by Xenia Melzer
“And Sic, if you so much as touch a smith’s tool, you’ll keep Damon and the ravens company. I’ve already sent for a healer who’ll deal with your wounds. After that, you can rest for a while. Tomorrow your punishment will continue.”
Noran left the smithy without sparing his miserable slave another glance.
Only when his master’s footsteps had died away did Sic allow himself to cry with relief.
THE NEXT morning Sic was woken by a brutal kick in the ribs. Noran was looming over him with a cold expression and a strap in his hands.
Sic hurried to his knees, looking down demurely.
“Get up, you worthless piece of shit.” His master accentuated his order with another kick.
Sic hurried to obey, well aware that the other smiths were watching him with malicious gratification and couldn’t wait to witness his punishment. But he was too occupied with the pain exploding in his body with each movement to pay the additional humiliation too much attention. Lady Noemi had healed him just enough so he could work.
“Strip and lean across the anvil. Brace yourself.”
Obediently, the young man did as he was told.
“You count, aloud. Five blows. If you lose count, I’ll start anew.”
There was a hint of cruelty in the master smith’s voice, a cruelty that terrified Sic far more than Noran’s usual grumpiness. He’d always known that Lord Noran wasn’t a kind man, but despite his strictness and gruffness, he’d never been unjust. Now he seemed eager to punish Sic as brutally as possible. When Sic thought about how much he had disappointed him, he could even understand him.
When the first blow came, Sic concentrated on counting the blows correctly—which he managed to do, very much to his own surprise and Noran’s dismay. After his master discarded the strap, he allowed him to get up. A dark bundle fell to Sic’s feet.
“Wear this when working in the pits. Normal clothing is too good for that. The overseers there will give you something to wear for the stables.”
With trembling hands, Sic opened the bundle and put on the abrasive, dirty, brown linen trousers, a similar work coat, and rough, worn leather boots. The cloth rubbed his wounds uncomfortably; the shoes were too small and compressed his feet. After he was done dressing, Sic knelt down in front of Noran, his forehead on the ground.
His master watched him ungraciously. “What do you want, slave?”
Sic inhaled deeply. He knew how unreasonable and dangerous it was to talk to Noran when he was in such a dark, unforgiving mood, but he wanted to thank him, although he knew his gratitude wouldn’t be welcome. “I want to thank you, Master, because you let me live. You’re very generous.”
A derisive snort was the answer. “Don’t get any ideas. You’re only here and not raven’s fodder because Casto demanded repayment of a debt. If he hadn’t asked for your life, you’d be dead by now.”
Sic swallowed hard. So it wasn’t his master who valued his life even a little bit, but the young man he’d almost killed. He seriously wondered how foolish he could be.
How could he have ever thought that he meant more to his master than the mostly worthless—as Noran never tired of emphasizing—work force he provided. His heart sank.
The man Sic had built his world on would rather see him dead for what he had done than grant him a second chance.
Defeated by that insight, he waited for further instructions and then went on his way to the pits.
THE PITS held the secret of the immense, never-ending fertility of the Valley that bestowed regular, rich harvests to its people. It wasn’t a very pleasant secret, because there the waste of the inhabitants, the dung from the stables, and every other kind of organic muck was collected, mixed in an elaborate way, and turned, under constant care, into the precious black soil that made the Valley’s crops grow like crazy. It was hard, stinking work to break up the rotting mixture, transport it from one pit to the next as it developed, and cart the mature soil to the fields. During summer the smell was almost intolerable, but it was easier to work the soil. In winter the smell wasn’t so bad, but the frozen ground presented a different challenge.
Sic hacked at the stone-hard earth with a spade. With every movement, his pitiful coat chafed the wounds that had reopened at his jerky motions and were sending trickles of blood down his back. The cloth of his coat was so old and worn, it absorbed the fluid only slowly, which caused Sic additional pain when his sweat came in touch with his torn skin. But he didn’t dare to stop for a moment; he knew all too well that the overseers had every right to punish him should they deem it necessary. They all knew he was a traitor: the iron collar Noran had put on his neck a couple of days ago screamed his disgrace to the world.
Grimly he worked to wrest obedience from the obstinate ground, strangely glad about the monotonous task that kept him from thinking too much about the encounter waiting for him that afternoon.
Sic was afraid to meet Casto, not because he feared the punishment he was sure to suffer at his hand, but because he didn’t know how he could endure looking him in the eyes after his betrayal.
Sooner than he liked, the sun reached its zenith and an overseer led him to a trough of cold water. He was given a piece of hard soap and a bundle of fresh clothes. He washed in the freezing cold, grateful that it stopped the bleeding. After he finished, he went to the stables.
On his way Sic passed the place of execution, which he would have preferred to leave behind in a hurry, but a soft, pained whimper stopped him dead.
All that was left of the traitors who had been bound to the crosses were bones in the muddied, bloody snow. The wolves had obviously had a great feast. But Damon on his elevated poles was apparently still alive. The ravens had taken his eyes, and in some places his bones shone through, but the cold had slowed his bleeding. Against all odds, there was still a spark of life.
Shuddering, Sic wanted to go on his way, but a vitriolic voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Look closely, traitor, because this should have been your fate as well.”
With his head bowed low, Sic knelt in front of the Angel of Death. The powerful warrior approached him. Without warning, he kicked him so hard that Sic fell backward into the snow. Then the Angel of Death placed his boot on Sic’s throat.
“If it had been up to me, you’d be serving the ravens as a feast right now. I’m warning you, should you cause Casto the slightest trouble, you will answer to me. And believe me, when I’m done with you, you’ll wish to change places with that damn priest. Did you hear me?”
Sic nodded in silent terror. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen should he challenge the Angel of Death’s wrath again.
The demigod released him, turned around, and left. Trembling, with agonizing pain in his back where he was kicked, Sic staggered toward the stables.
Casto seemed to have waited for him. He was just giving orders to a stable boy and motioned his former friend to come closer.
Sic obeyed with a downcast look. In front of Casto, he knelt. “Master.”
Casto watched him coldly, but the expected outburst of anger didn’t come. Instead, he talked to Sic as if he was nothing more than a worker who served in the stables.
“There’s always a lot of work around here. Starting today, you’ll clean the tack. That should keep you occupied for the next few days.”
Casto turned to leave, but Sic stopped him. “Please, Master, am I allowed to talk?”
“If you insist.”
Sic looked up, directly into those beautiful blue eyes that had laughed with him so often in the past but were now cold and distant. His stomach churned guiltily. “I wanted to thank you, Master, for speaking on my behalf. I know an apology from me is not worth much, but I still want to tell you how sorry I am.”
Casto’s expression was frozen—not his usual arrogance that kept others at bay, but a protective mask that barely hid the pain Sic had caused him. “You’re right, your apology is worthless. I’ve spoken to Lord Noran on your behalf becau
se I think you deserve a second chance, but it doesn’t mean I care for you. Because of you, I almost died. You betrayed me, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you for that. I want you to do your work diligently and to not give me a reason to beat you, but should your behavior call for it, I won’t hesitate.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then get to work.”
Defeated, Sic got up to obey Casto’s commands. The chill in his former friend’s eyes reminded him that death was not necessarily the worst punishment.
2. Proposal
CASTO’S GAZE followed Sic when he went to do his bidding. The smith’s apology had almost softened him, but just in time he remembered what the young man, who he had once thought his friend, had done. Still, he felt an overwhelming emptiness, as if he’d just rejected something unbelievably precious.
He didn’t doubt Sic had been sincere about his apology, and he didn’t deny the necessity of his actions. But Sic had betrayed and almost killed him. Casto couldn’t, wouldn’t, simply ignore the hideous deed, although it had been partly his own stupidity that had made the betrayal so unbearably painful. If Casto had trusted the lessons learned in the course of his life, he would never have let Sic get close enough to him to cause such pain.
But he had done it, and now he was paying the price for his naiveté.
Whenever Casto thought about his time at the mines, he felt cold fear claiming him. It wasn’t death that terrified him, but the insight of how much he depended on Renaldo, how his entire being was tied to him. He had told Renaldo that he knew about his fate as a heart. What he had kept secret was the panic he’d felt when he imagined what it would be like to lose himself in Renaldo.
With his betrayal, Sic had forced Casto to face this fear straight on, and Casto didn’t like what he saw.
Slightly irritated, he pried his thoughts from the gloomy topic to deal with more pressing matters in the stables.
When evening came, he bid Lysistratos good night, secured the doors of the stalls, and returned to Renaldo’s chambers.
RENALDO WAS already waiting for him, his eyes glinting hungrily, something that immediately fired Casto up since he knew very well what that gaze meant. His breath started to accelerate, a soft crimson colored his features, his hips canted in silent invitation.
A lazy smile appeared on his lover’s face. “Good evening, my own.” Renaldo purred the words, a sound like velvet and silk that overwhelmed Casto’s senses.
“A good evening to you as well, Barbarian.” His voice was breathless, and he was glad to be able to say the words correctly.
The grin deepened. “We’ll see how nice this evening is going to get.”
At that innuendo, Casto’s blood rushed to his loins. Renaldo got up from his lounge. With the confident grace of a cat that knew its prey couldn’t escape, he sauntered toward his lover.
Renaldo took Casto’s face in his hands and kissed him passionately. When he retreated a step, he watched with satisfaction as Casto stumbled and had problems regaining his balance. His voice got even gentler, more cajoling. “Undress, my own. Slowly.”
Unable to withstand Renaldo’s wheedling, Casto took off his clothes, turned whenever the Barbarian asked it of him, offering free sight of his body, of even the most intimate parts of his anatomy. Finally he stood naked, deeply aroused, willing to do anything Renaldo might ask of him. The fire between them had taken control, burned away every sensible thought, and choked off the last bit of resistance Casto might have harbored.
Renaldo held up a black silk cloth. “Do you trust me?”
It wasn’t a question but a challenge. Casto gulped. If he was honest, the reply to that question was no, and if Renaldo had asked only a few moments earlier, the answer wouldn’t have been sure, but now Casto had just one choice that his body demanded. “Yes, my lord. I trust you.”
With a satisfied smile, Renaldo stepped behind him. The silken cloth descended coolly over Casto’s eyes and excluded the world.
“Place your arms behind your back.”
Unable to resist, Casto obeyed. Another soft cloth was wreathed around his wrists, binding him, making him helpless. Involuntarily, Casto tensed and took a step forward, a first attempt at escape from whatever the Barbarian had planned for him.
Renaldo held on to him, his lips grazing Casto’s nape lovingly. “It’s fine. That’s just cotton. You can rip the cloth at any time. But I want you to submit to me, to trust me. I need to prove to you that I am worth this sacrifice. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Trembling, Casto forced his muscles to slacken, although every fiber in his body screamed defiance, then relaxed further. Instinctively he realized how important this was for Renaldo. They both were still struggling to find common ground, and Casto knew how much Renaldo beat himself up for the things he’d done. Renaldo’s self-loathing helped Casto a lot. As twisted as it sounded, the emotional pain Renaldo inflicted on himself calmed Casto’s anger more than any apology. With each passing day, he felt himself regaining his trust in the Barbarian. He would never forgive him, that was not in his nature, but they could return to their old ways. For that, Casto was willing to take another risk.
“Very good, my love. Now come, I wish to bathe you.”
Casto let Renaldo lead him to the bath. The warm water caressed him like a soft coat, and his master’s hands seemed to be everywhere at the same time, stroking, soothing, demanding. He felt shampoo massaged into his scalp, and the touch made him feel cherished. Renaldo’s hands were beyond skilled and rubbed the last shred of resistance from Casto’s body.
With a pitcher that he filled time and again with fresh water, Renaldo washed the foam from Casto’s hair, then started soaping him all over.
Casto was already so excited by then that he reacted to the smallest touch. He submitted to his master’s will with soft groans and gave in to the lust Renaldo so artfully stoked.
Renaldo guided Casto, quivering, to the bedroom. There he placed him on his belly and stuffed several pillows under his hips until Casto’s backside was at a position agreeable to him. Casto’s skin gleamed wetly in the candlelight, his flawless body an invitation Renaldo planned to use. He poured oil generously onto Casto’s back and started massaging it into the skin. The muscles he touched gave in to the pressure with a shudder, relaxed obediently. Soon, Casto was begging to be taken. He arched his back so his cheeks opened alluringly; he whimpered and pleaded until it took all of Renaldo’s self-control to hold back.
Renaldo bent forward and whispered into Casto’s ear. “I don’t want this to be about sex, Casto. I want this to be about us. About the things I can do for you. About how I should treat you. I want to show you how much you mean to me. Do I have your permission?”
Not knowing what Renaldo had in mind, all Casto could do was nod. Renaldo sighed with relief. Then he undid the cloth around Casto’s wrists. “I want you to feel me, just like I feel you. I want to explore who we are without sex. I want you, Casto.”
Shuddering, Casto reached for Renaldo, the man’s body heat guiding the way. Casto was still blindfolded, but the lack of sight only enhanced his other senses. When his fingers touched Renaldo’s hot skin, Casto was overwhelmed. He had to fight the passion that was threatening to erupt from his body. As Renaldo had said, this was different, and Casto didn’t want to ruin it. Instead he concentrated on the feel of Renaldo’s skin, on how smooth it felt, on the softness of the man’s body hair. After a few minutes of exploring, Casto felt his lust turning into something else. He was still turned on, but now he also wanted to have more of Renaldo. The satisfaction of his baser needs was no longer at the forefront of his mind. That was now filled with the presence of his lover. As if to reassure him, Renaldo mimicked Casto’s movements, touched the same places the prince did. It was like a sensual dance, and Casto was the one leading it.
They kept on exploring each other, growing more confident as they went along, reveling in the intimacy they shared. As hot as the sex was, Casto
thought the touching-and-feeling game they were now playing was at least as good. He felt a closeness to the Barbarian he hadn’t thought possible. Renaldo’s touch had him melting, and before he knew it, Casto was lost in the sensations, unable to stop himself from running his hands over the Barbarian’s body and drowning in the sensual onslaught. He lost all sense of time while Renaldo kept on pouring his love into him. Casto didn’t even realize when he finally fell asleep and Renaldo removed the blindfold.
“WHY DID you do that?” Casto was still tired. He had napped for about an hour, and when he woke, Renaldo lay curled around him, his hands still moving lazily over his skin as he breathed into Casto’s neck.
“Didn’t you like it?”
Casto sighed. There was tension in the Barbarian’s voice, and he didn’t want to argue. “It was very nice. Different and—intense. I’m not sure what to think.”
Renaldo propped himself up and stared directly into Casto’s eyes. He was just contrite enough to put Casto on edge.
“Like I said, it was about us. I wanted to show you how much more we can be. How much more we already are.”
“And?”
“And I may have tried to propitiate you.”
“Why on Ana-Darasa do you feel the need to do that?”
His rather gruff tone made it obvious how quickly Casto’s spirits were reviving. Obviously he had decided not to be too happy about his treatment.
“I thought you would have a harder time throwing a hissy fit when I relaxed you completely. And I want you to think calmly about the offer I’m going to make you.”
Curiosity got the better of the rising anger. “Tell me.”
Renaldo’s face turned serious. “You’re my heart, Casto. My life. I’m very glad that you’re with me, but I’m also worried. The mere thought of losing you frightens me more than anything else in the world. That’s why I want to make you irrevocably mine. I want you to belong to me and for everybody to see it. I want you to marry me.”
