As she sorted through the tanned pelts Warin had saved for their own use, she saw a dull gleam at the cupboard's very back--an ornate silver tray, black with tarnish. She eased it out of its hiding place. So fine a thing. Where had he gotten it? Why had he concealed it? She wondered once more about his past, and then her own. Who was she? Who were her people? Obviously from the east, in Leute. They should have found her by now. She wasn't sure she cared.
The sun vanished behind a cloud. She put the featherbed and ticking back on the bed and shut the windows, just in time; a rainstorm began pattering against the roof, and she threw another log on the fire. She ate her dinner alone, and spent the evening snugged by the hearth polishing the tarnished tray, though in the end she had to satisfy herself with a still-clouded shine.
Warin returned the next day to dinner and an avalanche of kisses. "I've been gone just one day!" he laughed. "Tomorrow I'll travel to the village and be gone the week. I did very well in my foraging. When I come back, I'll have some presents for you."
"What will you bring me!" she cajoled. "Tell me, tell me!"
"Linen for a summer dress, ribbons for your hair--and a ring for your finger. I can't marry you, Emmae--no, listen to me, don't look away like that. It's nothing to do with how I found you. I can't explain--I can't marry anyone. You'll always have to wear my ring on your right hand, not your left. But it will be you, only you, forever. Will you have me, even though we can't stand before Pagg?"
"Of course I'll have you, Warin, Pagg's blessing or no. I would have no one else, either." He kissed her, then, and their passion grew until Warin lifted her onto the table and made love to her, both too impatient to walk to the bed.
Leaning against the wall unnoticed, the tray reflected a murky image of their joined bodies in the firelight.
Far away, a Prince of Tremont sat before a mirror in Tremont Keep, contemplating not his own reflection, but the scene in the cottage. "Warin finally grew careless," he said. "With a wench--who'd have thought my brother the hermit would risk a woman, with his birth prophecy. Wine, boy."
"Yes, Your Highness." A blond young man just out of boyhood rose gracefully, filled the Prince's cup and returned to sitting on his knees at his master's feet. He followed his master's gaze into the mirror; a sort of haze obscured the image. Gian hadn't seen the man in the reflection for ten years, when he himself had been a boy of seven; just before he exiled himself, Warin had come to Casalaria, the seat of the Duke of Valleysmouth and Gian's childhood home. At the time, the Heir's close resemblance to Gian's master had shocked him.
The brothers still looked alike, he thought, looking up at Hildin: dark hair, deep brown eyes, the angular planes of their faces. While Warin's face was soft, intent on his woman, Hildin's was hard. He had all the dominance Gian himself lacked, and he'd obeyed his cousin as soon as he'd come to think of anything at all; Hildin was his master in everything.
Gian leaned into the Prince's side, returning his gaze to the mirror, and Hildin placed an absent hand on his fair head. "She's beautiful, isn't she? I wonder what backwater he found her in. Sit in my lap, Gian, I think you want a better view." Gian jumped up and took his place, nestling into the taller man. The nearness of the man he loved, and the couple's slow, sensuous movements in the mirror, brought him to hardness, a clear outline against the soft fabric of his tunic. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" said Hildin in lazy amusement. The Prince's hand pressed against his length, and he closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," he said in a low voice. "Should I not be?"
"Enjoy yourself all you'd like." Hildin reached under Gian's tunic and opened his hose. "Though I wish to see your need. Show me." He took Gian's cock in his hand and stroked it, slow and deliberate. "Tell me how much you want that woman. You do, don't you? You imagine yourself in my brother's place between her thighs."
"Yes, my Lord," said Gian, voice straining. "I want her. I want you to watch me take her, I want to suck at those tits."
"You always did like a good pair. We'll go and fetch her presently, as soon as he's left her alone. Perhaps I'll give her to you when I'm done with her." Hildin removed his hand. Gian groaned, and moved to touch himself, but the Prince stopped him. "I decide your satisfaction, and I say no." Gian groaned again, his cock twitching as it hardened even more. "She's more than a simple slut to him. See how they cling to one another?" said the Prince. Warin's movements quickened; the woman urged him on, crying out, though they could not hear her. Gian shifted in his master's lap, grinding against the erection he knew he'd find there. "Down," growled Hildin; Gian dropped to his knees, unfastened the Prince's leggings, and took his master in his mouth. "A pretty picture, my brother and his woman. I--intend--to alter it," said Hildin, the words catching as Gian began to suck. The Prince gripped Gian's head, fucking his mouth as he moaned in submission. Tears streaked down Gian's cheeks--they always did. Who could stand against him, thought Gian, and then he thought of nothing but his master thrusting down his throat.
* * * * *
Temmin left the book, desperately aroused. He couldn't say what provoked him more: Warin and Emmae's lovemaking, or the strange scene at the end. He gripped the table's edge and reached for quelling thoughts, anything to dull the book's effects. He turned to the story. "So it's Hildin the Usurper," he stammered.
"Still Prince Regent. King Gethin had slipped into senility by this time," answered Teacher.
"He had magic too? How many people held it?"
"Only the men of the royal bloodline. At this time, King Gethin still held most of it, though he could not use it. Warin held a considerable amount, then Hildin, and so on. The further from the throne, the less magic one possessed."
"Where did it go? How did we lose it?"
"Another story for another time."
Teacher said no more, and Temmin's thoughts drifted back to the two men at the end. Could one call that sex? The page focused so completely on pleasing the Prince, and Hildin didn't seem to care in the least; he expected it. It wasn't anything like what had happened with Alvo. "Why did Gian think of Hildin as his master? I mean, Hildin was his lord, yes, but 'master' seemed to mean more than that."
"Some people have a deep need to serve. Gian was one of them."
"Servants need to serve, certainly," said Temmin. "But none of 'em seem to want that!" The most disagreeable image of Mattie came to mind, and he flushed, fidgeting further in his chair.
"Servitude--true servitude--crosses the boundaries of class, wealth, power and gender," said Teacher. "Some are born with the need, some acquire it. If you decide to chase the Obbys, you will become quite familiar with the condition. The Temple deals with it all the time, though many seek private arrangements outside a religious framework."
Something in Issak's demeanor reminded Temmin of Hildin--not that Issak was cruel, as far as he knew, but he could see Issak commanding someone like Gian. He could see someone kneeling at Issak's feet, Issak's hand stroking a fair head, Issak sliding into a crying young man's willing mouth--
"I think I'm done with lessons for today," said Temmin.
"We are done when we are done, Your Highness," said Teacher. "I do not wonder that you are thinking on Hildin and Gian. You are due to be matched with a Mentor soon."
A Mentor. Temmin considered his older cousins and their Mentors. Sometimes their Mentors treated them with fatherly regard, sometimes with brotherly affection, and sometimes with open lust in the case of the handsome ones; most of his cousins tolerated it, and one or two of them reveled in being a more powerful older man's temporary confidant and bedmate. "Mentoring is rather like those two, isn't it? I mean, Mentors are older, and so was Hildin. Though not much older, was he. Ten years or so? And the Mentor has a great deal more experience and power than his Student, but then, that's rather the point, isn't it? To learn what the Mentor knows, to become friends with those in the Mentor's circle who can benefit him? It's that power thing you're always going on about." Temmin looked up at Teacher, too inter
ested for bashfulness. "But what does the Mentor get out of it? Is it just the sex?"
“For some, it is the sex. For others, the service--teaching what one knows. For many, I suspect it is the chance to relive one’s youth through another. Some Mentors and Students do not ever touch one another. Perhaps most.”
"You'd never say that if you saw my cousins with their Mentors!"
"One wishes to keep up appearances," said Teacher. "The relationship between Mentor and Student is considered the most perfect, the most pure, a union of equals, at least in terms of class and education. Who would wish to proclaim himself a failure at that?"
"One of my cousins is still with his Mentor, and it's been years since they should have ended," mused Temmin. "I wonder who Papa is considering for me. I mean, I'm the Heir--no family is more powerful than ours. So I suppose I'd be matched with someone I can learn from--" He looked up, wide-eyed with a sudden thought: "It's not you, is it?" he said.
His tutor raised one elegant eyebrow. Temmin had never noticed the fineness of Teacher's face, the contrast of the soft mouth and sharp jaw, the smooth, pale skin betraying no sign of the years, the luminous, pale eyes--a face between handsome and beautiful, compelling in whispers. Teacher put two long, slender fingers under Temmin's chin. The unnerving, sensual mouth approached his own; his heart quivered, and he closed his eyes, unable to look into the intense silver. Teacher's cool, smooth cheek rested against his own.
He had nearly surrendered himself to a surprising swoon of anticipation, when a puff of breath hit his ear: "No," said Teacher in a laughing voice.
Temmin opened his eyes. "It's not funny."
Teacher pulled back, keeping hold of Temmin's chin. "Oh, I find it highly amusing."
"Don't make fun of me," he said, trying to wrench free.
Teacher gripped him tighter than Temmin could ever have guessed. "I am not making fun of you, Temmin. I am trying to get you to pay attention. You had no conception of or desire for anything between us, and yet I led you straight into it. You must learn to lead yourself, or at the least consciously choose to follow, instead of letting yourself be lulled along." Teacher let him go. "I do this with great fondness for you, whether you believe me or not."
Temmin gave a small, appalled shudder and looked away, composing himself. He schooled his face into something more poised, and said, "Has my father discussed Mentors with you?"
"To be sure. He wishes to match you with someone he needs to court politically, in the same manner as your sisters' marriages. There has been some talk of the Duke of Barle."
Temmin recoiled. "Barle? That hideous, boring old man? He can't even choose his carriage horses properly."
"It would be politically expedient. But if you go to the Temple, you will not receive a Mentor."
"Why not?"
"You would not have time. You are seeing Allis Obby this Neyaday?" said Teacher.
"Yes," said Temmin, surprised. "How'd you know?"
"She told me. But I assure you, anything private between you stays with her. I will never hear about it, even though Allis and Issak are dear to me--the closest I shall ever have to children, save one. If you want to understand these things, talk to them--study with them. The Lovers' Temple can teach you a great deal about 'these things.' Their tutelage would augment your studies of the History immensely--practical application of what you learn from the Book."
"She told you I'm considering chasing them, didn't she."
"Your Highness, your behavior has made it quite clear--she did not need to. It is all over the City. Everyone knows."
An icy spike at Temmin's groin killed any remaining, pleasant discomfort. "And does everyone know I...qualify?"
"Everyone has guessed by now," said Teacher in a gentle murmur.
"Pagg's own balls, I'll never live it down whether I go to the Temple or not! That damn Fennows--next time I see him, he'll be one big smirk!"
"Are you not getting along with your new companion?"
"Companion. Ha! I can't bear him. I've managed to avoid him since my ball."
"Strange. I heard you got quite drunk with him that night."
"I couldn't stand him any other way," said Temmin.
"Perhaps you might lay in a stock of wuisc, then," said Teacher. "I have been told he is staying at the Keep while his family retires to their seat at Maryakuspa on urgent business."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. I will be leaving you to attend to one another for the day, with or without inebriation, and shall see you on Eddinday."
A day alone with that wretch, thought Temmin. Well, perhaps he could ride.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In fact, Fennows could not ride. Fennows couldn't do anything. Temmin watched a groom trying, and failing, to give the spotty young man a foot-up onto his horse. Fennows abused the poor groom the whole time: did the groom know who he was--disrespectful cur--clumsiest groom in Tremont, he should think. And he got away with it! The groom didn't blink an eye. If Temmin had used that tone at home, he'd have found out what was what. But none of the grooms met Temmin's eyes this morning, merely pressing their knuckles to their foreheads or bowing, and all of them eyeing Fennows when they thought the Heir wasn't looking. It all conspired to deepen Temmin's already-sour mood.
"You will entertain Lord Fennows tomorrow, Temmin, and from time to time while he is with us as your studies permit," King Harsin had said the night before. "His father is important to me politically. Learn to like him. Is he really so bad?" he'd added at Temmin's sour face.
He was really that bad, thought Temmin now, watching Fennows jounce gracelessly into the Woods. Impatience got the better of him; he tapped Jebby in the sides, and galloped past His Lordship without so much as a glance behind him. Not long after, though, his conscience caught up, and he slowed to a walk; Fennows came puffing up at an awkward canter. "That really was unreasonable, I should think, Temmy!" he wheezed.
The unwarranted use of his nickname overrode any prickings at Temmin's conscience, however small. "It's unreasonable to waste the day," he snapped. "Keep up or go home! Gidyap, Jeb!" The big horse tore down the War Road, leaving the enraged Fennows gasping in the saddle.
Temmin didn't see Fennows until he returned to the stables for lunch, to be served in Temmin's study. They walked from the stables, through the mudroom--though Fennows disapproved of any door but the main one--and up the Residence Wing stairs in silence. Temmin knew he should apologize for his behavior, and disgorged a sort of one: "I'm sorry you couldn't keep up this morning."
Fennows immediately brightened. "Oh, that's all right, Temmy old thing," he said in an ingratiating tone that made Temmin regret the apology, as imperfect as it was. "I know you're quite the horseman, and riding isn't in my line."
"I really don't care for my childhood nickname any more, Percy," said Temmin as they entered his study.
"Oh, that's all right, you can call me Percy all you'd like--well! Hello!"
Standing near the bookshelves was Arta. She fumbled her feather duster in surprise, recovered herself, and turned her face to the wall.
"Arta--Dannikson, don't do that! You know I hate it," said Temmin in exasperation.
"I can see why. Want to see as much of that face as possible, I should think, though the back view ain't bad. A prime bit!" Fennows whispered, nudging Temmin and ignoring the Prince's answering glare.
Arta was in fine looks, a cluster of curls wisping at her nape, her hazel eyes clear and bright, if anxious. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, it's a habit," she quavered, turning to face them. "I was told to dust the upstairs studies, and I thought I'd be able to finish this one before you were due home, sir--I'm very sorry!"
"I'm not!" grinned Fennows. Arta blushed as red as her ribbons. "Spin round, my dear, let's get a good look at you!"
"No," said Temmin. He took Arta firmly by the elbow and escorted her through the door into the empty hall. "It's all right, you're not in trouble," he murmured. "Just stay away from Lord Fennows, or you'll be in trouble
, and not with me or Affton."
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to bother--"
He stopped her, and gave a furtive glance up and down the hall. "Arta, you didn't bother me," he said. He ran his thumb along her cheek, and chewed on his lip. "I don't want him anywhere near you. If he bothers you, you tell me. Promise me."
"Sir, you don't need to worry about someone like me."
"Promise me."
She took his hand from her cheek, her face troubled. "I promise."
"All right, then. Go on."
She disappeared down the service stairs, and he stalked back into his study to the smirking young lord. "Ah, I see where things lie, I'm no dull wit, I should think!" said Fennows.
"I'm sure I don't understand you," said Temmin, throwing his coat over the back of the green velvet couch.
Fennows chuckled. "You don't have to play coy with me, old thing! Last person in the world you have to play coy with when it comes to a little love! When did you land her? I should have snapped her up the minute I saw her, too! Those eyes--and nice tits under the livery, I'd wager, hey?"
Temmin advanced on him, his jaw tight; Fennows shrank, but held his ground. "You stay away from her, Percet Lord Fennows," he spat. "She is to be left alone, by you and everyone else, d'you understand me?"
"Never worry, never worry," said Fennows, hands before him. "She's your little bit, I shouldn't dream of poaching 'er."
"She's not my 'little bit,'" said Temmin.
"Eh?" blinked Fennows.
Just then, Jenks entered with lunch. Temmin's every glance pleaded, "Don't leave me alone with this idiot," but Jenks returned his mute entreaties with flinty unconcern and left once he'd set the meal on the little table by the window.
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