by T. A. Miles
The constable turned and left with Merran following. Korsten stared after them, dumbfounded. He knew what had been said to him, but at the same time he didn’t. He decided to sit down before his knees gave out. Afterward he didn’t move for a long time.
Hours had passed. Korsten felt as if he’d been placed under house arrest and consequentially as if the aging man who respectfully entered his library had come to announce that the sentence had been lifted. He looked up from his reading with hope in his eyes, hope that someone had come, Hedren and Merran with news or Renmyr just with himself.
“Milord,” Donnel began. While Korsten waited eagerly, he added, “Penna has prepared you a small plate. Will you be taking it in here?”
Korsten didn’t usually take the midday meal at all and he didn’t have much of an appetite now. Penna often tried to feed him, however, when she was worried about him, as if food were a cure for all ills. He didn’t like to offend the woman, but today he was in no mood for diplomacy, domestic or otherwise.
“I’m not hungry, Donnel,” he finally said. “Perhaps Cedi would like it added to his plate.” Knowing that the mentioned stable hand had never opposed food once in his years working for Fand and now for Korsten, he felt satisfied that neither the food nor Penna’s efforts would be wasted and expected everyone else to be as well.
Donnel made no argument and left him alone.
Another hour slipped by. Korsten abandoned his library, visited the parlor briefly for its view of the street and the direction he believed Hedren and Merran would be coming from, then headed upstairs. He walked the passages slowly, absorbing the loneliness of a household that had been small in Haddowyn to begin with, reduced now to one family member and a handful of servants who Korsten segregated himself from for more reasons than just keeping the nature of Renmyr’s visits a secret. He’d never been particularly fond of the company of others in large numbers.
He’d come from a large family, lived in a house with not only his parents and sisters, but a great many cousins as well, along with his grandparents on his father’s side. Sethaniel presided over an enormous brood, considering the average size of a household in Cenily, and of them, in spite of all his efforts to go unnoticed, the one who stood out greatest was Korsten. He was the only one of seventeen children with hair red enough to almost rival the roses that bloomed throughout the estate during summer. He was the only boy who didn’t enjoy the hunts, who would make swordplay appear some form of dance—and little else—and who preferred chasing butterflies to chasing girls. Of course, that didn’t stop the girls chasing him. He didn’t really mind it at first. At a very young age it was a silly, meaningless game. Between the ages of twelve and fourteen it was boring, but also a way at gaining allies, since the other boys had taken to disliking him by then. In their eyes he was too arrogant and vain, holding himself too good for the rest of them. They all preferred swords to books—battle weapons—as they all had aspirations to become soldiers and be the single deciding factor in a war to unite Edrinor at last. Korsten didn’t want anything to do with war and tried to avoid the topic whenever able, lest Sethaniel get it into his head that his only son would do better in the region’s armed ranks.
When he wasn’t hiding amongst the girls, Korsten hid in the conservatory or the library while his male enemies—prone to games that involved chasing after and pummeling—looked for him elsewhere. The only enemy who ever thought to find him lost in music or in books was his father. Korsten pretended to play or read through the berating lectures that ensued, but at the edge of every note plucked from the harpsichord and every word deciphered from an ancient text, he could hear his father’s anger and resentment. It always made him cry before it was done and that always made Sethaniel angrier.
During one particularly unpleasant tirade, Korsten’s father claimed that his son was so frail and his behavior so feminine he could put him in one of his sisters’ gowns and no one would be any the wiser. He stormed away in exasperation, perhaps believing that his son hadn’t heard a word he’d said, since Korsten failed to shed even one tear that time.
At the very next autumn festival, just a week shy of his fifteenth birthday, Korsten did the unthinkable. With help from some of his female allies, who appreciated a bit of wicked humor, he devised a costume for the masquerade that consisted of one of his eldest sister’s discarded gowns, some rouge, and a feathered mask and hat. That night he proved his father right. No one recognized him, not even Sethaniel, who brushed past Korsten and his entourage of cohorts on more than one occasion during the festivities. Korsten didn’t know exactly how he felt about that, but undoubtedly he had gone a bit insane with anger, as he came very near to unmasking himself before his father. He was on the verge of making the direst mistake of his life when something rather unexpected happened.
Korsten and his conspirators had done too fine a job on his costume and he had acquired the attention of a young man from another house. Rather than rescue him, the girls in his company encouraged the error. Korsten had no option but to play along or be caught in such a way that would render the Brierly house the target of all ridicule in Cenily for many years to come. For an offense of that magnitude, Korsten—as extreme an adolescent as he happened to have been—had no doubt that his father would have him publicly executed. He assumed the role of a lady for a time and when the young man belonging to the Mortannis household tried to engage him in conversation, he didn’t attempt to mask his voice, but spoke very softly, using the androgynous satin tone his music instructor claimed he had when singing. It seemed to be working and it wasn’t so terrible to be led on the ballroom floor when etiquette commanded he accept the youth’s invitation to dance. He could imagine worse things happening. Fortunately, he hadn’t quite attained his full height yet and his partner, who was at least two if not three years his elder, was tall himself, else it could have appeared a very awkward arrangement indeed.
All seemed to be going well enough until it came time for a stroll out of doors, away from others, where the young man stole a kiss that evolved into a second; Korsten’s first such exchange. He hadn’t planned it. He didn’t even think that he wanted to be kissed up until the moment it happened. It was in that moment that Korsten felt what his cousins claimed to feel when stealing kisses from young ladies. It went no further. Korsten escaped before it could come to what he thought would be the worst embarrassment of his life.
The autumn festivities continued into the following day. Members of neighboring houses lingered on Brierly land and, for sake of diplomacy, Korsten was forced to partake of a hunt. Considering what he’d gotten away with the night before, he opted not to press his luck and went with the other boys, detesting every moment of their eager tracking of a defenseless stag through the forest. He got lost on purpose and was not happy to be found less than an hour after his plotted disappearance. It was a member of the Mortannis family who found him, the very same handsome older boy who had kissed him the night before. The youth had come alone and told Korsten that he’d never seen him look more beautiful than he did at the masquerade, just before stealing another kiss. The confusion that followed that moment led to Korsten trying to be closer to some of his female friends, failing utterly as he continued to think things he knew he shouldn’t have been thinking about Firard Mortannis, the future lover that would see to his disgrace and exile. It wasn’t intentional—without doubt, Firard had suffered his own familial retribution—but at the time it seemed hardly worth it. They would not have stayed together anyway.
And now he found himself in the midst of another deception, at another masquerade, once again not as clever as he imagined. Hedren knew and acted now as if he’d known all along. Had Fand told him? If so, why would he? Especially to hear the manner in which the constable went on about Renmyr.
Korsten entered his bedroom when he came to it and left the door open, not planning to linger. He didn’t really need anything from the room; he was simply wander
ing, waiting. He’d thought to be at the governor’s manor long before now, trying to persuade him to meet with Merran once more. He didn’t like the fashion in which he’d been refused a visit. That was not typical of Ithan, miserable or not. Edmore had been unwell for two years. If he’d gotten all that much worse, Renmyr would have said something.
And what was Renmyr doing just at this moment? Still brooding? Arguing with his father about what he’d seen in the woods perhaps? Riding into town at this very moment? The waiting was getting to be unbearable. How could he, deputy to the governor of Haddowyn, one of the most influential towns left in northern Edrinor, be so powerless? He’d been as much as told by a man ranking beneath him to do nothing, as if it was none of his concern.
I suppose I’m not as good at this as you, Uncle. I’ve probably let Hedren handle too much all along. Yes, Ithan may not have anything against me, but what does he truly know of my qualifications to hold this office, except that I’m doing things efficiently enough not to put any further stress on him while he concentrates almost solely on losing his son? And if Edmore has gotten worse, why did he lie about it in his letter? This is all so confusing.
After a few moments more of silently observing the room’s emptiness, Korsten turned back toward the door, determining to do something other than wait. He was pleasantly shocked to find a young man standing in the doorway, just inside the room. If he hadn’t been so thrilled to see Markam alive and uninjured he would have recalled that the boy’s presence in his bedchamber was a breach in etiquette and a violation of his privacy he could not have allowed otherwise. At the moment, however, he didn’t care about etiquette or personal boundaries, not beyond keeping himself from going to the lad and throwing his arms around him. In that respect, he held himself at a proper distance and smiled at him, deciding in the midst of his elation that he would scold the youth for worrying everyone later.
“Markam, where in Heaven have you been? You’re not hurt at all, are you?”
The boy’s eyes regarded him strangely. That they regarded him at all without persuasion or command was strange. Markam never met Korsten’s gaze directly and if he ever did, it was only for an instant and nothing readily recalled. He usually looked just beyond him or at the floor. Korsten had never demanded or encouraged such behavior, but he hadn’t tried to discourage it either. The boy was simply too shy … and now he wasn’t.
Korsten’s relieved smile left him as the boy continued to stare and he began to wonder if he wasn’t hurt after all. “Markam? What….”
“You’re very beautiful,” the young man suddenly said.
Korsten couldn’t decide whether to thank him or reprimand him for such a bold statement. He did neither. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? Perhaps you’d better go lie down and I’ll have Donnel….”
Markam smiled. “I’ve always thought you were beautiful.” His eyes began to wander, as they should not have been, taking in all of the older man standing before him. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about … since I arrived here.”
A little firmness seemed in order here. “Markam, it is clear to me that you are not yourself. Go to your room at once and I’ll send Donnel to….” His voice tapered to stunned silence as the younger man stepped further into the room, then quietly guided the door closed. Was he ill? He didn’t look at all well. Perhaps he had fallen off his mount while riding and struck his head. Odd that Hedren and Merran didn’t come across him first.
“I’ve heard you,” Markam continued, sounding not at all like the porter Korsten thought he knew. There was something almost mature about his voice, not necessarily adult—a sane adult wouldn’t have been behaving like this—but older somehow. “I’ve listened to you … with him.”
“What are you….” Korsten couldn’t finish the question. He knew very well what the young man was talking about anyway and he suddenly felt not only affronted, but ill as well.
Markam didn’t seem to care and he dared to continue, moving slowly forward. “I’ve seen him as well … putting his hands on you … and kissing you.”
Korsten flushed in spite of the authority he was trying to enforce. “Markam, I insist that you stop this at once.”
Markam didn’t stop. In fact, he came even nearer. “All those times that I was listening in the hall and those fewer moments when I dared to peek through the keyhole, I was wishing that I could be him.” Markam came to within an arm’s length of Korsten and smiled once again. “If I could lie with you, just once, I would—”
Korsten lost himself and backhanded the younger man. “That’s enough! I don’t know what’s gotten into you….”
Markam turned his face back to him, his cheek red, his once smiling lips now frowning. He lunged forward and grabbed the front of Korsten’s shirt in both fists, pushing him backward with unexpected force. Korsten’s shoulder bumped the edge of the fireplace mantel just before his back hit the wall. Once again, pain failed to register. Images of Areld with his chest and throat ripped open suddenly assailed his thoughts and it finally struck him that Markam may not have been acting like himself because he literally wasn’t himself.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” the youth snarled. “Can you possibly imagine the torment of witnessing the one you want with another?”
“Markam, stop this,” Korsten commanded more carefully. “You don’t realize what you’re doing.”
The younger man opened his hands and laid them flat upon Korsten’s chest, his features relaxing as he stared at him with an admiration that frightened more than it flattered. “I do want you … so much.”
“No, Markam. You don’t. You’re not yourself. What you need … is to rest now.”
Markam didn’t seem to agree. His fingers curled toward the top button of Korsten’s shirt, pushing it slowly through the hole. The next one followed. “I want to hear you sigh … like you sigh for him.”
Korsten’s blood pounded while an unpleasant churning stirred in his gut. He wanted to get away, to shove Markam away, but he couldn’t will himself to move. He knew that he could move, but it was as if he didn’t have the ambition in spite of any disgust, anger, or fear he may have felt, all of which increased tenfold when the changed young man pushed his shirt open and touched his lips to Korsten’s skin. It wasn’t that the youth was repulsive. Korsten had caught himself admiring Markam’s appearance more than once, but never with anything like this on his mind, nothing close. He hadn’t had any idea how Markam felt—if he truly felt this way—and he would have done everything in his power to discourage an infatuation, up to and including dismissing the lad from his service. He cared about him, as he could have cared about one of his cousins, if they hadn’t always been taunting him. The thought of being intimate with Markam, or any other boy, for that matter, disgusted him. Particularly distressing was the possibility that Markam may not have been a boy anymore, but a demon, one possessed by the Vadryn … who Hedren and Merran had spent hours searching for. Could they have found him … and been…. “So soft,” Markam whispered into Korsten’s chest, adding to his rapidly increasing duress. “So sweet. I’ve dreamt about the taste of you upon my lips.” The youth lifted his face to Korsten’s neck. “But he was always here. I knew you’d never want me in his place … not even if he died. Not unless I made you want me.” His breath felt cold, in spite of the warmth of his unwanted kisses. “This isn’t how I wanted it … but now there is no time. Forgive m—”
The seduction ended. With the suddenness of a blanket being torn away, Markam and his will were gone. Korsten felt suddenly chilled, exposed, and dizzy. He sank toward the floor, loosely aware of the struggle that was taking place in front of him. Two individuals were wrestling, pushing one another about the room … toppling furniture. They managed to miss going through a window, but the drapes tore on one side and slipped to the floor. The scuffling continued. Something glass shattered as it hit the floor behind the clatte
r of what sounded like a small table. Someone cried out and then there came a long silence. Not the silence of victory, but of … Korsten pulled out of his shock and focused … on Hedren choking the life out of Markam.
“Hedren!” Korsten scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees. “Hedren, stop!”
The older and younger men continued in their struggle. Korsten reached out to stop them, withdrawing at once as he looked upon Markam’s face, twisted with an inhuman rage. He looked monstrous, as if no trace of the boy remained, except in the basic outside appearance. His eyes were dark, afire, and his snarl included fangs, like Areld’s, much longer than those belonging in any human mouth.
Korsten wasn’t sure what to do. Where was Merran?
Markam’s fingers scratched at the constable’s arms, shredding his shirtsleeves and the skin beneath. Though the demon made him stronger, the boy was still not strong enough to rise against Hedren’s weight or his determination. He was running out of air. He was going to die.
“Hedren, don’t!” Instinct took over again and Korsten reached for the constable’s shoulder. He rose and began prying the older man away from his victim. “Merran said he can be saved! Don’t kill him!”
“Merran’s dead!” Hedren growled, shrugging Korsten away. “This bastard brat laid a trap for him, caught him by surprise! Tried to kill the both of us … then shot back this way! Should have … guessed … little bastard! Die!”
“Hed—”
Markam went limp. His clawing hands slipped away from Hedren’s bleeding arms and for a moment there was utter stillness. Korsten’s heart rattled against his ribcage. He had to breathe through his mouth, else risk suffocating himself as his lungs insisted that they needed air in larger, quicker amounts. He’d felt the same terror when Areld attacked him, but now he felt remorse as well, and sadness. The scene became particularly dismal and final, it seemed, when poor Markam began to bleed from his mouth, as if whatever was inside him had died as well.
