by A. H. Lee
“It spoils it more if you frighten him,” said Roland. He put his other hand gently against Sair’s chin and the barest contact made him jump. “Especially if it seems like he’s not accustomed to being touched.”
Sair blinked again, this time more slowly. Roland’s thumb smoothed the stubble of his jaw. “I don’t mean to be so stupid,” breathed Sair.
“You’re not stupid,” murmured Roland. “May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Sair’s mouth was warmer than his hands, but just as cautious. Roland cradled his face, letting his fingertips trace the contours of his throat and cheek. When Sair finally opened his mouth a fraction, it felt like a gift—the trust of a wild animal. Roland brushed his tongue against Sair’s and felt him shiver. He wished they weren’t sitting on stools, but curled together on a couch, perhaps even a bed in one of the backrooms. Roland wanted to unbutton that old-fashioned waistcoat and that borrowed shirt—to satiate the longing he sensed. You’re not accustomed to being touched, but you want to be.
Sair pulled away at last. He was breathing deeply, his right hand clamped tightly around Roland’s. His left hand had come up to Roland’s chest. “I have to go,” he whispered.
Roland swallowed his disappointment and nodded.
Sair licked his lips. “This has been...instructive.”
Roland tried not to wince.
Sair seemed to realize he’d hit the wrong note and added, “I would stay, Jack. But I have a difficult meeting tomorrow. I need to be rested and thinking clearly.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel that I’m thinking clearly right now. You may take that as a compliment.”
Roland smiled. “I have a meeting tomorrow, as well. I’d tell you where my thoughts will wander during the boring parts, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
That grin again, and the faintest hint of color in his cheeks.
“You’re adorable when you smile,” said Roland.
Sair hesitated. “I could perhaps come back tomorrow evening.”
Roland’s heart gave a painful flutter. At the same time, his cock reminded him that tomorrow was twenty-four hours off. And besides, Sair was still a long way from wanting to fuck. Why couldn’t you have picked someone who knew what he was about? But Roland’s mouth was already moving. “I can be here by seven.”
Sair’s smile had an edge now—the pleased look of a man who realizes he has more power than he expected. “Seven,” he said and extracted his hand from Roland’s. He walked away, and although the Tipsy Knave still seemed safe, it also seemed a little less interesting.
Chapter 2. Date
Sairis knew that his choice to visit a gentlemen’s club on his first night in the capital was among his more foolish decisions. He told himself that he would just observe—see what ordinary people did in their free time. With other men. In public.
The Tipsy Knave seemed like a good place for that. The force of his glare quickly turned aside the few fools who dared to speak to him. And then the knight walked in.
Sairis had seen plenty of knights. Even dressed in unremarkable clothes, there was something about the way they moved—confident as only predators can be. This one looked like he’d stepped out of a tapestry—golden hair that curled at the ends, sun-kissed skin. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of the cheap shirt and waistcoat he’d elected to wear on his pleasure outing.
The prettiest dancer in the tavern immediately flung himself into the knight’s path. Sairis couldn’t help but admire the contrast of the snake-hipped dancer, dressed in red silk, pressed against the knight’s massive bulk. Sairis wasn’t sure which of them he would have chosen...if he were the sort of man who chose such things. He assumed they would go off together.
Sairis was surprised when the knight politely disengaged the dancer and kept moving towards the bar. He was astonished when the knight sat down beside him and just...started talking. Sairis turned to give the man his customary fuck off stare. The knight’s friendly, square-jawed face was just as perfect up close. His eyes were blue. His blond eyelashes shone against his sun-darkened cheeks.
No real person should look like that.
Sairis realized he wasn’t glaring anymore and looked away. The knight seemed to think he was a student. Before Sairis quite understood what was happening, they were engaged in a conversation.
And why not? demanded that small, traitorous part of Sairis’s brain that wanted things. Why the fuck shouldn’t you walk into a gentlemen’s club and be a human being for a few hours? Why shouldn’t you learn how to flirt with strangers? You’ve done things that would make any man here lose his dinner and probably his sanity. Flirting can’t be that difficult.
The trouble was, they hadn’t been talking for ten minutes before Sairis wanted to do more than flirt. Jack was so easy to talk to. He decoded their complex social dance with cheerful patience and shared his own feelings with apparent sincerity. Sairis found himself revealing more than he ought.
And then Jack kissed him. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Jack was a stranger—a knight, for gods’ sakes. Jack wasn’t even his real name.
Sairis found himself wondering what kisses were supposed to feel like. Was it normal to feel that, by opening your mouth a quarter inch, you’d somehow opened your soul? Did it always feel like your stomach was melting? Did it normally make the skin of your entire body feel like a stuttering heartbeat?
He didn’t know.
He wanted to.
When Sairis left the tavern, he supposed he should feel worried. Tomorrow, he would go to the palace and try to make history. Afterward, assuming he survived, he had a...a... “Date.” Sairis said the unfamiliar word aloud. “I have a date tomorrow evening. If no one murders me.”
Chapter 3. Daphne
Roland was shocked to find Daphne waiting for him upon his return. She sat in his study, wearing a gold dressing gown, reading at the desk that no longer felt like his own. Her long, chestnut hair had been twined in an elaborate braid when she’d greeted him upon his arrival that morning, but it hung soft around her face now.
“Daph,” he began. She looked up, and his father’s gray eyes looked out from his sister’s face. Roland was momentarily startled into silence. “Your Grace,” he corrected himself.
Daphne sighed and closed the book. “Roland, it’s just me in here.” She folded her hands and looked away. “Although I appreciate the ‘grace’ elsewhere.”
Roland inclined his head. Daphne was four years his senior. She was their father’s recognized heir, groomed for the task from childhood, and highly capable. However, like the laws regarding the men in the Tipsy Knave, it had not always been so. Until fifteen years ago, a woman could not have inherited. Arnoldo Malconwy had made many changes that were now in jeopardy due to his untimely death and the crisis facing their country.
“Sit down, Roland,” said Daphne.
Roland sat, feeling oddly young and wondering if he was about to get a lecture for whoring. He was conscious of his plain clothes, the odors of cheap booze and tobacco that lingered about his person, and the conclusions that his queen sister must draw.
Then she opened her mouth, and he realized that her concerns were more substantial. “I intend to make an alliance with Lamont. Specifically, I intend to marry Prince Anton.”
Roland blinked. “He’s close to forty.”
Daphne said nothing.
Roland considered. “That will make Falcosta uneasy.”
Daphne toyed with her pen. “I know. King Norres does have an unmarried younger daughter...”
Roland took a long moment before his brain caught up with his ears. “You’re...considering marrying me off to Falcosta?”
Daphne did not quite meet his eyes. “We’d have a neat alliance. We could stand united against Zolsestron with some confidence in each other.”
Roland sputtered. “Daph, you know...” You know my tastes. You know that would make me miserable.
Daphne set down her pen and massaged
her temples. “If I could marry you off to a prince, I would, Roland.”
“I don’t want to be married off to anyone!”
Daphne witnessed his distress with maddening patience. “Zolsestron is poised to take the pass: yes or no?”
Roland let out a long breath. “Yes. The fighting this last year has been terrible. They’ve taken garrison after garrison. The way Hastafel’s soldiers behave, Daphne... You’d think they were the ones defending their homeland. They act like men possessed. They keep coming even when they’re torn half to pieces. And not just men, either. Sometimes he sends these creatures—” He stopped himself.
Daphne’s compassion slipped through her politician’s mask. She leaned forward and squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry about Marcus. I’m sorry about all of them.”
Roland clamped his other hand over his sister’s. “We’re fighting monsters on the border. Not just men, Daphne. Monsters.” He willed himself to be here in this softly lit room, this safe place.
“We’re losing,” said Daphne quietly. “If our neighbors would help, we might be able to stop Hastafel. It just so happens that we’ve scrapped with our neighbors constantly for the last two hundred years, so it’s taken some talking to bring them around. But if we fall, they’re next, and they know it.”
“You’re going to be a great queen, Daph. If you pull this off, it will be a first.”
She squeezed his arm and let go with a grimace. “And all it will cost is my little brother’s lifelong misery.”
Roland made a face. “Do you want to marry Anton?”
“I do, actually. We’ve been corresponding this past year and we’ve met twice, including yesterday. I like him.”
Roland licked his lips. “Good. I would hate to see you unhappy.”
“Or I you. I haven’t made any promises yet. Roland, I need to know what you want.”
“What do you mean?”
“You prefer men; does that mean you never want to marry at all? Or do you simply want a wife who will look the other way and doesn’t care for bedroom sports? You’re a war hero like Father. People love you. That makes you a little dangerous for me.”
Roland didn’t want to understand, but he did. “Have the barons suggested I be crowned? Is Uncle Winthrop behind it?”
Daphne licked her lips. “I’ve heard rumors. I cannot afford a civil war right now, Roland. I can’t fight Zolsestron and our barons and perhaps our neighbors. We need to have one enemy. Just one. Then we might be able to win.”
“So you’ll marry me off to Falcosta,” said Roland bitterly. “That removes me neatly from the board, gets you a new ally, and silences the barons. Queen takes rook.”
Daphne almost lost her temper. “Damn it, Roland, tell me what you want! I will at least consider it. Do you prefer to be sent back to the border at the head of our armies? I could argue that your place is in battle. I doubt we will have an uncontested border in our lifetimes, no matter what happens with Hastafel, so you can make a career of it. You can replace Uncle Jessup when he dies. Is that your wish?”
Roland scrubbed a hand across his face. They hang men like me in Falcosta. A princess from there will not be understanding. He thought of the fighting, of the pass with winter coming on, of the fresh troops and supplies delivered to Hastafel’s army by sea while Roland’s own men made do with thin rations trekked in over the mountains. He thought of the mad gleam in the eyes of their enemies, driven by whatever devilry Hastafel had cast upon them. I believe they would kill us with their teeth if they ran out of weapons. Within the privacy of his own mind, he let himself say the words, Like the dead.
Roland fully expected to be fighting them again within the month. He’d hoped for a few weeks at home to mourn his father and see his sister on the throne. Then he would return to his friends and officers with a few fresh troops, though they were likely to be too old or too young, certainly too green. Mistala had been bled dry. Falcosta, on the other hand, had trained soldiers standing idle. They had considerably more than Lamont, being an inland country less affected by the Sundering. Those troops might make the difference. Am I letting my people down if I don’t marry this girl?
“Daphne, have our own magicians made any progress in matching Zolsestron’s techniques?”
She shook her head. “I think they’re too cautious. They have a thousand rules. Father didn’t go far enough.”
Roland nodded. The use of magic had been another of those prohibitions that his father had lifted when he announced that women could rule and boys could kiss each other without facing the noose. Admittedly, magic had a more complex history in Mistala. The laws against it had only arisen in the terror immediately after the Sundering.
“There’s something else,” said Daphne, “something you won’t like. I need to tell you so that you won’t be alarmed tomorrow.”
Roland grimaced. “Something worse than marrying a Falcostan princess?”
Daphne quirked a smile. “Probably not worse than that.”
“What?”
“I invited a representative from Karkaroth.”
Roland blinked. He was quite certain he had misheard. “You...what?”
Daphne spoke with maddening patience. “I invited Magus Karkaroth—”
The honorific “magus” was more than Roland could take. “The necromancer Karkaroth? Scourge of the realm? Father’s sworn enemy?”
“Father’s defeated enemy,” said Daphne. “He hasn’t stirred from his tower in over a decade, Roland.”
“Because we haven’t let him!”
“He rules a burn-blackened tower amid a tiny swath of dying forest. Forgive me for not quaking in fear.”
Roland was still sputtering. “He’s the reason our dead are still buried without their heads attached!”
Daphne wore a longsuffering expression. “So, I’m sure you will be comforted to know that he is not coming himself, but has sent his apprentice.”
“An apprentice necromancer. Also known as a necromancer.”
“If the dead start walking, we’ll know whom to blame.”
“It’s not funny, Daph. Grandfather would turn over in his grave.”
Daphne started to respond, made an unladylike snort, and covered her mouth with one hand. She and Roland stared at each other for a moment. Then they were both laughing.
“It’s not funny,” repeated Roland, but it felt good to laugh. More than that, it felt good to see Daphne laugh. So he added, with real levity, “I do hope he doesn’t raise Grandfather.”
Daphne wiped tears from her eyes. “We would have some explaining to do.”
“Starting with why you’re being crowned.”
“And ending with who you were out with tonight.”
Roland shook with mirth.
Daphne composed herself. “If we don’t make Grandfather roll over in his grave, no necromancer’s apprentice will do it.” She took a deep breath. “You tell me you’re fighting monsters on the border. Maybe we need to fight back with something equivalent.”
Roland’s shoulders sagged. “This is not the answer, Daph.”
“You may be right, but I intend to try everything.”
“Will our magicians put some kind of collar on him, at least?”
“That would not be an act of good faith.”
“No, it would be an act of self-preservation.”
“I intend to start with good faith.”
“This is a mistake, Daph.”
“Your objection is noted, Roland.”
Chapter 4. House of Mirrors
Sairis had heard descriptions of the palace, and they’d been mostly accurate. What he hadn’t expected were all the mirrors. They threw back the light, making the long rooms seem even longer, the painted ceilings endless, the brass and gold magnified and brighter. Sairis found himself wondering what he could do with so many reflective surfaces, what he might be able to bring through them. These people are infants in the ways of magic.
Of course they were. This was Mistala, where
they’d been killing their magicians until fifteen years ago, and even now kept them like tame dogs on leashes.
And now they want a word with a wolf.
He was a little surprised that he hadn’t been greeted with a muzzle. The guards and servants did not seem to know who he was, only his name and that he was expected. As far as he could tell, no magicians were among them. Sairis wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by their trust or concerned about their judgment.
He had hoped for a private audience with the queen. One hour, offers accepted or rejected, and then he’d be on his way. No such luck. He was ushered into what was clearly the palace strategy room—cozy, but windowless, lit with numerous oil lamps in sconces. The room included a small library of books and scrolls, walls lined with detailed maps, and a large table with the newest map under glass. Beautifully carved pieces that were clearly intended to represent the movements of armies lay scattered around the table. There was only one mirror, framed in the far wall in a spot that a window might otherwise occupy. Clearly, this was a closely-guarded room, with documents that probably contained state secrets. They’re trusting me quite a lot. I wonder if they truly realize how much.
Tea and water stood on a sideboard in gleaming silver ewers, accompanied by delicate, porcelain cups. Cheeses, cured meats, slices of fruit, and warm bread had been arranged in artful patterns amid sprays of flowers on long, silver trays. Sairis had never seen some of the fruits outside of a book. He had to stop himself from staring. A woman in palace livery pointed out pots of honey, preserves, and butter. She handed him a silver plate and fork, embossed with twining vines and stamped with the royal crest. The napkin was made of finer linen than Sairis’s shirt. “Would you like any other refreshment, sir?”
Sairis shook his head, and she departed without announcing him. I shouldn’t eat or drink anything here, he told himself. It could be laced with poison or magic. But everyone else was eating, and he could not decern the faintest trace of an aura on anything. It was becoming increasingly obvious to Sairis that these people had no idea how to construct a complex magical trap. I may be here all day. I cannot afford to be faint with hunger.
