Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

  In the courtyard of the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, preparations were beginning for the quarterly. Summer harvest food was being fetched in from the countryside to feed the visitors, furnishings were being brought out of storage to be placed in the newly constructed guest quarters, and a few of the lesser masters of the Ninth Landstead had arrived. They brought with them the members of their homesteads: sons and wives and daughters, lower-ranked lesser masters and their families, and slaves to care for them all. Only the highest-ranked of the lesser masters from other landsteads would come to the quarterly, but no lesser master from the Ninth Landstead would stay away, unless given duties at his own homestead: only once in a tri-year would the Ninth Landstead host the quarterly, and it was an occasion that would attract many guests.

  Especially this season, following the death of the Ninth Landstead's previous High Master. Much speculation now centered upon the quiet young man who had inherited his father's rank, and those who had not yet met Celadon asked eagerly about him from those who had. The members of Celadon's own homestead met all inquiries with stony silence – which was an answer in itself. Gradually, the mood of joy changed to something more somber: a waiting apprehension, an uncertainty as to the future.

  Celadon, standing at the window of his newly furnished inner chamber, could not make out the words of the far-away voices in the courtyard below, but he could guess what was being said. He looked down at the naked dagger he had been fingering. For as long as he could remember, it had been worn on the hip of his father: the symbol of the Ninth Landstead, a barbaric relic of the years before Remigeus, when the rulers of the Dozen Landsteads had held unlimited power. Even now, that power remained great: only the united vote of his fellow High Masters could oust him from his rank, and then only if given sufficient cause by Remigeus's laws. If nothing else, the division of the country's rule into the hands of twelve men ensured a certain stability. It was not easy to lose the rank of High Master.

  Celadon closed his eyes and let out his breath slowly. The nights were still cool; he could smell the sweet scent of evergreens crackling in the nearby fire, which had been built by a slave shortly before. A dozen slaves were assigned to serve him in his inner chamber and the adjoining receiving chamber, but he had grown into the habit of sending them all away at night. He had the terrible feeling that they, like everyone else in the landstead, were keeping him under careful scrutiny, and though he was not entirely sure of what it was he feared they would see, he did not want to take any chances.

  Which led him to wonder why he was taking tonight's risk.

  He turned abruptly, throwing the dagger onto the table near the broad bed. One of his slaves had already removed his dagger belt, but otherwise Celadon was still dressed in the long gown of daytime. He supposed he would have to call back a slave to remove that as well. He imagined himself saying to his guards, "Could you fetch a slave? I forgot a command I was supposed to give . . ." He brought the heels of his palms up against his eyelids.

  Through the darkness he could hear the faint clatter of hoofbeats as more guests arrived. A lesser master of his homestead shouted something unintelligible but so sharp that his words must be aimed at a slave. The fire in the chamber crackled.

  Amidst all the sounds, Celadon barely heard the thump on the stairwell door. The plans for this tower had been made in his father's day: his father had wanted a receiving chamber so private that not even the guards could hear inside if they stood by the doors. So the gold doors had been constructed, and the receiving chamber and inner chamber were placed high atop a tower, far from the lesser masters and slaves of the homestead.

  The end result of all this was that it was hard for Celadon to hear when anyone came to visit him. The slaves always seemed to hear the guards' knocks – the slaves seemed to know everything. Celadon sometimes wondered what sort of training slaves received that allowed them to do their work so well, but something had always held him back from asking.

  He walked slowly into the receiving chamber, pushed back the heavy bolt with a grunt, and then swung one of the doors open. Perfectly balanced on its hinges, it moved under his hand with no effort. It could not have been the work of opening the door that made him suddenly breathless.

  "Master, here is the slave you wished to see." The guard, one of the many lesser masters who served Celadon at his homestead, was expressionless as he spoke; Celadon was grateful to him for that. The High Master nodded, and the guard pushed the slave into the chamber. The slave was already on his knees before the door closed.

  Nor did he look up as the door thudded shut. Celadon, staring down at him, wondered whether he was expected to speak the first words. Then the slave said tonelessly, "What service do you require of me, master?"

  "You asked to be summoned to my presence," Celadon reminded him. He was trying to gain a better look at the slave's face to ensure that he had indeed summoned the right man, though the guards at the castle gate had seemed certain that they knew which slave he was speaking of. All slaves looked alike to Celadon, for all of them, men and women alike, had the same stubbly hair and wore the same short tunics. But he supposed that this slave was distinguishable in at least one respect.

  The slave still did not look up, and his voice was low as he asked, "Master, can we be heard?"

  Celadon had a sudden wild vision of being strangled by a pervert slave; then he cast the thought aside. It would not do to let himself be captured by fear. He must act as he hoped others would regard him.

  "Not through these doors," he said in a voice that tried to be brisk. "But if you have concern for the privacy of our conversation, you may come into the inner chamber."

  He held his breath after speaking, but the slave merely nodded and rose. The man kept his head bowed as he did so and turned almost immediately to bolt the door. Celadon wondered whether he should reprimand the slave for his unbidden action; then he wondered how he would do so. Cursing himself within as he had done so many times in the days since his father's death, he turned and walked into the inner chamber, trusting that the slave would follow.

  He had a moment to glance quickly at the chamber before the slave arrived. He had not had the courage to ask any of the inner chamber slaves to make preparations, but he had done so himself, as best he could. Wine was ready to pour on the side shelf – it seemed only courteous to offer the slave fine drink, under these circumstances – and the blankets were pulled back from the bed to reveal the soft linen sheets beneath. Too late, he wondered whether that was too forward a move, and he cursed himself again. If only he could have asked someone about these matters . . . But Pentheus did not fully understand, and there was no one else he could trust.

  He turned and found that the inner chamber door was closed – it had somehow been bolted without him hearing – and the slave was now kneeling at his feet once more. His gaze was fixed firmly upon the floor, and he awaited his master's word silently.

  Looking down at him, Celadon knew suddenly that he could not do this. Not again, not even if the slave wanted it. It would only end as it had the last time, and every time this happened there was a greater risk that others would hear of it. And when they did . . . He tried to tell himself that it was a small matter, and that a true master was judged on higher matters than this. Yet somehow it seemed symbolic of the darkness he had entered into from the moment of his father's death.

  He was tempted to send the slave away at once, but he remembered in time that the slave had requested this meeting. He wondered what the slave wanted. Celadon was not such a fool as to think it was the same as what he wanted. Perhaps there was trouble among his slaves that he did not yet know of, or perhaps the slave simply desired a change in his duties. Celadon straightened his back and tried, once more, to sound authoritative.

  "You requested this summons," he reminded the slave again.

  "No, master."

  He stood staring for a moment, then began silently to curse, not himself but the guards. It was the wrong
slave. He ought to have guessed it from the slave's behavior. The slave he had met in the courtyard . . . What the meaning was of that encounter he still could not guess, but that slave would not have remained on his knees this long; he was sure of it.

  "You may stand up," he said, reminding himself that the slave was awaiting his order.

  The slave stood, and Celadon felt a dagger thrust of shock enter him.

  It was the same slave; there could be no doubt of it. He looked much like the other male slaves – stubbly-haired and clean-shaven – but down the right side of his brow was a faded scar. More than that, there were his eyes: the slave was looking at Celadon with a level gaze that no slave had ever dared cast upon him.

  "You did ask to see me." Celadon could not avoid emitting a note of uncertainty.

  "No." The slave's voice had changed subtly; Celadon could hear again the hardness that had been there that morning. "I didn't ask. I told you to summon me."

  It took Celadon a moment to think what to reply. Then, trying to match the slave's hardness with his own, he said, "If I have overlooked your insolence, it is unwise of you to remind me of it."

  "It was not insolence. It was a test."

  "A test?" Celadon was beginning to have the same feeling he had experienced on their previous encounter, of being dragged into a nightmare. What feeble-mindedness had caused him to bring the slave here? He ought to have recognized that this was a slave who would require the highest skills of a master to cure.

  "I wanted to see whether you would do as I told you," the slave said. "And I wanted you to see as well, so that you might recognize what you are."

  Panic entered him, an unreasoning panic that did not reveal its source. Celadon began to turn away, his gown swirling. "I have no time to listen to you now. Return to your duties; I will deal with you later."

  "The true master must listen to his slave." The slave seemed undisturbed by this dismissal; he remained where he was, looking at Celadon.

  This was too much. Celadon found himself stammering, "What – what did you say?"

  "The true master must listen to his slave. Those are the words of Remigeus."

  "No such words appear in his writings." Worse and worse; now he was arguing with a slave. He ought to call the guards and let them deal with this.

  "Remigeus wrote nothing," the slave replied. "His writings are the sayings that were collected after his death, under the supervision of a lesser master. Whether the master deliberately left this saying out of the collection I cannot say, but the saying has continued to be passed down among the slaves, who were the first inheritors of his words. The words of Remigeus, as he spoke them to his fellow slaves, were, 'The true master must listen to his slave. The true slave must speak truth to his master, no matter what the cost.'"

  It took Celadon a while to figure out an answer. He was deeply conscious all the while of the slave watching him with those level eyes. The slave – Brun was his name, Celadon remembered – had placed himself in such a manner that the firelight and the dwindling sunlight fell full upon him. His back was as straight and solid as the walls around them.

  Finally Celadon said, "Very well, I am listening. And I expect you to tell me the truth. Why do you wish to speak with me?"

  Brun shook his head. "You're not listening well enough. It is you who must speak the truth to me; that is your duty, in accordance with your nature."

  The panic solidified then, like winter rain turning to hard ice. The chill travelled through to Celadon's bones. He heard himself say, "Let me be sure I understand you. You are accusing me of being a pervert?"

  "I am saying that you are a slave."

  The ice cracked; Celadon's hand swung before he had even realized what he had done. If he was effective at nothing else, it seemed he was effective in his blows: the man staggered under his slap before regaining balance. His face went suddenly expressionless.

  "You fool!" Celadon's voice was close to a sob. "Don't you realize what I could do to you for saying that?"

  "'No matter what the cost.' Yes, I know." Brun's voice was soft; his expression remained unreadable.

  Celadon felt as though his mind was being pricked now by a thousand shards of broken ice. He would have liked nothing more than to scream for the guards and let the matter fall into their hands. But Remigeus's words – if they were in fact Remigeus's words and not an invention of Brun – gave him pause. After a while he said, "You cite the duties of a slave. So at least you acknowledge that you are a slave."

  There was a pause before Brun said, "What I am is of no matter. My duty would be the same in either case."

  Celadon was not unintelligent. He knew, before Brun had finished his speech, what the man was doing. If Brun declared himself a master, he ran the risk of an immediate death sentence. But if Brun merely declared Celadon a slave . . . Did the law set a punishment for that? Celadon could not remember.

  Perhaps, then, Brun did not truly believe his accusation and was merely trying to find a way to safely declare his own perverseness. Feeling relief shiver through him, Celadon said, "I can see that you are troubled, Brun. Well, I am grateful to you for coming to me with your troubles rather than trying to struggle with them on your own. Have no fear that you have placed yourself in danger tonight. I will help you find the cure you need—"

  "Perverseness cannot be removed in all cases. Certainly not in yours. How long have you been striving to act as a true master? How many times have you failed, how many times have you told yourself that, if you just tried harder, you could accomplish the impossible? And all the while envy has been eating at you: envy of the slaves around you, who live the life you secretly dream of—"

  "Stop it!" Even as he spoke, Celadon knew that his voice was not that of a master, but of a slave being beaten. He said, in as cold a manner as he could manage, "Leave. Now. Or I'll call the guards. If you leave now, I'll forget this conversation ever took place."

  "That is not an option," Brun said. "You cannot deal with what I've said by ignoring it."

  "It's not your place to tell me what I can or cannot do." Celadon moved toward the door, reaching for the bolt.

  He stopped, halted by Brun's firm grip. An expression had appeared on Brun's face once more: it was a look of bleak determination. "If you won't listen to me," he said softly, "then I will assert my right to petition the High Masters."

  Celadon swallowed. He said, as firmly as he could, "If you tell them I'm a slave, they'll never believe you."

  "A master does not endanger his slave; I would not endanger you. But a master must sometimes make sacrifice for his slave. If you do not listen to me now, I will tell the High Masters that I am a master, and you will be the one who will have to supervise my execution." Brun released Celadon and stood back.

  Celadon's hand dropped from the bolt. He turned and found that his back was pressed against the door. Brun waited, his gaze unmoving.

  "You can't use the threat of your death as a tool to move my mind," Celadon said hoarsely.

  Brun shook his head. "All I'm asking is that you listen to the words I've spoken, and consider whether they're true. Even if you don't acknowledge the truth to me, at least acknowledge the truth to yourself."

  The man had turned to face Celadon. Though he was still in the light, his back was now to the chamber and all it contained: the window, the bed, the wine-shelf, the table with the dagger upon it. The dagger sparked like a sunburst under the sunlight.

  Celadon closed his eyes. The pain that had run through him for many seasons, like the pricks of an invisible enemy, had taken shape now; he could see the enemy he had been fighting. He could see the battle, he could see the odds, he could envision the end. A sound escaped his throat.

  "Celadon." Brun's voice was soft. "You can send me away now, if you wish. But why do so? I'm the only person in the world to whom you dare speak. Who else could you trust with your secret, except someone who has his own secret?"

  "You came here to destroy me," Celadon replied in a ragg
ed voice.

  "I came to free you from your prison. I can give you what you want."

  The nightmare reached its climax then. Celadon opened his eyes, but all he could see was darkness, and at the center of that darkness, the man who had brought destruction into this chamber.

  "No," Celadon whispered. "No."

  Brun scrutinized his face for a while longer, his eyes as level as before. Then he bowed his head, not like a slave, but like a master acknowledging a slave's request. "Then I will leave you," he said. "I will not bother you with my presence again; I promise." He stepped to the door.

  And stopped, held by Celadon's grip. For a moment the two men stood silent, eyes matching eyes, their gazes on a single plane. Then Celadon felt his knees unlock. He sank to the floor.

  His gaze had already fallen by the time he felt his knees touch the ground. He stared at Brun's sun-brown legs and his worn, dusty boots; the man was utterly still and straight. It took Celadon more strength than he had known he possessed to look up finally.

  Brun was smiling. It was not the smile Celadon had expected, of triumph and mockery: it was a faint smile, and there was a stroke of sadness to it. Brun reached out and touched Celadon's head lightly. "That was bravely done," he said softly.

  Celadon felt the dagger-sharp shock go through him again, as it had twice before, on the first two occasions he had seen Brun's eyes. He lowered his gaze, and felt for a moment the shame that had accompanied this action all his life; then he became conscious of Brun's hand, which was now lightly brushing Celadon's hair. The shame was washed away in a wave of stronger emotion. Celadon struggled to breathe.

  "Master." The word emerged as a whisper. "What – what service do you require of me?"

  "Remove your clothes."

  For a moment the words did not register in his mind, for he was not expecting them. Then: "What?" he said, certain that he had misheard.

  "I want you to remove your clothes." Brun's voice was as matter-of-fact as it had been before Celadon knelt. His hand remained light upon Celadon's head.

  "But—"

  His single word was transformed into a gasp as Brun took hold of Celadon's hair and pulled his head back until the kneeling man's gaze met his own. He did so in a steady manner, causing no pain by sudden movement, but Celadon had to bite his lip to keep leashed the formless sound in the back of his throat.

  "Celadon," Brun said heavily, "I have told you what service I require. Do not make me repeat my command again." He let go of Celadon's hair and stepped back.

  Slowly, stumbling, Celadon rose to his feet and backed away from Brun till his hip was bitten by something sharp. He looked down and saw that he had bumped into the table, where the dagger lay naked, now gleaming red under the falling evening light.

  When he looked up again, he saw that Brun was still watching him. "If you're going to kill me, do it now," the other young man said softly. "I don't want to go to sleep each night after this with my back quivering in anticipation of the blow."

  Celadon drew his breath in slowly and put his hand out to the dagger. Its silver hilt was warm from the fireheat nearby. He pushed the blade to the back of the table, then began pulling off his clothes, piling them onto the table in the place where the dagger had been.

  It took him longer than he had anticipated. In his twenty summers of life, he had never before undressed himself; the complex hooks on the front of a High Master's gown nearly defeated him. He concentrated his gaze on them, not daring now to look up at the other man.

  Brun spoke only once, when Celadon was finished and stood naked, shivering despite the warmth of the fire. The words he spoke were: "To the bed."

  He went; he was beginning to shake uncontrollably now. As he lay down on his back, he tried to tell himself that this was what he had wanted at the start. He ought to be pleased that the lure of the soft linen sheets had evidently worked. But he felt as though a heavy weight were pressing upon his chest, and he kept his gaze averted as Brun came forward.

  He felt the mattress move. Naked flesh slid against him. He flinched, even as he tried to ascertain whether that flesh included a hardness. He could not bring himself to look. Brun's hand touched his cheek, turning his face. The other man had raised himself up on an elbow and was looking down upon Celadon as the latter swallowed, and swallowed again, trying to moisten his dry mouth.

  "Celadon," Brun said softly, "there is nothing to fear. I won't hurt you."

  Celadon's gaze dropped again. Though he still could not bring himself to look in the direction of Brun's body, he could see his own body, master-pale against the sheets. The last of the sunlight had disappeared now; only firelight covered his torso and legs.

  "I don't know if I can—" His voice was strangled. "I've never—"

  "I know."

  He looked back at Brun. The other man was wearing again the smile touched with sadness. Celadon bit his lip before saying, "Iram told you?"

  Brun gave a soft snort. "You should have picked a more discreet bed-slave. He told every slave in your homestead."

  Celadon closed his eyes, feeling the dark pain wash over him. Brun's fingers pushed back a stray hair as the man said, "Don't worry. He merely thought you were displeased with his service. He told the others because he wanted them to know of your generosity in not punishing him. Nobody has guessed the truth."

  "It wasn't his fault." Celadon kept his eyes closed. "It was my fault. I can't—"

  He stopped, feeling lips brush his brow. When he opened his eyes again, Brun's face was close to his.

  "It's that way for some people," Brun said softly. "Some masters can only do it with slaves, and some slaves can only do it with masters. It's the way you're made; it's nothing to be ashamed of."

  His hand was still moving, stroking back the hair from Celadon's face. Celadon stared up at Brun for a moment, then whispered, "Is it that way for you?"

  Brun's hand withdrew abruptly, and his body shifted so that there was now a gap between the two of them. Brun toyed with a tassel on the pillow beneath Celadon's head. He said, without looking up, "I'm not sure. The one time I had the opportunity to test the matter, the conditions weren't right."

  A pause, during which the only sound was the popping of the dry log in the fireplace. Then Celadon said, "My father?"

  Brun nodded, looking up finally. He touched lightly the scar upon his face, saying, "I got this when I was younger and was foolish enough to struggle when your father brought me to his bed. Fortunately for me, he treated my perverse words as the ravings of a terrified virgin. . . . He was right about the terror anyway."

  "I'm sorry," Celadon whispered. "Truly, I'm sorry. I brought you here for that purpose myself. It will be just punishment if you want to—"

  He stopped; Brun's fingers had descended upon his lips. The fingers drew back, and the other man said, with carefully spaced words, "I would give myself a hard death before doing to you what your father did to me. That's not why we're lying here."

  Celadon let his gaze move toward Brun's body then. He saw a hand calloused and weathered, an arm darkened by the sun, a chest stripped of all fat by heavy labor, and lower down, that which he had feared most: it was lying quiescent against Brun's golden-brown hairs.

  "Then why?" he whispered, looking back up at Brun's face.

  Brun did not touch him this time. "When I heard Iram's tale, I knew the time had arrived when I must come to you and offer to train you. I'll give you whatever type of training you desire – but none that you do not want. That is not service I require of you."

  The hand remained still on the sheets between them. Celadon reached out and touched it, then lifted the hand and raised his head to kiss it. The fingers were cracked and lined with dirt.

  The hand slid out of his grasp and curled round his cheek; he looked up in time to see Brun's face descend upon him. The back of his head met the pillow as Brun's lips met his.

  The lips were cracked as well. Through his half-opened eyes, Celadon could see the roughness of B
run's facial skin, stripped naked in slave-fashion. Yet it was Brun's tongue that darted to Celadon's lips, seeking entrance. Tensing, Celadon opened his mouth.

  The tongue did not enter. It remained where it was, lightly licking Celadon's lips. Brun's hand held his cheek so softly that Celadon could have broken his grasp in a single move. He could feel Brun's body pressing upon him now, but still there was no hardness, only a gentle quiescence matching the softness of the tongue's touch.

  Something stirred within Celadon. Without conscious intention, he reached out and wrapped his arms around Brun's back, pulling the other man closer. Then, finally, the tongue entered, exploring his mouth with the same mixture of strength and gentleness: it was as though Celadon was being held by a thunderstorm that could tear him to pieces but leashed its strength voluntarily.

  Another stirring came, stronger than before. Celadon gave a whimper.

  Brun drew back immediately and spent a moment assessing Celadon before a smile travelled onto his lips. It was stronger than the smiles that had come before. He reached out and touched Celadon's face again.

  "Tell me what to do," Celadon said hoarsely. "Please."

  Brun traced the line of Celadon's beard. "For now," he said, "I want you to relax." He bent down and kissed the hollow of Celadon's neck.

  The kisses continued, each one lower than the previous one. Brun was halfway down Celadon's chest before Celadon realized what was going to happen. Then his breath gasped in. He said with quick uncertainty, "Master?"

  Brun raised his head and smiled again. "Relax, Celadon. I told you, this won't hurt." And he lowered his lips onto Celadon's body once more.

  o—o—o

  A cool breeze ran through the chamber: it brushed past the disused wine cups, kissed the forgotten dagger, thrust at the bolted door, and stirred up the glowing embers. Celadon, snuggled under the blankets to avoid the chill, thought to himself that it was time for a slave to rebuild the fire. He wondered how he should go about doing it.

  He turned his head. Brun, seemingly immune from the cold in the manner of outdoor slaves, was sitting with his bare chest above the blankets, stroking the head that lay upon his lap, and smiling into the darkness. As Celadon looked up at him, Brun moved his hand so that his fingers stroked the outline of Celadon's beard once more.

  "I don't understand," said Celadon. "You wouldn't let me do anything."

  Still smiling, Brun wound Celadon's long hair around his fingers. "Next time will be for both of us," he replied. "This first time I wanted to concentrate my thoughts on helping you past your fear."

  "But I'm supposed to serve you! If you're truly my master—"

  Brun released the hair and smoothed it back from Celadon's face. "Last autumn the harvest was bad. When we ran short of food before spring, who was it that starved himself so that his inner-chamber slaves would have enough to eat?"

  Celadon shifted his gaze down to the musky-smelling hair on Brun's chest. "I didn't know you knew about that."

  "Every slave in the homestead knew about it. That was when the rumors started that you were Remigeus reborn as a master." Brun reached down and pulled Celadon up into his arms, carefully tucking the blankets around him as he did so. "Until that time I'd only pitied you. That was when I began to love you – when I saw how hard you were trying to be a true master."

  A lifetime crashed upon him then, like a wave gradually gathering, ignored until the moment that it crushed him. He was barely aware of himself sobbing in Brun's arms as Brun made soothing sounds and brushed his hand across Celadon's hair.

  "I've tried," Celadon gasped out in a choked voice, like a drowning man trying to speak. "I've tried over and over. Pentheus told me this was just temporary, that I'd become a master in the end – I've tried to believe him. But everything I do: issuing commands . . . protecting and guiding others . . . even looking straight into the eyes of masters . . . It's as though I'm a fish being asked to perform a complicated dance on land. I can't do it any more – I can't keep pretending I'm a master—"

  "Celadon." Brun's voice was quiet, but the hardness of it shocked Celadon out of his tears. He raised his head and looked up at Brun, who was staring into the darkness once more. Then the other man released him and slipped out of the bed. Naked, he walked to the fireplace and knelt down, reaching for the poker. He stirred a few of the coals into life, saying, "Does this make me a slave?"

  From where he sat, Celadon could see only Brun's back. He tried to catch a glimpse of Brun's expression and failed. "No," he replied.

  "Perhaps it's my face, then – perhaps I should grow a beard . . ."

  Celadon felt wild laughter growing within him. "That wouldn't make any difference. You're a master, without or without a beard."

  "Are you sure of that?"

  As Brun spoke, he slid round on his knees, and as he did so, something changed in his posture. His body bent like a pliant branch under wind; his hands took on tentative motions as they folded over each other; and when his eyes flicked up for a moment, they were as blank as a tablet waiting to be written upon. Celadon felt his breath jerk in.

  "Am I a slave?" Brun's voice was soft, tentative, matching his body in acquiescence.

  "No," Celadon said uncertainly. "You look like one, but—"

  He stopped; Brun had raised his eyes again, and now the fire within them could be seen. Brun smiled, and as he rose, the pliant branch solidified, becoming an oak trunk that did not waver under the heaviest blows. As Celadon watched uneasily, Brun reached forward and plucked from the table the dagger Celadon had abandoned there.

  Brun walked forward. As he slid back into bed, he placed the dagger in Celadon's hands, folding Celadon's fingers firmly over it. Celadon stared down at the bright blade a moment before saying, "You think I can do that? Find a way to pretend I'm a master?"

  "If I hadn't found a way to pretend I was a slave, I'd be dead by now," Brun said matter-of-factly. "It's harder for you, because it's not in your nature to shape your life on your own – it takes a master to tell a slave he must act as a master. So that is the service I require of you, Celadon: that you act in such a manner that others will believe that you are a true master."

  Celadon fingered the dagger, tracing the outline of the sunburst upon it. "Will you show me how?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Of course. It's not so hard, once you understand the technique. The easiest way to do it is to find someone of your assigned rank that you want to model yourself after, then ask yourself in each situation, 'How would this other person act? How would he speak?' Just choose a master you admire."

  Celadon lifted his gaze from the dagger. "That's easy."

  Brun smiled as he took the dagger from Celadon and laid it aside. "You'd best not take your cues entirely from me. I haven't lived my outward life as a master, and there are certain facts about mastership I may not know. Perhaps I can learn them from watching you play this game."

  Celadon stared down at Brun's hand, which was folded over his. "But that's all it would be, a game. Now that I know what I am, I can't help but feel that it would be better to accept this entirely. If I told others I'm a slave—"

  He halted as Brun's hand gripped his tight. Brun's other hand turned his face, forcing Celadon to look at him. "No," Brun said firmly. "You don't know what you're saying, Celadon – you've never lived as a slave. If nothing else, I will not see you an object of shame in the Dozen Landsteads. Do you understand what I require of you, Celadon?"

  Celadon nodded, trying to turn his face away. Brun's hand forced his face around again as the man said heavily, "Do you understand, Celadon? Answer me properly."

  Celadon swallowed, trying to steady his breathing. "Yes, master. I'll give you the service you require. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to oppose you; please don't be angry—"

  His voice faded as Brun's lips brushed his lightly. Still holding his cheek, Brun said softly, "I am not angry. I am protecting you. And the best way I can protect you is to keep anyone from guessing what you are. That'
s why I'm here – in order to guide you."

  Celadon stared down at the base of the hand still holding his cheek. "You'll still be my master?"

  Brun's thumb stroked the border of his beard. "I have been your master since the moment you knelt to me. Nothing short of death will break that bond between us."

  Celadon felt a shiver go through his body, and he drew the blankets up to his chin, not moving his face from where it was held by Brun. "You said earlier I was brave – but you were the one who was brave. I might have killed you for telling me what I am—"

  Brun's hand withdrew abruptly from his face. When Celadon looked over at him, Brun had shifted his gaze to the dying fire. After a moment, Brun said, "I thought you would."

  Celadon stiffened. Brun turned immediately, as though in response to a plea, and smiled. Reaching out to touch Celadon's face again, he said, "I would have died as a master, if that was what it took to help you to self-knowledge. But you surprised me: I had not expected you to be willing to undergo the pain of being truthful with me. I used to envy the other masters, who were born to their proper rank, but no longer. None of them have the joy and honor of being served by you." His fingers ran lightly across Celadon's cheek as he said softly, "I will not fail in my duty to you, Celadon. I swear that to you."

  "I—" Celadon could feel the tears pooling up behind his eyes again. He bent his head and kissed Brun's palm.

  Brun's hand lingered across his lips for a moment; then his master said briskly, "Dress yourself."

  Celadon raised startled eyes to him. "But—"

  He stopped, warned by Brun's changed expression. Quickly he left the bed and walked round till he reached the table where his clothes lay. He fumbled his way into them, remembering just in time to leave the gown untouched. Then, shivering as he stood in the cold room dressed only in the clothing of a slave, he waited.

  "Kneel by the hearth."

  He did so, staring down at the flagstones near the red-black embers as Brun walked forward to him. The floor was cold and painful under Celadon's bare knees.

  "Now," said Brun from above him, "I am going to teach you to build a fire."

  The surge of feeling that went through him then threatened to wash him into the ocean. He had to close his eyes for a moment before he dared look up. With his heart beating hard, he said, "Thank you, master. Even if that's all you teach me tonight—"

  Brun smiled, his hand trailing across Celadon's hair. "By no means. You have a great deal more to learn before dawn."

  The continuing surge of joy within Celadon trickled its way to the depths of his being. Celadon found that he was smiling. Lowering his gaze, he reached forward to the pile of twigs beside the fire and began to follow Brun's instructions.

  Not until later did he realize that he had ceased to feel shame when he lowered his eyes.