by J. C. Owens
A strange code of honor indeed.
It made Naral feel protective in a way he had only ever experienced with Zaran. To find it here, with this stranger, made no sense whatsoever.
They made their way across the immaculate grounds to the offices, and passed into the large building without anyone looking at them twice, a fact for which Naral was thankful. He didn’t want to waste the time trying to explain why the head of security was bringing a known thief onto the campus.
He wasn’t sure he could even explain properly to himself, much less anyone else.
He was greeted by name at the reception area before being led into a meeting room, Fagan close by his side.
There, they provided food and drink for them both, informing Naral that the two professors he had requested would be by shortly.
He nodded and then turned his attention to ensuring Fagan had both food and drink at his fingertips. Perhaps eating might keep him from doing something rash—like stealing half the priceless paintings upon the walls.
It was only a few minutes before the door opened and two people entered. The professors greeted Naral formally and then seated themselves to his right, away from Fagan, who had put his hood down and was digging into the food with gusto.
The man, Dravon Gilb, and the woman, Franci Lamton, eyed the thief with ill-concealed amusement, obviously well aware of his identity.
“Fagan, so good to see you again,” Dravon said. “Come to take another class? You could register this time, and I would be pleased to see you actually earn a degree.” Dravon’s eyes twinkled, and his words were gentle, not mocking.
Fagan eyed him cautiously, then smiled back, straightening in his chair. “Thank you for the offer. I don’t see how a degree could help me, but it’s nice you recognize that I’m intelligent enough.”
Franci leaned forward, reaching to gently pat the back of Fagan’s hand. “I would love to see you take the same courses as we are planning for the people you have chosen. What better way for you to understand both worlds and help people? It’s not just others who can attend this university, Fagan. I’m quite sure that you would learn more swiftly than any other.”
Dravon nodded. “The more swiftly you complete the courses, the more quickly changes can be made for those you know need help.”
Fagan leaned back, away from them, something almost frightened in his expression for the briefest of moments. He shot a glance at Naral as though begging him for aid. In what, Naral could not quite fathom.
“Perhaps having Fagan in the first classes, if nothing more, might reassure those who will come to learn.” He held Fagan’s gaze. “After all, they trust you; they know you. This will be a frightening experience to those who have never had the opportunity to be within a classroom.”
Fagan calmed somewhat, his fear lessening as he pondered their words, though he gave no definite answer.
Naral took advantage of the thief’s rare silence and turned to quietly engage in conversation with Dravon and Franci. He left Fagan to his own thoughts so that he did not feel he was being coerced. The insecurity he was displaying was strangely endearing. He always seemed so overly confident, brash. Now Naral suspected at least part of that seemed to be a mask for what lay beneath. Someone more vulnerable.
By the end of the meeting, through gentle persuasion and promises that he could drop out of the classes if he truly wanted to, they had Fagan’s word that he would bring the new students the following week and attend the classes himself.
Fagan was unusually quiet as they left the college, and Naral found himself missing the exuberant energy that characterized the little thief.
He cursed himself for a soft idiot when he stopped and bought three pies from Maylin. His concern deepened as Fagan failed to even notice what he was doing. The woman eyed Fagan, then Naral, with a soft smile and wrapped up one of the pies before nestling it into a burlap bag to carry. It was clear she knew exactly what Naral was doing, even if he was not so sure himself.
He went back to the fountain, dug out a pie, and presented it to Fagan. The thief stared at it blankly before giving Naral a long, considering look that made him feel intensely uncomfortable. Finally, Fagan nodded and accepted the pie graciously, eating slowly and reverently, savoring every bite.
Naral hardly tasted his own pie, he was so caught up in Fagan. The appreciation the smaller man gave to the food made it all too evident that he often went without. Or perhaps he had grown up starving, and now he relished every bite.
Naral could not imagine such an existence. To not have such a basic need as food. It showed how little he could truly relate to the poor quarters. Fagan was a godssend in this matter. Fagan’s knowledge and experience would help ensure that the fears of Rivergate’s citizens were addressed and then overcome.
They ate in silence. Naral felt content, a sort of camaraderie that he only ever truly experienced with Taldan, Zaran, or Isnay. To find it with this little thief seemed so strange.
He finished, licking his fingers clean, only to find Fagan watching with heat in his eyes, licking his lips slowly.
Naral felt the heat of a blush upon his cheekbones, and he quickly tucked his hands away, out of sight.
Fagan tilted his head, that heat still present as his gaze slowly traced down over Naral’s body.
Naral swallowed hard, then stood quickly, breaking the moment.
Fagan chuckled to himself, the throaty sound seeming to vibrate its way along every nerve in Naral’s body. But then the thief’s expression grew grave. His gaze sharpened, grew more intense.
“I didn’t find you today to tour the college,” Fagan said, his voice uncharacteristically grim. “I have other news. Part of our deal.”
Naral’s heart began to pound faster. At once, all his focus was on the other man. “You have information on Julne or the War Guild?”
“Nothing you can act on right now,” Fagan said, shaking his head. “But there is something more there to find, I know it. Rumors of strangers. People asking odd questions. Gold moving from hand to hand. The emperor has enemies in Rivergate.”
“I’ll shut all of Rivergate down,” Naral snarled. “Flood the streets with soldiers. We’ll find these enemies and have them in chains before sunset.”
Fagan put a hand on his arm. “If you do that, your targets will vanish like smoke, and you’ll have nothing. This requires an insider’s knowledge, someone who knows Rivergate, knows the dark underside.” His lips curved in a tight smile. “That’s why you have me.”
He should not trust this brash thief. It was his duty to crack down on that slum within Persis, a hotbed for illegal activity that was now giving cover for dangerous enemies of the empire. Yet everything within him told him that Fagan was right. Guild assassins would vanish in a heartbeat. Julne mages would fade back into the crowds and flee the city, only to return to try again some other time. Naral needed to be patient and set a trap, then capture the emperor’s enemies with one swift, precise move.
It was risky, however. So very risky.
He met Fagan’s gaze and held it so the thief understood what was at stake. “You don’t have much time. Find these men. I don’t care if they are assassins or mages, I need to stop them. There can’t be another attack against the emperor or his Chosen. It will tear this empire apart.”
“I will,” Fagan replied simply, nothing of boasting or bravado in his tone. He simply said the words as if they were a promise.
Naral suddenly realized what he was asking of the thief. He was asking the man to put his life on the line for Taldan and for Raine. He would owe this man so much. But he had no other choice.
Not knowing what else to do, how else to thank the little thief, Naral took the burlap bag with the remaining pie and thrust it unceremoniously at Fagan.
“Here. I’m hoping this will keep you fed for the day. Keep you from stealing my food.”
Fagan eyed the bag incredulously, then stood up on the lip of the fountain, a small smile curling the edges of his
mouth. With the added height, he was eye to eye with Naral. He reached out and ran a hand down Naral’s sleeve before gripping the fabric and pulling Naral closer.
Naral’s eyes widened incredulously, then he was pulled into a scorching kiss that rattled his senses and scorched his mind.
When it finally ended, he stood there like a fool, blinking, unable to react further than that. He managed to gather enough wits again to softly whisper to Fagan. “Be safe.”
Fagan gently stroked over his cheek, something almost soft in his expression for the briefest of moments before he gave a cocky grin, hopped down from the fountain, and disappeared in a flash among the market place crowd.
Naral stared after him, before raising a hand to touch his cheek and then his lips.
He didn’t know how, or why, but he realized he was in deep, deep trouble.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Isnay
Isnay thought that he would remember the smell of death clearly for the rest of his life. It hung in the air, seemed to have permeated his nostrils, his clothing, his very being.
They were burying the dead at yet another destroyed village. Each body told a horrific tale, a painful, torturous death. Their frozen expressions remained etched upon his mind’s eye, and he wondered rather desperately if he would ever be able to erase them.
Glancing at Dransin’s worn, grim expression, he worried that the king would hold on to them as some sort of penance, believing that he could have prevented this.
It was very clear that through a mix of events and foolishness within his country and without, King Dransin had been stymied at every turn as he tried to protect his country. Isnay understood this invasion was not Dransin’s fault, but he was king and would see it as his duty to protect his people. The blame would rest squarely on his shoulders, both in his own mind and most probably in the minds of his people. Those citizens far from this tragedy, who had not seen the results and who did not know how hard Dransin had tried to prevent this very thing.
Isnay wanted to wring some necks. Bhantan had seemed to possess such a wonderful society, intent on peace and freedom. Yet it also housed those whose blindness and willful inaction had brought about disaster. He knew that opposition within Bhantan would move quickly to blame all that had happened on their young monarch, diminishing his power, turning the people he cared for so deeply against him…
The injustice of it all made Isnay grind his teeth.
Dransin carefully carved another description into a wood slat, then thrust it into the head of the grave he’d just finished, fixing it to level with precise detail. He had insisted on individual graves, not a mass burial.
Perhaps that had been foolish in light of how many they had needed to bury, but Isnay understood the sentiment. These were individual people. They each deserved the respect of a personalized burial.
The only problem was that they needed to move on, to find the next place that needed their aid. Isnay could not bring himself to push Dransin into more speed. Those with them, especially Dransin’s companions, seemed as driven as he was.
The sun was high overhead as Dransin stood for a long moment at the graves, murmuring something under his breath, before he touched his heart and inclined his head in respect of the dead.
When he turned to face Isnay, he looked close to collapse. Isnay forced back his own exhaustion and took the king’s elbow, steering him to where food was being prepared hastily at one of the wagons.
It was cold food. None of them could bear a fire at the moment, not in light of the burned-out destruction that surrounded them. No one had much of an appetite, but Isnay hounded Dransin until he ate. They needed the strength to continue on, to face what they would find in the next town. They had gained a few more helpers. Survivors that were not badly injured and wanted to bury their kinsmen. They had picked them up from each town, and they worked with tear-streaked faces and grim expressions. Dransin had initially tried to send them to the capital with the injured, but faced with their determination and need, he had quietly included them in the tasks.
It was odd to work with Dransin. Isnay was so used to Taldan, who had such trouble identifying with other people, his own upbringing hampering even the simplest encounters. That would only be made worse by Taldan becoming emperor. The mask, the gloves, all of it designed to distance the man from his own people.
How different Dransin was. He had a fierce and fiery temperament, so different than Taldan’s outer layer of cold logic that he presented to the world. Yet below that, Taldan’s true personality was probably closer to Dransin’s than anyone knew.
However, Dransin threw himself into people. He had plans for the future, like Taldan, and wanted to make things better, but he cared for each individual. Dransin could not remove himself from the situation enough to see things more clearly. He was driven by the moment in a way Taldan was not.
It seemed to Isnay that Dransin was struggling to find a new path for his country with no help and no true idea of how to go about it. He only knew that changes were necessary. His heart was so compassionate, so warm, that being king was a true trial. He was the perfect person to lead a country that wanted peace yet needed to develop protections. The gods had chosen well.
Yet, he could see Dransin burning himself out. He was so intense, so focused on what needed to be done that he was not looking after himself at all.
That also was like Taldan.
Great minds did not seem to be connected to their own bodies.
Isnay wanted to take Dransin home, wanted to show him the reality of Anrodnes. Dransin would love the libraries, and like Raine, he would soon be immersed in the books, searching for answers on how he could protect his country. What better place to learn than Anrodnes, a repository of knowledge that had been gathered over thousands of years?
In conversations with the king, he had discovered that there was a disturbing amount of censorship within Bhantan. No books depicting war or describing it were allowed within the country, as if such ideas might contaminate the citizens and turn them violent. Therefore, there was nothing for Dransin to refer to in order to come up with concrete plans for protection at the borders. Anything he had put in place so far was purely his own idea.
If Bhantan’s king were to travel to Persis to learn what was needed, then would he be reviled by his own people as more of a warmonger than they already labeled him?
The whole thing was ridiculous in Isnay’s mind. An idea sparked. After all, it was seen by the people of Bhantan that Anrodnes was at fault for this invasion, for having their own territory attack a neighboring country, whether through design or accident. If Isnay could create a situation where Dransin could be invited to Anrodnes for an apology, perhaps the people would view his trip differently.
All he knew was he was going to be called home once this was over, and suddenly, it was not where he wanted to be.
After Dransin finished eating, he headed back to continue to finish the last of the graves. He didn’t say a word. Isnay walked beside him, similarly silent. Dransin met his gaze, nodded, and then they both began working on digging graves side by side, losing themselves in the manual labor for a time.
Finally, the graves were finished. Isnay straightened up, rubbing the base of his spine. He ached from digging, and his hands were raw and blistered. He was not used to such hard labor, and it was disconcerting to realize his own limitations of strength and stamina. But it had been the least he could do for those who had tragically lost their lives to Odenar’s atrocities.
Climbing out of the shallow grave took real effort. He was grateful when he was halfway out and King Dransin’s big, rough hand caught his and hauled him the rest of the way with ease. He could almost be resentful of Dransin’s strength. The man had been at it all day and hardly seemed fatigued in the least. But Dransin’s eyes were also haunted, his expression grim beyond words. A weight seemed to crush down equally on both the men from Bhantan and the delegates from Anrodnes. They were both bound together by what t
hey’d seen, by the people they were trying to help…or laying to rest.
Isnay wiped at his forehead, belatedly realizing that his blistered hands were filthy and he would have streaked the dirt over himself.
Dransin gave the smallest of smiles, just a twitch of his lips, pulling a cloth from somewhere on his person. He gently took Isnay’s chin, turning his face this way and that as he cleaned away all signs of dirt.
Isnay stood passively, watching the king’s face, feeling an upwelling of emotion he could not decipher. No wonder the children adored this man. Despite his prickly exterior, he was a caring, deeply emotional person.
Dransin tucked the cloth away in his belt but did not step back, letting his thumb rub softly over Isnay’s cheekbone. His expression was full of exhaustion and worry but soft with something special that seemed to be aimed at Isnay alone.
“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” Dransin said. “It’s probably one of the worst ideas I’ve had in a long line of very poor choices, but…”
He leaned down, expression becoming intense and focused.
Isnay felt his own doubts and fears rise but thrust them away, reaching up to touch a strong jaw as the king’s lips descended upon his.
The kiss started soft, gentle, as though Dransin believed Isnay would pull back or push him away. When he did not, the kiss deepened into something that made the world fade away.
All the reasons this was a very, very bad idea seemed to vanish into obscurity. Isnay found himself on his toes, an arm wrapped around Dransin’s waist, while the king cupped his face, angling it for better access.
When Dransin finally drew back, his eyes wide and dark with desire, Isnay drunkenly leaned forward, following, a whimper leaving his lips.
The small sound shook him out of his daze, and he flushed furiously, taking a step back and trying to straighten his clothing, glancing around, expecting condemnation from anyone who might be watching.
