadrana’s reply was unexpected.
But for Rohyr’s sake, he had nursed a faint hope that the Herun
held a different opinion from him.





The
two watched Ylandre’s Ardis as he walked about the gardens, a
gaggle of admirers in tow. Half hidden behind a blossom and foliage
covered trellis, they could observe Tyrde and freely make comment on
him.





“You
didn’t have to agree with me,” Ranael grumbled.





“And
thereby perjure myself?” Tenryon said, his soft northwestern burr
contrasting markedly with Ranael’s lower midlands drawl. He
followed Tyrde’s progress down the main garden path a while longer.
“What do you ken about him that led you to expect the worst?”





Ranael
stared. “How did you—?” He broke off and shook his head. “It’s
unseemly to steal a peek into another’s mind for no good reason.”





“I
did no such thing,” Tenryon demurred. “Your demeanor whenever you
are in his presence betrays you, Ran.” He gestured in Tyrde’s
direction. “You conceal your animosity toward him very well but I
can sense how you truly feel. And since it’s not your habit to make
foes of virtual strangers, it stands to reason that you have previous
knowledge that prevents you from making a friend of him now.”

The
tribune folded his arms and leaned against the sturdy trellis frame.
“I visited Vaeren at the Velarus constabulary base some years ago.
Javan Kardova was ailing and he sent for Tyrde. Vaeren and I paid a
courtesy call on Javan when we heard of his poor health and arrived
soon after Tyrde. He was pleasant and charming enough, I’ll give
him that. Yet I was uncomfortable with him. I didn’t feel our
kinship at all.”

“You
hadn’t seen him in many years,” Tenryon reminded him.





Ranael
snorted. “If that were so, explain why we accepted Shino so easily
when, last we saw him before he arrived, he was little more than a
child. Nay, it was not for want of recent contact that made me feel
uncomfortable with him. He lacked warmth and scarcely responded to my
efforts to reestablish familial relations between us. It was as if I
were witnessing a demonstration of proper manners, no more.”

Tenryon
frowned. “Perhaps he’s not as outgoing as we thought.” His
frown deepened when Tyrde’s merry laughter floated back to them.
“Curious,” he remarked.

“That
wasn’t all.” Ranael’s mouth tightened before he spoke again.
“He flirted with Vaeren our whole stay in Anju.”

“Ah,
reason indeed to dislike him,” Tenryon murmured.





Ranael
glared at him. “That’s not the point! Had he kept it to mere
flirtation, we could have stomached it. But he went so far as to
importune Vaeren the last evening of our visit. Was presumptuous
enough to accost him in his room when he knew full well that Vaeren
and I—” He broke off but his eyes flashed with ire. “He
suggested that it

wouldn’t
be wise for Vaeren to refuse him if he wished to rise in rank. Had I
not arrived, they might have come to blows.”

Tenryon
pursed his lips. “Did you tell Rohyr?”





“I
wanted to as soon as I learned of the betrothal. But I feared it
would prejudice him against Tyrde before they had a chance to better
know each other. Well, to heyas
with that! I should have talked to Rohyr before he wed that hornet in
silverwing’s guise.” Ranael ran his hand through his fair hair in
frustration. “But if I speak now, it may drive a wedge between them
when they should be forging a friendship at the very least.”

“Indeed.”





“And
perhaps Tyrde has changed since,” Ranael half-heartedly suggested.
“As he has demonstrated in the past four weeks,” Tenryon dryly
quipped. Ranael looked askance at him. “What do you really think?”

The
Herun shrugged. “Does a serpent’s nature change when it sheds its
skin?”





*
* * *





Scarcely
a month had passed since Rohyr’s handfasting to Tyrde and already
the Citadel was rife with intrigue thanks to Tyrde’s efforts to
establish himself as the second most preeminent personage in the
royal keep. Since no one had ever made so active a bid for power,
small wonder that those who frequented the Citadel lived each day in
either anticipation or apprehension of some new development. Change
was unwelcome when it disturbed the steady rhythm of life and
replaced it with discordance.





He
was never overt. Tyrde was no fool to flaunt his ambitions. And
certainly not in a manner guaranteed to draw censure at best,
outright anger and resistance at worst. He conducted himself with all
outward propriety. He never openly demanded what was due him, never
dressed down anyone in public and never behaved as other than a
supportive spouse to the king, a gracious ruler to the people and the
benevolent castellan of the Citadel. In other words, he seemed the
quintessential royal consort.





Plain
as day, Ylandre’s new Ardis was bent on winning the people’s love
and favor and in particular the fidelity of the Rikarans.

The
capital was almost a nation unto itself, its citizens comprising an
amalgam of the many tribes of Ylandre. There was no regional
homogeneity of tradition, speech or even train of thought. But in one
thing the Rikarans did not differ and that was their adherence to the
ruling family that had founded the city and went on to build one of
the strongest nations in Aisen around it.

An
Essendri by blood Tyrde might be, and of the direct line of descent.
But in Rikara, the only Essendri who commanded the citizens’
complete loyalty was Rohyr. To win the nation at large, one had to
win Rikara. And to win Rikara, one had to win Rohyr.

Tyrde
knew this of course. Else he would not bother to expend so much time
and effort on the capital’s folk. But knowledge did not always
translate to smoothness of course and, even less, success of
endeavor. For this small mercy and others, Rohyr was thankful though
his temper could hardly be sweetened by the daily stress of an
unwanted marriage.





*
* * *





“Hanon
Dimari wasn’t pleased with your binding to Tyrde.”

Rohyr
slammed a palm down on the table. “Really, Gil, tell me something I
don’t know!” he exclaimed.

Gilmael
did not respond in kind but only waited for his cousin to vent his
pique. He glanced at a sympathetic Keosqe before speaking once more.

“Then
you need not be informed that Tyrde is wooing not only your courtiers
but also the city folk.”

Rohyr
scowled. “Is he succeeding?”





Gilmael
and Keosqe exchanged another glance. Keosqe rested his elbows on the
table and steepled his fingers. “It depends on your definition of
success. He’s made a good impression on the Rikarans. They like him
well enough to welcome him into their midst. And he has been
undeniably generous with his largesse. But Tyrde seems to lack the
common touch. He appears ill-at-ease when in close quarters with the
‘great unwashed’ as he calls the common people. He goes to great
lengths to avoid contact with them. I can never forget how he
scrubbed his hands immediately after cradling some poor farrier’s
child. You’d think the babe suffered from blight the way Tyrde
carried on afterward.”





“Which
explains why he declines patronage of charities that require him to
visit the slums in the south district,” Gilmael remarked. “He’s
also been heard to say that he doesn’t understand the practice of
inviting petitioners to court. That if he had his way, the rabble
would never set foot within the Citadel. I wager he’ll manage to
keep the people’s goodwill for a while but winning their love is
going to prove elusive, especially once they learn of his sentiments
about them. And they will, just as they uncovered Uncle Imcael’s
disdain for them long ago.”





“Like
sire, like son,” Keosqe agreed. “And at court?” Rohyr prodded.





“He’s
had better results with the courtiers though probably not as much as
he would like. He’s made considerable inroads amongst folk who
desire greater influence at court. But he isn’t doing as well with
those who are already in positions of power and have no need for
greater access to you.”





“Access?”
Rohyr snorted. “I wonder how he explains his lack of knowledge with
regards to my plans.”

“Do
you never confide in him?” Gilmael ventured. Rohyr shook his head.

“You
don’t trust him.”





Distaste
shadowed Rohyr’s face. And a hint of disappointment as well. “He’s
too ambitious. I’m no more than a way for him to further his
fortunes. And someone to warm his bed,” he bitterly added. “He
enjoys discussing politics and gossiping about which noble got caught
with his breeches down. And that is all we talk about. Veres help me,
I know what acts and positions he favors in bed but have not a single
idea what he finds entertaining outside. Music, books, theater,
gaming… I don’t know his likes or dislikes any more than he knows
mine. The only thing he obviously finds worth his while sharing other
than our bodies is power.”





Rohyr
sighed. “I can’t love him but I’d hoped we could be friends at
least. Well, it’s clear that is a vain and foolish hope. And I fear
our children will fare no better in his esteem. Small wonder that
it’s Lassen’s company I seek. Would that he could bear my heirs.
They would never languish for want of love and care.”

Thoughts
of his leman softened the sternness in his features to such a degree
that one who did not know him well would have been shocked by the
sudden change. Lassen was proving a refuge to his lover more than
ever before, much to the bewilderment of certain quarters.





*
* * *





“What
can he possibly do between the sheets that I can’t?” Tyrde
angrily demanded of his sire on his last evening in Rikara. “He has
warmed Rohyr’s bed all these years, yet he’s as prudish as a
virginal temple acolyte! You should see him blush when lewd tales and
bawdy jests are bandied about. Surely he can’t please Rohyr as well
as I do.”

Imcael
stared at his son. Even he comprehended that the king cared for his
paramour in more ways than one though, Veres forbid, it had better
not be love. Still, it was Tyrde who was Rohyr’s official partner
and, in Imcael’s opinion, he was wasting a grand opportunity to
oust his rival.





“He
pleases him not only in body,” Imcael pointed out. “Surely you
know that.” Tyrde looked at him with raised brows. “That Rohyr
cares for him goes without





saying.
But that’s only to be expected given the years he’s had him in
his service. ‘Tis the same with that lackey of his—what’s his
name? Ah, no matter. But, really, I must find a way to retire the old
fart. He’s of no use to me and only takes up space better suited to
a younger, hardier soul.”





Imcael
frowned. Josel had been in service to the Essendris almost all his
life. It grated to hear the elderly retainer belittled.

“Don’t
speak that way about Josel,” he rebuked Tyrde. “He’s been
faithful to our family and served us well.”

Tyrde
shrugged. “Forgive me my rash words but I scarcely feel his vaunted
loyalty. He doesn’t serve me but rather that trollop. Rohyr refuses
to assign him to my staff.”





“That’s
not surprising,” Imcael gruffly replied. “Rohyr won’t allow his
leman to feel forsaken by taking away those dear to him.”





Tyrde
hooted. “Dear to him? A mere retainer? He shows his base blood,
doesn’t he?” About to protest that in no way could Lassen be
accused of being base-born, Imcael





caught
himself. He had oft made the same insinuation during the worst of his
tirades against his nephew’s concubine, but it had always been
understood that it was meant as an insult to one he did not like and
not a true reflection of his opinion of the Idanas’ place in
society. Tyrde, however, spoke as if he believed that a member of the
minor gentry belonged to the lowest social class. It betrayed
ignorance of the many-layered structure of Ylandrin society. Or was
it disregard for it?





Imcael
shoved aside the disturbing thought and said, “I would counsel you
not to speak thusly in front of Rohyr if you wish to remain in his
good graces.”





An
unexpected chill snaked its way up his spine when Tyrde merely burst
into amused laughter.





*
* * *





Lassen
alternately groaned and whimpered over the continued play of lips
against his throat and along his jaw. He shifted his hips slightly
when the delicious tension in his lower belly intensified and his
shaft strained against the crotch of his trousers. A moment

later,
a similar hardness ground against his groin and he moaned with
delight and a touch of frustration. He stared into twilight grey
eyes, a-gleam with lust and mischief.

“Wicked,”
he muttered, wishing he could convince Rohyr to pick up the pace. But
with his hands bound to a sturdy leg of Rohyr’s hearthside
armchair, there was little he could do in the way of active
persuasion.





The
fire cast its amber palette on them, dispelling the numbing cold that
gripped northern Ylandre in midwinter while thick skins shielded them
from the chilly floor. In the golden light, Rohyr appeared the image
of a heathen god from the ancient tales of their long-vanished
foresires—beauteous and powerful and enticing in a way that went
beyond mere aesthetics. Lassen moaned when his body reacted further
to the vision of his lover that his mind conjured.





Rohyr
rewarded him with a molten kiss. Plucking at the buttons of Lassen’s
shirt, he undid them slowly until Lassen was bared to the waist. He
paid amorous attention to each nipple, his tongue naughtily tracing
the wider circumference of his leman’s areolae before sucking each
plump nub to a hard peak.





“Rohyr,
please!” Lassen gasped, arching up into him.





Deciding
he had teased him enough, Rohyr made short work of the rest of
Lassen’s clothing. He smiled as the latter’s shaft immediately
rose in proud splendor as soon as he freed it from the confines of
his drawers. A luscious temptation if ever there was one and Rohyr
did not bother to resist it. He bent to take the rosy flesh into his
mouth. Gasping in approval, Lassen parted his legs as much as he
could.

Tyrde’s
accusation was not entirely true. Prude he was indeed when subjected
to prurient humor and tale-telling. But when in thrall to his lover’s
desire, modesty and inhibition fled and he yielded himself
wholeheartedly to Rohyr’s wishes.





The
king steadily unravelled him with every draw on his length. His
pleasure stoked beyond bearing, Lassen soon spilled himself down his
lover’s throat. With the edge taken off his need, he sighed in
blatant relief, turning a little indignant when Rohyr snickered.

“Can
you blame me?” he huffed a little tartly.





Rohyr
laughed harder then moved up to kiss the burgeoning pout from his
lips. “You’re as adorable tonight as you were the day I plucked
your innocence,” he said with a raffish grin.





Lassen
wrinkled his nose though a smile tugged at his lips. “Adorable!
That makes me sound like a child.”

Rohyr’s
eyes glinted. “Hardly a child,” he huskily murmured, his gaze
following the downward progress of his wandering hand.

Lassen
hissed with pleasure as his sheath was teasingly fondled then
repeatedly breached. His seed pouch tightened and receded in response
to the stimulation. Rohyr’s fingers drifted further on to trace the
cleft of his backside, circling the tight aperture before sliding in
to the knuckle. Lassen’s renewed excitement heightened and he
mewled a protest when Rohyr withdrew his fingers. He watched
mesmerized as the Ardan lazily licked his lips before nudging
Lassen’s knees up and apart and leaning down to partake of the
earthy delicacies thus exposed.

A
goodly, wonderful while had passed when Rohyr finally untied his
wrists. Lassen turned into his embrace a little weakly, his lower
body throbbing deliciously from rigorous usage. When Rohyr set to
undoing him, he was very thorough about it. He snuggled contentedly
in Rohyr’s arms.

This
was the first time since Rohyr’s binding that Lassen had entered
his suite again. It simply would have been too impolitic for the king
to invite his leman to spend the night in his rooms when he had not
asked it of his consort. Or at least to blatantly do so when that
consort was quartered just down the corridor from him.

But
Tyrde was not in residence at the moment. Right after the solstice
feast, he declared that he was unaccustomed to the oft severe winters
of the north. Tyrde had departed only that morn for the milder climes
of the south to sojourn briefly in Qimaras before proceeding to his
fief of Anju. Lassen had until mid spring before the rhythm of his
life was disrupted once more.

Not
once had Tyrde said an unkind word to him if and when they bumped
into each other. Nor had he ever raised a hand to Lassen on the
pretext of some offense or another. But what the Ardis did behind
closed doors wounded Lassen far more than any abuse Tyrde might heap
on him. What could be more hurtful than having to bear witness to
Tyrde’s aggressive attempts to wean Rohyr from him with charming
entreaties and torrid overtures?





“Las?”
he heard Rohyr murmur. “Hmm?” was all he could muster in reply.

Rohyr
chuckled then drew slightly away that he could look into Lassen’s
face. A few minutes silent regard was enough to rouse Lassen from his
post-coital torpor into mild anxiety. Rohyr spoke with sudden
soberness.





“What
if I were to reverse my imprint on you?”





Lassen
stared at him, any lingering drowsiness vanishing in an instant. “Are
you-are you releasing me from service?” he blurted, alarm sharp in
his voice.

“Nay!”
Rohyr caught him in a reassuring hug. “Didn’t I tell you that I
need you now more than ever?”

“Then
why?” Lassen shakily asked.





Rohyr
caressed one pale cheek. “Years ago, I told you that if you were
ever to love another, you could ask it of me and I would set you
free. You’ve never done so and I’d like to believe that you never
will.”

Lassen
swallowed. “I don’t want another,” he whispered.





“How
can you be certain that it’s not my imprint that holds you back?”
Rohyr softly countered. “Maudlin as it may sound, I want you to
stay with me for my sake and not because you have no choice in the
matter. I’ve thought long and hard about this. You know I would
never act thusly on a mere whim. And I believe that you would never
break faith with me,” he added. “I trust you, Las-min,
with all my heart.”

It
was a gift, Lassen realized. Rohyr had not couched it in those terms
but that was what his offer was. He pressed his face against Rohyr’s
shoulder, moved beyond words that his lover should have such faith in
him.





They
never spoke of love. It was not wise when there could be no
culmination at an altar for the both of them. What feelings they
harbored beyond their fervent couplings and companionable moments
together were left unvoiced.





Lassen
ran his fingers reverently along Rohyr’s lips. “I know why I have
stayed by you all these years. But if you would have me unfettered,
so be it.”

The
reversal of an imprint required no coupling as its initial placing
did nor did it take as long to accomplish. Rohyr simply took hold of
the ever present link that bound Lassen to him and severed it.

The
change was subtle; layer upon layer of control withdrawn so slowly
that Lassen did not quite realize he was free until he registered the
void Rohyr’s presence had previously filled. He shuddered, feeling
adrift after having lived with that presence for ten years.

“How
do you feel?” Rohyr asked.

Lassen
shook his head, keeping his eyes closed as if in fear of a physical
release as well. “Strange,” he said, his voice breaking. “Alone.”





He
felt the Ardan’s lips on his brow and cheeks. “I’m here, my
sweet. I will not leave you.”

Lassen
opened his eyes. Rohyr’s concerned visage met his hesitant gaze. He
stared at him. He did not know why but it seemed as if Rohyr was even
more beautiful than he remembered. Was it possible he already missed
him just from having him withdraw from his mind?





He
reached up and pulled Rohyr down until their lips met, parted and
slanted against each other in scorching urgency. It occurred to
Lassen that in the absence of the imprint that had once connected
them, the searing intimacy of their bodies’ unions would become the
means by which to bridge the gap left behind.





Rohyr
rode him hard, banishing by sheer dint of his near ravishment the
shards of fear that threatened to overcome him. Proved that the
intense pleasure Lassen had always experienced whenever they came
together was no illusion imposed on Lassen’s consciousness but
derived from the sharing of their bodies. When he shattered at last,
Lassen knew nothing but the ecstasy of completion made more glorious
by the knowledge that it was at Rohyr’s hands that he had found
such bliss.





*
* * *





The
snow lay thin on the ground in Anju even at the height of winter;
such was the climate’s gentleness in the south of Ylandre. Few of
its feathered denizens migrated to the warmer lands further down
yonder and the hardier flora did not wither away to reawaken in the
spring. As such, the view from Tyrde’s chamber was a pretty one
indeed.





The
lovely sight went unnoticed as Tyrde’s rage mounted. He had just
finished reading the dispatch that came that afternoon. There had not
been much beyond frivolous gossip in the missive composed by one of
his coterie. He was not a friend; Tyrde was no fool to confide in any
of these recently acquired hangers-on. But the courtier was
loose-tongued and enjoyed spreading tales. Who better to keep Tyrde
abreast of what was happening in Rikara?





He
had not however expected to feel such anger and jealousy over the
talk that Lassen had spent each and every night with Rohyr since
Tyrde left the capital. And in Rohyr’s apartment no less when he,
Tyrde, had never set foot within.





He
could not believe it. It appeared that all the attention he had
lavished on Rohyr had been for naught. Tyrde crumpled the missive and
viciously cast it into the crackling flames in the bedroom hearth.





It
was time he dealt with his spouse’s irksome paramour once and for
all. Lassen Idana was proving too much a thorn in his side for Tyrde
to suffer his presence in Rikara any longer.









Chapter
Fourteen









Sacrifice





With
the onset of spring, life in Rikara resumed its usual ebb and flow.
No longer impeded by chilly weather, folk of every trade and
profession made their way to and from the city. Farmers’ carts
laden with winter crops, caravans of itinerant peddlers, couriers
from abroad and representatives from the various fiefs and
provinces—all converged on Rikara like a benevolent plague. With
their advent came the renewed hustle and bustle characteristic of the
capital of Ylandre.





Humming
softly under his breath, Lassen entered his apartment. He had spent
the morning at the public market purchasing goods for two charities
Tyrde had not deigned to take from him. The monks of the Saint
Ambrion orphanage and their wards would welcome the lengths of
flannel for the crisp spring weather and bolts of cotton for the
coming summer. On the other hand, the south district hospice’s
store of liniments and dressings had been running low and Lassen had
taken it upon himself to provide them with a goodly supply of both
until the ministry of health acted on their requisitions.





He
stopped in surprise upon finding Tyrde seated at the small dining
table. The Ardis was not supposed to be back for another month at
least.





“Very
nice,” Tyrde commented with a sweeping wave of his hand. “Small
wonder my dear spouse enjoys spending time here.”

Lassen
politely asked, “How may I be of assistance to you, Your Highness?”
Tyrde smiled. “By leaving Rikara.”

Lassen
tensed. It seemed Tyrde would no longer be pulling his punches. “If
the Ardan commands me to leave, I shall,” he quietly replied.





“So
sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Tyrde remarked. “But I have to
admit the possibility of Rohyr ever doing so is practically nil.
Therefore, the order will have to come from me.”





“My
service is to Rohyr,” Lassen said evenly. “I obey him alone.”





Tyrde
sighed dramatically and leaned back in the chair. “You’re a
stubborn one. How bothersome.”

He
pointed at Lassen then gestured to him to take the other seat. Lassen
reluctantly obeyed. He kept still as Tyrde openly perused him.

“Yes,
I can see why he fancied you though, for the life of me, I don’t
understand his continued interest after all these years. You may have
acquired the veneer of a Rikaran but, at heart, you’re still a
simple provincial who could do without all the intrigues of court
life.” Tyrde’s smile widened. “And the prospect of never having
a family of your own.”

Lassen’s
cheeks colored slightly but he said, “I have no interest in
starting a family of my own.”

“Unless
‘tis with him,” Tyrde finished for him. “Well, the closest
you’ll get to tending Rohyr’s get will be if he places any of
ours in your care. Which I assure you I won’t ever allow.”





“Nor
would Rohyr do such a thing,” Lassen said indignantly. “He would
never insult

his
consort by charging his leman with the care of his sons. Save of
course if he thought it necessary for their well-being.”

Tyrde’s
eyes flashed at the tacit aspersion. “Nay, he wouldn’t stoop so
low,” he coldly agreed. “But he has no compunction about
offending my sensibilities behind my back, does he? And you have no
qualms about aiding and abetting him. Or spending the winter cozily
ensconced in his quarters.”





Lassen
lifted his chin proudly. “He asked me and I complied. My duty is to
please him.”

The
Ardis leaned forward, his air challenging. “But not to do what is
good for him or his people?”

“Such
as?”





“Such
as ensuring that Ylandre never faces another incursion from abroad.”
Lassen frowned. “There are no indications of invasion of any sort
or even the





planning
of it.”





Tyrde
raised an eyebrow mockingly. “How would you know? Such reports are
never divulged to the populace at large.”

“I
am not part of the populace at large,” Lassen retorted.





The
implication that Lassen was privy to much that Tyrde was not did not
go past the Ardis. The corners of Tyrde’s mouth began to descend
into a scowl before he caught himself. He glared at Lassen.





“No
indications now.
But it can be encouraged. Cattania for instance.” “What of
Cattania?”





“Hanon
Dimari is still interested in an alliance between his son and
myself.” Lassen shook his head. “He should turn his interest
elsewhere. You’re already

taken.”

Tyrde
smirked. “Taken perhaps but there’s no guarantee that I shall
allow myself to be kept.”





Lassen
stared at him, a prickle of unease unsettling him. “What do you
mean?” “Rohyr insisted that we handfasted that he may carry on
his affair with you,” Tyrde

snapped.
“But there are always two sides to every coin and if a handfasting
benefits him, so can it benefit me and those who would treat me with,
shall we say, more consideration.” He slyly smiled. “Just as a
handfasting can be made, so can it be broken. The only one of our
connubial unions that can be undone.”





Lassen’s
blood ran cold. “Surely you’re not suggesting—”





“A
divorce from Rohyr and remarriage to Lyam Dimari? Oh yes, I am
suggesting it. Indeed, ‘tis not a mere suggestion but almost a done
deal.”

“You’ve
been communicating with the Dimaris?” Lassen demanded. “Cattania
borders Anju.”

“That
is treason!”





“What’s
treasonous about negotiating a marriage contract?” “But you’re
still wed.”

“And
I intend to eliminate that problem soonest. Unless…” “Unless?”

“You
end your liaison with Rohyr.” Tyrde tittered at Lassen’s
disbelieving expression. “Oh come now, are you truly surprised that
I would wish to see to my well-being? I am a Herun in my own right,
Lassen Idana. I bend my knee to only one Deir in

all
this land. Think you I’d allow myself to be relegated to second
place behind a mere commoner in my own marriage?”

“You
don’t love him any more than he loves you,” Lassen countered.
“Why should our affair matter to you?”

“Because
he withholds not only his heart but also his trust,” Tyrde shot
back. “I am Ardis. ‘Tis I who should have his ear and I he should
confide in before all others.”

“Trust
isn’t a matter of office,” Lassen pointed out. “’Tis earned.”





“And
I intend to gain it,” Tyrde retorted. “But I’ve not the
patience to work my way around every obstacle, you least of all. I
prefer the straightest course.” He leaned back again, his cold
smile returning. “Think about it and think well. There is much more
at stake than your relationship with him.”





Lassen
stared at him. It seemed Tyrde was ready to carry out his threat. If
he did, the repercussions would be severe for the realm at large and
for eastern Velarus in particular. Lassen may not have witnessed the
Cattanian incursion that had ended with the extension of Velarus’
borders but he had heard enough tales of the slaughter and rapine
that had taken place until the Ylandrin forces repelled the invaders.
The Dimaris were cut from the same cloth as the brutal Ferrendas of
yore.





He
started when Tyrde suddenly leaned forward and caught a lock of his
hair, rubbing the soft strands between his fingers. The Ardis grinned
when Lassen jerked back out of reach.





“Hmm,
you are pretty,” Tyrde commented. “Not quite to my exacting taste
but you’d do in a pinch.”





That
made Lassen’s skin crawl. He rose to his feet and darted a glance
at the door to gauge the distance to it from where he stood.

Tyrde
laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly,” he mocked. “I know Rohyr has
imprinted you and would make it most unpleasant for me were I to
attempt to sample whatever virtue you may still possess. A pity.
‘Twould be interesting to see what drew him to you.” He stood up
with a shrug. “But not enough to put up with any unpleasantness,”
he added as he turned away and walked to the door. “Think about
what I said in the meantime. Or better yet, act on it soonest. And,
oh yes.” He paused at the door. “If you mention this conversation
to Rohyr or anyone else, I shall break with him forthwith.”





He
opened the door and came face to face with a startled Josel. Tyrde
glanced back at Lassen, snickered, then swept past the old servant.
Josel stared after him suspiciously then turned concerned eyes on
Lassen.

“Are
you well, Dyhar?”
he asked, noticing Lassen’s pallor.





Lassen
nodded and strode to the balcony. He stared at the gardens, breathing
in deeply as if to dispel a noxious odor in his nostrils.





*
* * *





“Rohyr-dyhar
bade me tell you that he will come to you tonight.” “Thank you,
Josel.”





Lassen
checked his clothes pack and the bundle of gifts for his family and a
few friends back in Tal Ereq one more time. It would only be his
third trip home in the ten years he had resided in Rikara. He had
been looking forward to it so much that Rohyr finally allowed him to
depart Rikara ahead of the heavy rains of the spring monsoon on the
condition that he returned by midsummer. Lassen sighed. He was
excited about

seeing
his parents and brothers again. But Tyrde’s threat had taken away a
good chunk of his joy.

Josel
patiently awaited him at the door. He obliged the old servant and
entered the sitting room to have dinner. In the month since Tyrde’s
return, Lassen more oft than not had his meals in his apartment
unless he was out and about in the city. In which case he would eat
at an inn or tavern instead.





Furtive
talk was not the cause for his avoidance of the dining hall. He was
used to gossip. But Tyrde had taken to eyeing him in none too
friendly fashion whenever they wound up in the same space whereas,
previously, the latter had simply ignored him. It was a dilemma even
Rohyr could do nothing about and Lassen refused to draw his lover
into a situation that would do his name no good. It was one thing to
keep a paramour after one was wed, quite another to esteem him over
one’s official partner. Deiran permissiveness did not extend that
far.





Lassen
ate sparsely of an excellent tomquail stew and crisp flat bread. Even
the slice of wildberry tart with its crunchy nut crust and honeyed
custard base did not tempt him beyond a few bites. Josel worried over
him but Lassen managed to convince him that his lack of appetite was
due to his elation over seeing his family again after so long.
Appeased, Josel placed a crystal flute of mirash
on the table.

While
Josel prepared his bath, Lassen raised the flute and stared at its
bright blue contents. Rohyr always employed the greatest care to
avoid getting him with child. When Lassen took the occasional respite
from the consumption of mirash,
they coupled by anal intercourse alone. Now, of all times, the
thought struck Lassen particularly hard. Sighing, he brought the
flute to his lips. He stopped before taking the first sip.

Lassen
stared at the mirash
again. And then he stood and strode to the balcony. Two potted plants
adorned it, one on either side. After a moment’s hesitation, Lassen
poured the mirash
into one of the pots. When Josel came to fetch him, he was seated on
the balustrade, clutching the empty glass to his chest and staring
into the dark.





He
settled on the bed afterward to await Rohyr. But restlessness
overtook him and he rose to pace about aimlessly, oblivious to the
nip of the cool night breeze on his bare skin. It felt as if time was
passing too quickly. Time wasted on waiting when there was so little
left of it. By tomorrow, he would be gone from the city and far from
Rohyr.





Lassen
did not know whence the impulse came but he pulled on a dressing robe
and slipped out of his apartment. He looked up and down the hallway
to ascertain that it was empty then hastened to Rohyr’s suite. He
had already committed a crime by not taking mirash
when
he would be spending the night with the Ardan. What was a mere
violation
of
protocol compared to that? And in any case, neither act would be
repeated. He would not be around to do either.





He
entered Rohyr’s quarters and padded silently through the sitting
room to the bedchamber. Peering in, he saw Rohyr at his writing desk
reading a letter, clad in a loose shirt and plain breeches. Engrossed
in whatever the missive contained, he did not notice Lassen’s
approach. Lassen waited for him to set aside the sheet and rise to
his feet.





Rohyr’s
expression when he turned around to discover his leman standing right
behind him would have prompted Lassen to tease him mercilessly at any
other time. Instead, he pressed against Rohyr and cut off his
surprised, “Why are you here?” with a kiss that communicated a
hunger of such magnitude, it blindsided the king. Rohyr caught Lassen
to himself and kissed him back hard.

He
was in for a further surprise, however, when his shirt fell open and
his breeches loosened around his waist. Lassen plunged his hand into
his crotch to grip him. Rohyr broke away and stared at his leman in
confusion. Lassen was never less than a wanton in their bed but
neither had he ever been so forward before.

“Las?”
he ventured, his voice hitching as he was assiduously stroked. “What
are you—?”

Lassen
did not wait for him to finish speaking but slowly slid down his
body, lips and teeth grazing whatever they encountered as he did,
leaving Rohyr quite speechless. And when he sank to his knees and
came face to face with the thick flesh in his hand, still he said
nothing but took the whole of it into his mouth.





The
sudden clutch at his shoulders and drawn out hiss followed by a spate
of sharp gasps confirmed the merit of continuing. He drew upon
Rohyr’s shaft voraciously, ignoring Rohyr’s whispered
imprecations and his almost painful grip on him. All that mattered
was this taste of his lover, of the faint salty flavor of engorged
flesh mingled with the sweet-bitter tang of emerging semen. Ah, how
he would miss this, he thought, as he repeatedly slid his mouth along
that gorgeous length.





But
even more would he miss the feel of Rohyr inside him. Spurred by the
potent image that thought conjured, he reached down to fondle his
sheath, turning himself on his own. The stimulation drove him to
service Rohyr even more hungrily.





“Enough!”
Rohyr ordered, his enunciation caught between a growl and a groan. He
kicked the chair away then pulled Lassen to his feet and whipped him
about to

lean
against the desk. Lassen latched onto his mouth, smiling around the
kiss at the muffled curse Rohyr uttered. Rohyr reached around him to
shove the sheaves of paper and the narrow case of quills off the
desk. Lassen entertained the passing thought that it was a good thing
the inkwell was empty else there would be a beastly mess to clean up
the following morning.

Rohyr
lifted him onto the desk and pried his legs apart with titillating
crudeness. Before he could think another thought, Rohyr was in him,
deep and hard, and he cried out at the jolt of pleasure limned with
the faintest hint of pain at so sudden a piercing. He fell back and
grabbed at the table edge above his head to brace himself against
Rohyr’s almost brutal thrusts. Veres almighty, he was going to be
spectacularly sore tomorrow if this was how Rohyr used him this
night. Lassen dearly hoped that was the case.





They
climaxed one after the other in short order, the pace they had set
too intense to sustain for long. With a groan, Rohyr allowed himself
to rest atop Lassen for a few minutes while he caught his breath.
Lassen held him tightly, enjoying the closeness that was more than
the joining of their bodies. He felt the familiar rush of warmth as
it made its way up his seed channel to his womb.

Lassen
caught his breath. His eyes snapped open. He almost sobbed out a
paean to all the saints in the pantheon when the warmth flared into a
spreading heat in his belly. Tears prickled at his eyes and he
struggled to hold them back.





He
clung to Rohyr, feeling closer to him than ever. Even if Rohyr did
not know that his seed had taken root.





At
length, Rohyr drew back slightly. As he did, he noted Lassen’s
overly bright eyes. “What is it?”

Lassen
shook his head and smiled. “I was only thinking that I shall miss
you terribly,” he murmured.

Rohyr
gazed at him awhile before softly saying, “I’ll miss you, too,
Las.”





He
started to pull out only to find his waist entrapped by Lassen’s
legs. He regarded his leman with an amused lift of his eyebrows.

“May
I assume that you’re not yet satisfied?”





Lassen
chuckled, the heady knowledge of having conceived easing some of his
heartache. “I want to feel you tomorrow even when I reach Tal
Ereq.”

Rohyr
groaned. “Sweet Veres, you’re a saucy one tonight!”





He
caught Lassen up and bore him to the bed. They came together once
more, all but tearing each other’s garments off in their haste to
mold bare flesh against bare flesh. If Rohyr thought Lassen’s
boldness surprising, he did not dwell on it. Nor did he really care
given how fulsomely Lassen was feeding his desire.





A
slight wince, however, warned them that their first coupling had been
far rougher than usual and left Lassen too tender for more breaching
so soon. Flashing his endearing scapegrace grin, Rohyr retrieved the
small jar of oil he kept in his bedside table then rolled Lassen onto
his belly. Lassen wriggled blissfully as his back was peppered with
kisses all the way down to the firm globes of his rear and the cleft
between. He buried his face in the pillow, smothering his moans as
Rohyr teased him with his tongue before dipping repeatedly into his
core to taste deeply of him. When he was reduced to incomprehensible
pleading, Rohyr replaced his tongue with oil-slick fingers and
finished readying Lassen to receive him.





Lassen
closed his eyes as Rohyr entered him. He was as used to the slide of
Rohyr’s shaft up his arse as he was to its press into his sheath.
There would always be some initial discomfort given the natural
snugness of the rectal entrance but the pleasure of anal intercourse
was no less potent than that of genital penetration. Lassen pushed
back against Rohyr’s thrusts, yearning to be filled as deeply as
possible.

Rohyr’s
hand snaked around him to rest on his abdomen. Lassen tensed in some
alarm, as if the proximity of Rohyr’s hand to his womb would alert
his lover to the life within.





“Las?
Did I hurt you?” Rohyr asked with concern.





Lassen
reassured himself that only especially gifted healers could detect
life at its conception. He glanced back and smiled mischievously. “If
anything, you are far too gentle.”





Rohyr
laughed under his breath. “Too gentle, you say,” he almost
purred. “I hope you don’t regret your words when I’m done with
you.”

Lassen
knew he was in for a hard ride when he was enfolded from behind in an
imprisoning embrace. Caught beneath Rohyr’s powerful body, he could
do naught but clutch at the sheets as Rohyr repeatedly drove into him
with nigh bruising force. The pleasure from breaching alone was
breath-stealing. But when Rohyr reached around him to stroke his
sheath as well, the rapture spiralled.

“Take
hold of yourself,” Rohyr huskily commanded.





Lassen
obeyed and gripped his shaft. With Rohyr’s continued onslaught from
behind and down yonder coupled with his self-inflicted caresses…
Saints!
The pleasure was going to kill him if it did not leave him
permanently insensible first.





They
tumbled into ecstasy almost simultaneously. Lassen collapsed soon
after when his arms and legs gave way under him. Rohyr had just
enough reason left to fall slightly to his side so as not to crush
Lassen under his greater weight. He pulled Lassen back into

the
curve of his body and chuckled softly into his shoulder.





“Last
you were so noisy was when I imprinted you. I must remember to do
this again.”

“Oh,
please, don’t,” Lassen protested weakly, uncaring for now of the
improbability of another time. “I don’t wish to keep awakening
the entire keep thusly!”

Rohyr
grinned. “But it pleases me to make them wonder what manner of
lover I am that I can make you scream so.”





Lassen
shook his head. Looking back at Rohyr, he wanly smiled and said,
“‘Twould only provoke Tyrde if this hasn’t already.”

Rohyr
hugged him tightly, suddenly sober. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“He has treated you with abominable disrespect since his return and
I’ve done little to stop him.”





Lassen
turned in his arms to face him. “There is naught you could have
done. Think you I don’t know how much you’ve broken with custom
for my sake? ‘Twas more than I expected; more than I could ever ask
for.”





Rohyr
gazed at him appreciatively. “You are worth it, Las-min.
You always have been.” He sighed. “You haven’t even gone yet
and already I look forward to your return.”

Lassen
quelled the impulse to tell Rohyr the truth. For good or ill, he had
to hold his tongue. Instead, he sealed their mouths in a warm and
tender kiss.

Sometime
past midnight, he awakened to the pang of sharp desire for Rohyr
coursing through him. They had made love until their bodies demanded
rest. But Lassen had gone to sleep still feeling as if he had not had
enough. He was not certain if it was a function of conception—Mithre
had told him that a bearer’s libido tended to strengthen during the
first month, almost from the moment of fusion—or his sense of
imminent loss and the need to use as much of the time remaining as
possible. But whatever the reason, it did not matter.





It
was not difficult to rouse Rohyr from slumber. Delight gleamed in his
eyes when he realized what Lassen wanted.





“I
don’t know what drives you tonight,” he whispered as he pulled
Lassen into his arms. “But I pray this won’t be the last I see of
it.”

Their
play was much slower this time, the build-up in tension almost
languid but no less enjoyable. However, Lassen could not help
flinching when Rohyr caressed his nether parts. It seemed they had
coupled more vigorously than was prudent.





“You’re
too sore,” Rohyr murmured, withdrawing his hand. “And I haven’t
replenished Eiren’s salve,” he added ruefully.

“I
will bear it,” Lassen insisted.

“Nay,”
Rohyr objected. “I won’t have you journeying in more discomfort
than you’re undoubtedly feeling already.”





“But
I need you,” Lassen pleaded. “Just this last time before I leave.
Please, Rohyr.” Rohyr gazed at him a long while. “Perhaps we
should try something else.”

To
Lassen’s puzzlement, Rohyr lay on his back then drew Lassen atop
him. His next words jarred Lassen out of his confusion.

“Have
me, Las.”





Lassen
stared at him in disbelief even as the invitation’s import shot
straight to his groin, causing his shaft to harden as it had never
hardened before.

“Are
you-are you certain?” he whispered. At Rohyr’s affirming smile,
he swallowed hard, the very thought of being inside his love making
his shaft ache almost unbearably.

“But
what of Tyrde? Surely, ‘tis his right.”





Rohyr
shook his head. “It is not a right but a privilege and only I may
choose on whom to bestow it. I choose to yield to you alone.” He
pulled Lassen down for a hot, consuming kiss.





With
shaking hands, Lassen prepared Rohyr for breaching. The occasional
wince that flickered across Rohyr’s face as he was stretched
reminded Lassen that not only had the king never lain beneath
another, he was also not obligated to. And in the unlikely event that
he did choose to play the mare, it was understood that only anal
intercourse was permissible so that the chances of conception were
altogether done away with.

Lassen
wondered if he was worthy of Rohyr’s submission; more so
considering what he was about to do. But on the heels of his doubt
came remembrance of his reasons for leaving and the loneliness he
would face from thereon. If only to add to the store of memories that
would buttress his spirit, he would take this precious gift. And if
that damned him in Rohyr’s eyes ever after, so be it. He would have
Rohyr safe. He would see Ylandre whole.





It
was with a sense of unreality that he positioned himself to take
Rohyr, even the wrap of his lover’s legs around his waist not quite
enough to dispel his disbelief. He had never imagined such a moment,
much less expected it. And then he slowly slid into tight heat as
satin-bound muscles gave way before his invading shaft. He let out a
gasping groan as pleasure rippled through him, the sensation of being
sheathed indescribable and intense.





He
gazed at Rohyr, his expression a mixture of incredulity and joy.
Rohyr’s answering smile mirrored his. A few whispered words of
encouragement and Lassen began to drive his hips forward in the
age-old act of bodily penetration.





They
were soon gasping in concert, both experiencing sexual union from the
opposite perspective for the first time. Lassen hoped that Rohyr was
enjoying this union as much as he was and worried that he was not.
The strong grip of hands on his arms cut through his haze and he
peered at Rohyr with pleasure-dazed eyes.





Rohyr
had thrown his head back on the pillow and his breathing had grown
rough and unsteady. There was no mistaking the ecstasy etched in his
features despite the discomfort he must have felt from a first
breaching. Lassen’s doubts vanished, supplanted by relief and
satisfaction. He discarded the last of his uncertainties and threw
himself with abandon into their lovemaking. Their joint pleasure
waxed sharply. All too soon, feeling himself near orgasm, Lassen
remembered to reach between them for Rohyr’s shaft and stroke it in
time to his thrusts as well as he could.





With
a choked cry, he climaxed, the part of him that had not turned
incoherent thrilling to the knowledge of spending himself inside
Rohyr. Liquid warmth hit his skin. Pushing himself up, he saw that
their bellies were dappled with pearlescent fluid. He had not turned
Rohyr and that meant the release of semen upon his orgasm. Lassen
closed his eyes with a groan. There was something exceedingly erotic
about the sight of Rohyr’s seed on their bodies.





He
started when Rohyr’s fingers grazed his shaft where they were still
joined to each other. The sensation combined with the faint frissons
of resurgent desire to wrack his body anew. He opened his eyes and
gazed at Rohyr.

The
king looked at him from under lowered lids, a lazy smile hovering on
his lips.





So
handsome did he look with that devilish sparkle in his eyes that
Lassen’s heart swelled

with
overflowing affection. His lust banked in the wake of his feelings.
He gingerly pulled out of Rohyr and rolled off him to lie at his
side.