by Amy Lane
“Courtland? You mean… that Courtland? He’s the most demanded stud in Eiran, Otham, and the Old Man Hills!”
Torrant smiled slyly. “His pleasure paid our tuition, that’s a certain thing,” he agreed, and then he was sober. “He was the peak of Owen Moon’s career as a breeder. It was the best gift he could have given Yarri, if he knew what was going to happen.”
Trieste looked at him shrewdly. “You mean the best gift you could have given her.”
Torrant flushed. “I just couldn’t leave the old boy to be sold to Rath, that’s all.” He shrugged, and they resumed their task of grooming until the grit from the horse’s bodies covered their palms and rubbed between their fingers and Trieste’s hands ached from the unaccustomed grip on the grooming brush. A quiet fell into the shade of the stable, saturating the moment until even the dust motes from the vents overhead seemed to patter as they twinkled in the sun.
“You need to keep the fact that you’re not really Ellyot Moon a secret,” Trieste said finally. Her voice was soft, but the silence had been so complete that even the horses flickered their ears for a moment.
“Why?” Aldam asked. He was hanging up his grooming brush after moving on from Clover to Cannonball, and Torrant was on Cannonball’s other side, finishing up.
“Because otherwise, Yarri’s in danger,” Trieste said baldly, and Torrant dropped his brush with a clatter.
“Why?” he demanded, putting the brush back as though he’d never dropped it and patting Cannonball’s gray-spotted haunch as if in reflex.
“Did anybody come after the two of you, after you arrived in Eiran?” she asked, watching Aldam carefully. Torrant was harder to read. There had been a couple of moments in his story when she had been sure there was more to the tale, but she couldn’t judge from his expression accurately enough what it might be. But Aldam—it was like reading a child’s book, printed in big letters with bold colors.
Aldam looked startled and terrified, and his round, blue eyes went immediately to Torrant’s. Bull’s eye, thought Trieste, but not very happily. It was obviously a bad memory.
“Yes,” Torrant said shortly after a brief headshake at Aldam. He put away the grooming brushes and the horse tackle.
“Well….” Trieste pushed her hair back—most of it had fallen out of her braid anyway. It was a fine, dark mass that never seemed to stay in place, but she was surprised at how much of it she’d allowed to escape.
“Well, what?” Torrant looked at her sideways, and she—dammit!—still couldn’t read him.
“Well… what happened to them?”
The boys met eyes again. “They left.” He smiled gently at her then, cocking his head just a little. “And that’s what we’re going to do with this subject, yes? We’re going to leave it. Now tell us why we should let people think I’m Ellyot.”
They left the stable, and although it was still early, the sun was disappearing behind the trees and the rim of hills that made the edge of the valley bowl. The evening smelled like redwoods and earth and contented horses.
Trieste sighed and thought about saying something vague, and then felt the pull from those beautiful eyes and that lovely smile to be nothing but honest. “Because if what you told me is true, you crossed Hammer Pass in winter to keep a little girl safe, and if anything my parents have told me is true, the heir to the Moon holdings in Clough would still be in danger. If people think that’s you, and they know where you are, you should be good. If people think that’s her, and that she’s vulnerable, she may not be.”
“Mm.” Torrant nodded calmly, and Trieste watched in fascination as a pulse at his neck throbbed. She suddenly could sense, through all her nongifted pores, that he was within a breath and a half of turning back to the stable and riding over hill and dale to get to the little girl he’d told her about.
He heaved a breath, blinked at the stab of the sun in his eyes over the hills, and then turned to her with a soft, helpless expression. “They’ll leave her alone—you think?”
Trieste nodded. “Of course. Clough doesn’t think much of women in Regents’ positions anyway. But Ellyot… he would have had his father’s voice in the council.”
Torrant shook his head. “Owen… he never told us about those things.” His lips crinkled. “I was hoping to learn those things here.”
Curiosity pushed against Trieste’s thoughts. “What will you do with them?”
Torrant shrugged, blushed, turned away. “Know why.”
Trieste frowned. “Why what?”
“Why any of it. Why our family’s death. Why the persecution. Why can’t three moons sail the same sky. Why?”
The words hung between them for a moment, and Trieste searched for something, anything, to say to him. “I know Aldam heals. It’s in his course schedule. What is your gift?”
He suddenly locked eyes with her, and they were every bit as mesmerizing as the last time. “I make things true.” His voice was soft and a little bit teasing, and Trieste felt something inside her stomach and between her thighs flutter.
“There is one other thing,” Aldam said from surprisingly close, and Trieste gave a breathless little squeal, because she’d forgotten he was out there with them in the soft, summer twilight.
Torrant obviously hadn’t. He looked up and had a silent conversation with Aldam. “We won’t talk about that.”
“That’s fine,” Aldam said easily, and Trieste blinked. Abruptly she realized she’d been staring up at the young man from Eiran as though she were reading the future in the moons.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly, and she found herself backing up. “It’s late, I need to bathe, get to my room, get a good night’s sleep, you know; class is bright and early in two days, and you, at least, have enough courses for two men.”
“Good idea.” Ack! That lip curl was going to be the death of her. “Trieste?”
“Hmm?” she said over her shoulder as she was trying to make a graceful exit.
“If Aylan had asked you, would you have gone to his quarters?” Torrant’s voice was playful and low.
She tripped on a stick and fell flat on her face and then scrambled to her feet before either of the young men could arrive to help her. “I couldn’t….” She held her hands out in front of her, hoping she wasn’t being rude, but thinking she couldn’t possibly handle having a hand on her elbow right now. “I’m promised to the King of Otham when I graduate,” she said baldly, ignoring their gasps. “They just got rid of the virginity law in Otham. I would have to feel pretty strongly about someone to risk getting my head removed because I couldn’t keep my maidenhead, right?”
“Oh.” Torrant’s disappointed expression warmed her right to her toes.
“You’d be worth the risk.”
Before she could see what his reaction would be, she turned and fled, full skirts and scholar’s robes flying behind her as she ran.
Pretty Boys and Politics
THEY WATCHED her go bemusedly—it was dark enough that she blended into the cedar-scented twilight before she reached the door to the school.
“So, we let people believe you’re Ellyot Moon?” Aldam asked, a little worry line between his eyes.
“I don’t think we have to do anything about that,” Torrant told him thoughtfully. “Rumors seem to be pretty well established by now.”
“Did they really have virginity laws in Otham?” Aldam asked curiously as they both started for the school.
“They weren’t enforced. Lane says that their current king is pretty liberal as far as those things go.”
“Liberal enough for what you want to do with Trieste?” Aldam looked at him sideways.
“We’re not likely to find out, now are we?” Torrant retorted, fighting off that disappointment all over again. She had smelled like parchment, redwood trees, and horse. He’d liked that combination. “Besides—Yarri would kill me.”
“Yarri would get over it,” Aldam told him firmly. “She can’t expect you to live like a gelding.”
“Ouch!”
“And I think we will find out about the king of Otham,” he finished placidly. Torrant looked at him, brows lowered. “She looked very determined. You should schedule her in.”
Aldam was not far off: a liaison with anyone, Trieste or otherwise, would have to be scheduled in. Most courses scheduled a break of an hour or more between, but Torrant had filled those breaks with other courses. Between the extra courses and his seminar for gifted students—one of the few classes he enjoyed—he spent his first few weeks at Triannon in a perpetual state of feverish exertion. He found himself running from the science wing to the humanities wing so often and so quickly that his body—already honed from working the warehouse, riding horses, and playing gymnastics with Yarri in his spare time—leaned even further, and his sprinting time improved dramatically over the course of a few short weeks.
Trieste scolded him for it during their government class, one of two they had together.
“You’re getting too skinny!” Trieste hissed, sneaking him a handful of cookies wrapped in a napkin. She and Aldam had smuggled them out of the kitchen that morning when they saw that he’d missed another breakfast.
“I was practicing fencing,” he replied with a grimace. He had been thrilled to find that fencing was an elective. He hadn’t picked up a real sword since he and Ellyot had sparred that day long ago. But these young men had been fencing during that four-year interim, and he had some catching up to do. It didn’t help that Aylan was in his class, and any misstep Torrant made was met with a raised eyebrow and an offer for Aylan’s tutoring services. Torrant had mostly been able to ignore Aylan’s advances or counter them with his swordplay, but it helped if he was able to clock in his practice hours at a different time so they didn’t have to shower together. Torrant, who had spent much of his life in a public swimming hole with both genders, found he was suddenly very uncomfortable in the showers with Aylan.
“Are you trying to get too thin for the hit?” Trieste asked him sharply, and he returned a grin. She had a wicked sense of humor, and he had enjoyed her edgy banter in between (and sometimes during) their classes together. She also kept Aldam company during the meals he missed, and he was grateful. Aldam told him she and a few of the girls from her dorm had made a point to talk to him between every class. “They’ve made me feel very welcome,” Aldam had said earnestly—but Torrant had heard the girls talking in between classes and was pretty sure Aldam didn’t realize that his sweet-faced good looks had garnered him some admirers of his own.
“I’m just trying to avoid getting hit at all,” Torrant replied. “Or hit on for that matter.”
Trieste rolled her eyes in Aylan’s direction, who met her look of disgust with a smirk. He was currently chatting up a plump little blonde who had arrived after school had started. “Doesn’t he have enough conquests?” she hissed. “Tell him to go give himself a hearty handshake and get on with his day.”
Torrant choked back a guffaw just as their government professor walked in, and the two of them broke out parchment and pens and prepared to study. But today’s lecture was on Clough, and Torrant found he could not sit passively by and take notes.
Professor Kenneth had quickly become one of Torrant’s favorite teachers. He was a frowzy, graying man with long, bushy hair pulled up in a queue and eyebrows without as much discipline as the queue. His face was heavily lined, he had an impressive paunch, and he approached his subject with a grim sarcasm that often had Torrant, Trieste, and Aylan laughing out loud while the rest of the class scribbled furiously, unaware of the joke.
In the past few weeks, Torrant had learned that the monarchy of Otham was steadily evolving into a republic, and that this was thanks to its new and enlightened king. (“But not young!” Trieste had snorted in disgust, just loud enough for him to hear. “Fifteen years my senior is not young!”) He had learned that Eiran functioned on a combination of merchant oligarchy and democracy (both of which words seemed to him entirely too formal for the gathering of Lane and the rest of the town elders in the larger room at the barracks/town council hall). He had learned that the Old Man Hills was simply a network of valley villages, each one run by a council of elders. He had learned that the far-off Jeweled Lands and the slightly closer Garden Lands were each run by convocations of wizards with their own condottieri. And today, he learned that the man who had ordered soldiers to kill his family had not done so with the support of the government he was supposed to be leading. In fact, he had done it without their knowledge.
“So”—Torrant had raised his hand and was now, with some difficulty, keeping his calm—“you’re saying that the Goddess worshippers that Moon sheltered, treated like family, and allowed to help govern his lands, rose up and killed Owen Moon because he was kind?”
Professor Kenneth blinked. “I’m not saying it, Torrant. I’m telling you that’s what Rath has been telling the council that governs Clough.”
“But why would we… they do that?” Torrant tried hard to keep the anguish out of his voice, but something must have leaked out because the class was moving restively, turning their heads toward the student instead of the professor.
“I don’t know—Torrant, you were there. Why would they?” The professor was frankly curious, and Torrant was upset enough to answer him honestly.
“They wouldn’t! They were slaughtered in their sleep, just as the Moons were slaughtered awake. Rath….”
“Torrant!” Trieste hissed, and he flushed.
Professor Kenneth was obviously both taken aback and intrigued at the same time. He and Torrant stood—the only two standing in a room full of breathless students, hunkered over their desks and hoping something gossip-worthy would happen. The only exceptions were Trieste, who was grabbing at Torrant’s vest, and Aylan, who wouldn’t even let propriety get in the way of his frank curiosity about all things Torrant.
A thought seemed to occur to the professor, and he narrowed his eyes and phrased his next words very carefully. “All right, young man… let’s think this through for a moment.” He nodded slowly, and Torrant followed his lead. “If you were, say, a politician, and you’d just taken a very bold and brutal move to take out an enemy who supported the people you feared the most, how would you best avoid retaliation for this move from your council, many of whom liked and respected your enemy?”
Torrant blinked, felt that pressure at the back of his eyes, in the bottom of his throat and the roiling of his stomach, and managed a hoarse whisper. “It’s so obvious.”
Professor Kenneth nodded. “Only if you’re a sociopath bent on genocide,” he cracked gently, and Torrant gave out a humorless puff of air.
“They must know,” was all he could think to reply. “His council—they must know—they must. How could they not know?”
The professor shrugged. “From what I can see, Torrant, in the last four years, all of the older men in the council have vacated their positions, leaving younger sons and nephews as proxies and regents for them. You can make of that what you will. Blackmail, fear, unease, a willingness to let their younger, more powerless brethren do their work for them… but it does indicate that something is amiss. Rath’s wife was an elected official—she was elected from the council to the position of Queen. Rath took over during her pregnancy, and when she died, he was simply allowed to continue. What he’s done with it since, well, that’s a whole other story.”
“Why does he hate us so much?” The pressure was breaking. Torrant was going to up and weep, in front of all of the young men and women in his class, and he didn’t care as long as he got an answer to this particular question.
But there was no answer, and therefore, no comfort. “I don’t know.” A profound sorrow crossed Kenneth’s features. “I have no idea at all.”
And with that, Torrant could no longer hold his composure, could no longer hold on to anything at all. Without looking at Trieste’s anxious face, steeped in compassion, he left the room, any curiosity about the rest of the class turned to
sand.
Trieste rose to go after him, but Aylan beat her to it, and neither one of them questioned that the professor would let them go.
“He doesn’t need a bedmate right now,” Trieste muttered as they fought for position at the door.
“My sentiments exactly, Spots,” Aylan snapped back, and Trieste was so surprised she let him go through the door first and then pursued doggedly at his heels.
“Then why would you go running after him to offer comfort,” she demanded, grabbing his arm and whirling him around to face her.
Aylan smiled, a devastating event in itself, and Trieste felt a reluctant curl of attraction in her belly. The Goddess really had put all her gifts in one basket with this one, she thought in disgust, and then he spoke and confirmed it. “He doesn’t need a bedmate. He needs an opponent. It’s not you, it’s not poor Aldam—it’ll have to be me, then.”
“What do you get out of it?” she asked suspiciously. Torrant was rapidly becoming dear to her—in whatever capacity—and she refused to abandon him to Aylan’s often cruel agenda.
“They just reinstated the virginity law in Clough—did you know that, Spots?”
Goddess! “No, but what does that….”
“And the birth-out-of-wedlock law, and no property rights for the gifted, and the right to hang midwifes as witches.”
“Holy gods!” She was appalled—these laws were barbaric, terrifying. Even Otham had banned them.
“And the faggot laws,” Aylan finished viciously, his usual insouciance completely burned away in the blazing of his bluer-than-blue eyes.
“The what?” Trieste hadn’t heard of the last one.
“Men who bunk other men, Spots, and women who bed other women,” Aylan spelled out, too angry to have used her horrid nickname out of anything but habit. “We get crucified on the blighted gates of Dueance….” He took a controlling breath and visibly pulled back his composure. “And I rather like my beds made out of down, if you don’t mind.”
