Angela Fiddler The Devil You Know

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Angela Fiddler

® www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

The Devil You Know Angela Fiddler This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © February 2008 by Angela Fiddler All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-630-9 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Judith David Cover Artist: Croco Designs

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Chapter One

The room was hot, and the only sound was the roar of a fire almost too big for the fireplace. The glow from it provided the sole source of light, casting the occupants of the room in orange radiance and black shadows. Erasas sat alone in the big chair by the fire. He was naked, but his cock was hidden in a pool of black. He was sweating, though whether it was from the fire or the other occupant, Vashi would never know. The other occupant was naked as well. The curls of silk scarves around him, like pools of liquid sitting above the carpet, showed that he hadn't always been nude. There was no music, other than the cracks and snarls coming from the fire, but still the young man swayed on his knees to something. The longer Vashi stood there, the more he swore he could hear the song as well, brought to the room through the whistling wind outside, the barks of dogs, and the distant clanking of guards on the wall. Vashi knew he should leave. The door, with the cool air and silence, was just behind him, but he couldn't even force his hand to grope for it. The young man hadn't turned to Vashi yet, and Erasas certainly hadn't looked up either, but Vashi knew they knew he was there. He wasn't invited, but he wasn't unwelcome either.

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The young man sat up off his heels and leaned back, suspended as though by invisible hands. He spread his knees, running his hands up and down his thighs, getting closer and closer to his cock, tight against his belly. He cupped his testicles, running his fingers so lightly up the length of his cock it couldn't have provided any relief at all. And he waited. Erasas moved his throat a few times before he could actually form the word. "Enough," he said. Vashi's breath caught in his throat. It was enough. His own heart was pounding and the tight constriction over his chest was too terrible to bear. He wanted the spell, if that was what it was, to break and the heaviness inside him to go away. But the young man on his knees wasn't done yet. He crawled forward rather than stood, then straddled Erasas’s lap. He writhed, trusting without asking that Erasas would support him. The heat of the room must have made Erasas's skin as slick as Vashi's felt, because they slid against each other as though oiled. "Enough!" Erasas managed, his voice cracking twice on the short word, and the young man twisted around. It was so fluid he didn't even look as though he was made of sinew and bone. He reached behind him, and in the first motion that looked at all human, fumbled. Erasas opened his eyes for another heartbeat, long enough for the young man to find what he was seeking. The black sheath of shadow that was a living thing between their bodies hid the actual act of penetration, but the young man arched his back, leaning hard against Erasas’s body, and locked his hands behind Erasas’s neck. Erasas kissed the exposed neck. His hands on the young man’s hip drove him up and down, pacing it well for both of them. The young man’s breath was as sharp as Erasas’s. And suddenly, together, they opened their eyes. Both the young man and Erasas stared at Vashi.

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Vashi wanted to speak, to make an excuse, and to actually move his hand, now wrapped around the handle to the door, but he couldn't make himself do any of those things. The only excuse he could manage was a clicking sound with a too dry throat. "Stay," Erasas said, his voice harsher than normal. Vashi nodded. If he could have, he would have let go of the metal handle, now as hot and as slick with sweat as his palm. His trousers were just laced up; he could have released them with one hand and wrapped his would-be free hand around his now hard cock. But he couldn't. Erasas wanted him to watch, and that was all he could do. Even breathing was relegated to the unimportant. The young man smiled, not from the control they had, but from the sheer joy of the act of fucking. When the young man began to move again, balancing his weight impossibly at the edge of the chair, Erasas groaned and closed his eyes again. It didn't matter. Vashi couldn't look away. And now Erasas was whispering something. Vashi had to take a step forward to hear, but apparently that was allowed. "Please," Erasas whispered over and over again, and the word told the young man something. His hips stopped teasing with every thrust. He bit his bottom lip, as though what he was doing required so much concentration that the slightest distraction would break the spell.

Spell. The word felt right in Vashi’s head. It was comfortable, like a well-fitted glove that gave a thrill of satisfaction when it was slipped on. This was a spell, and the young man controlled it, even with his head thrown back. He pulled from Vashi as much as Erasas. He brought Erasas down deeper, harder, and with the right…perfect… Erasas came. Vashi had heard him ejaculate before. It was hard not to, considering Erasas's elaborate and varied tastes. Vashi had even lent a hand now and again, though such displays were usually forbidden among equals. Every time Erasas came, Vashi knew he sounded like some sort of large rutting land beast.

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That night, his hands still tight on the young man's hips as though they were the only tangible things left for him, Erasas grunted. Once, softly, and that was it. The young man put down one foot, then the other, and pulled away silently. He turned, cleaning Erasas with a rag Vashi hadn't seen materialize, and then ducked around the room, picking up his silk. The room was still hot, but nowhere near the inferno it had been, leaving Vashi practically chilled. The young man waited, his arms full of the silk that no longer looked like wet pools on the floor, and Vashi realized he was still blocking the door. "Pardon me," he said, getting out of the way, and the young man opened the door and left, taking the last bit of music with him.

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Chapter Two

The door wasn't locked. Bastian tried to relax in his chair. All around him, below him, beside him he felt the sex. Bodies moved against bodies, men with women, men with men. The room wasn't hot, or at least the fireplace was black and cold, but Bastian felt the friction of the connections around him. He stood up. It didn't break the connection entirely but it did keep him from becoming overwhelmed. It had been over three years since he'd been so close to so many bodies joined in lust, and he had forgotten how much his body was tied to the need around him. He was sweating, and rubbing his palms on his thighs didn't seem to help. The sound of leather kissing flesh came over all the other sensations, and he focused on that. The pain that the sounds brought with it -- the kiss of the quirt, the grunts, the clenched teeth, the shuddering -- was strong enough that it could drive the rest of his thoughts off. It wasn't the whore being beaten. Bastian didn't think he could share in that. It was the Camillian on the bed, his hands clasped over his head. Bastian knew he couldn’t have remained tied to the feeling if the one being whipped was being whipped unwillingly, but

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here and now, the rise and fall of the double-tailed whip was a call he couldn’t ignore. Bastian touched his cock for the first time, holding his opened palm against the base of it. A woman on the third floor of the huge building was climaxing in her bonds. A young man down the hall was gagging on something thrust down his throat, but Bastian didn't think it was a cock. The quirt cut down again, over already reddened skin and the pain was silk against Bastian's skin. It drove off everything else, and he could ride the pain like a sleek, sweating beast between his thighs. The two men had been close to ending it. He had felt the building orgasm, but when Bastian slid into their heads, the Camillian couldn't let go, not yet. The need for pain that had brought him to the brothel was not something he could, or even wanted to control. With Bastian so close, he reveled in it for the first time. The whore’s whip arm, which had been starting to radiate hot, spiking muscle ache found new strength, and the quirt fell, over and over again. It wrapped around the man’s torso, across his upper thigh, around his hip to his belly, and instead of flinching, he rolled into the pain, exposing more of his white skin to be kissed. The sting drove him further into the place in his head that needed it, and Bastian could have ridden them both all day, but their bodies bucked and shuddered against his control. Bastian could only hold on to the control for so long. The whore was hard as well, though it surprised him to be so. He was not accustomed to becoming involved in his sessions. He was quite shocked to find that he'd taken a step toward the bed. His hand felt comfortable, grabbing the…he'd never thought of the Camillians who rented them by the hour as men before, not like the Illians were, but when he put his hand on the back of the man's neck, it felt good. So did reversing the quirt in his hand. He could never bring himself to actually fuck the man; that went beyond something he saw himself doing. Bastian couldn’t force him, nor would he have. The handle of the quirt was thick enough. He kicked the man's legs apart, half on the bed, half off.

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But he didn’t even have to penetrate him with it. Just as the first of the rolling, boiling wave began, the door of Bastian’s room opened. Bastian turned and the lines between him and the couple snapped in two. He was hard and flushed, and the woman who entered noticed both immediately. She wore a silk shirt and leather trousers like a man, the shirt transparent enough to show off the leather corset pushing up her breasts beneath it, and she’d obviously just said something he’d completely missed. Bastian clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to feel guilty. His travel robes were suddenly too hot for the room, though he had been cold when he'd first been shown in. She hadn't stopped staring at him, so he relaxed his hands and let them fall to his side, refusing to feel defensive any more. “I said, I am Becca. Are you my beloved?” “I'm a beloved, at the very least,” Bastian said. Beloveds were to whores what the sleek Camille racing horses were to the average cart nags, and it disturbed him that she had the upper hand when he should have controlled the meeting from the very start. “Let me see it, please.” “See what?” Bastian asked, feigning innocence. She glared at him. “Do not flatter yourself. Let me see your brand, please.” Illian contracted workers were not branded; only their labor belonged to their master. But it was not a slave brand she wanted to see. He held out his hand. The hourglass shape was unmistakable. “And this it was done without any heat at all,” she said. Bastian snatched his hand back. “You know it was.” “Excellent.” She clapped her hands. “Now, if you don’t mind, drop your robes.” Bastian shrugged. This part was just business. Bastian reached up and undid the single clasp by his throat. The red cloak, a color that was forbidden on the street but which he wore

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regardless, swirled down to his feet. He wasn't wearing anything beneath it, and she was slightly taken aback by that, but he remained stone-faced as she dropped her gaze. “Very nice,” she said, finally. His skin tingled. The school had taught him the use of volatile oils that showed him the past as much as the future. Being back in his city, where he’d grown up and been betrayed brought cold memories across his skin. It wasn’t unpleasant, as such, but still, he wanted to put his robe back on, just to protect himself. There was one more thing he knew Becca would question him about. He waited, counting in his head, and reached fifteen before she asked it. “What is your expertise?” Bastian sighed. There were a thousand things he could do brilliantly, but she only wanted to hear one thing. “I mix my own oils,” he said. He could create something that would make penetrative sex glide effortlessly, and something else -- using three of the four same ingredients that would blister skin on contact; not that he told her that. She smiled, honestly, for the first time. “Excellent.” “You should know, Becca,” he said. “You cannot house me here. There is too much futile sex in the building.” “I've already made arrangements for that,” she said, just as sharp. “And I won't whore for you. Be aware of that, too.” “I am aware of the arrangement, Your Highness.” He’d been naked for a dozen heartbeats, but now he felt exposed. “You know,” he said. He hadn't been a prince of the realm for over a decade, not since he was still young enough that clutching his nurse’s skirt when they went down to the market was not yet unbecoming. Being the second son of a second son of the disgraced former king held no sway in a conquered kingdom. “There is nothing I don’t know that happens in this city, Your Highness. But I am willing to respect the terms of our agreement, if you are.”

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He nodded. She made a sound in the back of her throat, but didn't add anything. Instead, she turned and swept out of the room as though she were the one wearing his cloak. After a moment he stooped down and scooped up the pooled cloak, but before the same silent servants that had brought him to the room could take him back to the street, he put on Illian clothes that hung on him strangely. The sex around him hadn't stopped, though for some reason he thought it might, and he vowed the very first thing he'd do when they did take him to his quarters was scrub every inch of skin that had been exposed to the air. He thought of her last words then pushed them aside. He had no intention of respecting the terms; he wondered, briefly, if she had similar intentions. The servants were silent. Bastian wasn't accustomed to that, either. When he still lived with his mother, the only two servants who had followed them had become a part of the family. Then at the school there were no servants, just the younger students serving the older until they were the older ones themselves. The halls were never quiet. The two servants flanking Bastian, however, had the look of men who would have to think for a moment before attempting to form words. They were old, their hands knotted from cold winters and hardship. They didn't look the sort to be working in a brothel, despite their silk and finery. “They didn’t allow brothels, before,” Bastian finally said, as they were about to reach the door. The first one looked at the second, and the conversation they had, if it was a conversation, was completely mute. When one of them spoke it was as though he did so only because he’d lost some bet that Bastian hadn’t seen take place. “Anything's legal,” he said, his voice as thick as Bastian thought it might have been. “Long as it's taxed high enough.” “It's a government whorehouse?” Bastian asked.

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The first man grunted. “She needs you,” the second man said. He didn't say he knew exactly who Bastian was, or what he had been, but the implication that he knew both was there. One of them actually touched his forehead as Bastian preceded him out of the room. Most of the travel on the road was done on foot or in handcarts pushed by strong looking young men. The few horses Bastian saw were ridden at great speed by Camillians without regard for the danger to the animals. There weren’t any carriages for rent, but from the look of most of the Illians trudging along with them, he didn’t think they’d be able to afford them even if there were. “The taxes keep going up,” the one who’d spoken before said, then flushed at his forwardness. “Ain’t no money.” It was obvious, but Bastian nodded and thanked him. The flush deepened, and this time he tugged a lock of his thinning hair and bobbed his head. Rather than the scorn Bastian had expected, there was actual respect. They took him to one of the largest indoor markets. “In here?” Bastian asked, startled. “No, sir. Up, on the roof. It’s all for you and your charge.” “You’re not going to come up?” They shook their heads together, adamantly, as though the thought frightened them. Bastian didn’t have much coin, but he gave them each a silver and climbed the wrought-iron ladder up the side of the building. The house, and it was a proper house, had a garden with a small pond with gold fish in it and real grass beneath Bastian’s feet. The calm gardenlike rooftop stank of Camillian magic though, to keep the water circulating down the stone steps of the fountain, so he turned his back on it. The interior of the small house was completely done in marble from Camille, but he'd spent half his life growing up in the school, and so was accustomed to that. They had at least given him his own room. The school had taught him the proper way to serve tea, the exact angle to lean back when kneeling, and about a thousand ways to

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disrobe, but he was glad he wouldn't have to serve, even hypothetically, in a Camillian room. The furniture looked old and well oiled, like it had been taken from someone else's house rather than made new for him. He dragged his fingertips across the grain of the rich, dark wood and could almost feel the pull of the past owner. He reluctantly withdrew his hand, unwilling to follow the memories too far. There had been too many husbands and fathers who just hadn't come home when the occupation began for him to want to feel the memories of the family. And there was a bathhouse, not attached to the house, but on the far end of the roof. The series of pipes and aqueducts that brought water from the mountain, and the brass cauldron beneath the house boiled enough water for an entire family in a matter of minutes. They had such bathhouses in the school -- bathing could be very erotic when in the right mood, and Camillians loved their whores to be as skilled as much as they loved to loathe the whore. He stared at the marble tub, large enough for half a dozen of Bastian’s classmates. Not that hand-trained slaves of the mountain school would be sent to Illian. There was no call for such expensive pleasure slaves in the colony that Illia had become. He closed the door behind him, crossed the growing grass over the roof, and returned to the small house. The house was divided into quadrants; a room of Camillian silk and pillows for “guests,” two private sleeping chambers, and an open room for food preparation. Bastian had just lain down in the biggest room when someone knocked on the door. He sat up, annoyed, but whoever it was didn't give up, knocking again, this time even louder. He looked down to the clothes at the foot of the bed in disgust. His trunk hadn't arrived from the school yet, and he didn't want to feel the cloak on his bare shoulders again. He went to the door nude and opened it.

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The two men at the door, one Illian, the other not, seemed taken back, but just for an instant. And his skin, with the oil that brought the visions, remembered the man in front of him. The night air was cold, but Bastian didn’t feel it at all. The young Illian at his side stared him up and down with frank interest, but the Camillian seemed the most embarrassed, his face turning red around the freckles still cursing his skin. "I was told to bring this one back here," he said, staring past Bastian’s shoulder. Bastian leaned against the door frame, needing a moment to collect himself. He’d never met this man before, of that he was certain. But the thing that gave him power recognized something in the Camillian. Bastian had to ball his fists to keep himself from touching the Camillian’s skin. It looked as though the man had tried to keep his dirty blond hair short enough that it would not curl, but it had been a while since his last cut. His shoulders were too broad to be those of a nobleman -- Bastian had seen enough naked Camillians to know that -- but he didn't have the hands of one who worked with them as a living. His clothes were fine enough, that was certain, and he knew enough of the upper class to know exactly what Bastian -- and the young man beside him -- were. And there was magic to him, something that didn't leave the noble bloodlines, regardless of what side of the bed they were borne from. "Were you, now?" Bastian said, speaking Camillian. The man had spoken to him in Illian, and he looked up, surprised. Illians were not supposed to speak the native tongue of their overlords, but then most Illians hadn't spent the past ten years in Camille. "I was," the man said. He was younger than Bastian had thought. He couldn't have been much older than Bastian himself. He thrust the young man practically into Bastian's arms, and turned to go.

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He wanted to ask the Camillian to stay, not knowing exactly why, but knew he might take it the wrong way. As though he’d actually asked the question, the Camillian shook his head, without turning. "You shouldn't antagonize him," the young man said, speaking for the first time. He was probably a fair bit older than he looked; there was a knowing look to his eyes that took a while to develop, but from the narrowness of his hips and shoulders, Bastian knew in an instant what sort of men sought him out. "Who is he, then?" Bastian asked. He'd switched back to Illian, and it was his turn to chew on rusty words. "The lord protector's son's friend," the young man said. "I see," Bastian said. "Is that who hired you?" The question seemed to insult the young man. "No," he said. "I was hired by the lord protector's son." Bastian observed him. He thought the young man would be pretty as long as he kept the façade of youth about him, but that was not exactly true. He’d always have high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, but his button nose might still grow out. He didn't stand like a properly trained whore, and while he did have a bit of the old gift about him, it was weakly diluted, like a second-day tea made from dregs. It was enough for Bastian to work with. "The mistress said you would train me to be like you,” the young man said, in a hushed tone. "Do you have a name?" Bastian asked. "Domina," the young man said. "Well, Domina, are you willing to be trained by me?" Domina nodded, frowning sourly. Bastian looked towards where the other had gone. "And him. What was his name?"

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"Vashi," Domina said. "What does that matter?" Bastian stared out into the darkness. Vashi would matter a lot, his body was telling him. He rubbed his face, too tired to think any more. "Run me a bath," Bastian said. "Do you have your own set of oils yet?" "I asked you a question," Domina said. Bastian didn’t want to answer the question, so he just didn’t. "As did I. Do you have oils, boy?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "You're like me," Bastian said. Perhaps if he were slightly less exhausted, he would have found that slightly harsh, but as it was, he felt he was positively restrained. His own set of oils was in his trunks, but he never traveled completely empty handed. "In the cloak on the bed, you'll find a small vial. Three drops in the fully drawn bath, but not a drop more. Please go now." "But --" Domina began. Bastian only looked at him, a look he'd seen a thousand times on one of his own instructors’ faces. Though unpracticed, it seemed to have the same effect. Domina didn't argue, but turned on his heels and bolted for the bedroom.

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Chapter Three

Vashi made his way down to the street, to the waiting carriage. "Back to the palace, sir?" the driver asked from his seat. Vashi nodded. Suddenly, the last thing he wanted was to be enclosed in the back, so he climbed up beside the driver. The cool air on his cheeks woke him as if from a deep sleep. When he returned, rather than going to his room, he knocked on Erasas’s door and let himself in. Erasas wasn't asleep; Vashi knew his friend didn't sleep much at all, and when he did it was closer to dawn than it was now, and he needed the sweet, grainy drink from the apothecary. His eyes looked swollen and blackened in the dim light of the room, but he smiled at Vashi as though nothing was wrong. "Safe delivery?" he asked. Vashi ignored the lack of greeting. It was impossible to be Erasas's friend and be upset at unobserved niceties. "Where was that place? It was at least a mile from the brothel. And what was he?” "Beloveds," Erasas said, ignoring the first question. He closed his eyes almost in orgasm. "They were used as schooled prostitutes when these heathens had but the one god. The few that are born with what little magic these people have are bought and sold to a school in Camille.”

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Vashi said nothing. "You don't approve," Erasas said, flatly. "Have I ever approved of your whoring? They may know more tricks…" Vashi didn't finish. Erasas held out his hands. "Don’t be angry with me. I’m exhausted. Come, sleep with me." Vashi crawled into the empty bed. He, for some reason, did not want to be alone either. In his head, he still heard the remnants of the music and it was haunting. He could hear the screams of pain now, from the walls around him. The cries of women, the pain -- it was still trapped in the music that the boy had brought with him in the room. While it was still beautiful, it hurt him to hear it. Erasas probably heard the same thing, or something else just as grave was bothering him, because he downed his sleeping potion and joined him. “Do you remember?” Erasas asked. “I remember a lot of things, Erasas,” Vashi said. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to reminisce about?” “I remember being a boy,” Erasas said. His tongue was already thick. The draught he’d just drunk obviously had been more than its usual strength. His breath smelled sweet, and he moved closer to Vashi to put his head on Vashi’s chest. “And I remember you protecting me.” Vashi stroked Erasas’s hair. Erasas’s father hadn’t always been in favor; he’d lost a ship at sea and had almost been ruined financially. The king had turned his back, leaving him in the cold, and with his father gone off to see what had happened to his fortune, Erasas had been left alone. Vashi had kept away the other boys who had sensed weakness like wild dogs. The ship hadn’t really been lost, just delayed, locked in ice for a season, but Erasas had never forgotten that year. “I try not to remember,” Vashi said.

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“That’s because your father hated your mother because you weren’t his,” Erasas said, speaking slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. The drug was heavy in his system now, and Vashi didn’t like it. The gloom settled heavier about them, and Vashi suddenly wished he’d stoked the fire before he’d gotten into bed. The feeling of being watched came over him, prickling the back of his neck like a hand gripping him. He’d felt it before, but never this strong. Erasas hadn’t shut up; he was telling Vashi the first time Vashi had rubbed him off as though Vashi hadn’t actually been there, so he got up and threw half a dozen dry logs onto the fire. The wood smothered the flames for a second, dimming the light even further, and Vashi swore there was something standing right behind him. Then the logs caught, throwing off bright yellow cheer, and the presence all around him retreated to the highest corner of the ceiling. Vashi stared up at it, expecting to see something, eyes maybe, staring back at him, but there was only cobwebs and dust. He shook his head and returned to the bed. “And then I came,” Erasas announced. His skin was cold, and Vashi pulled up the blankets. “I know,” Vashi said. Erasas closed his eyes. “You can try chasing him away, but he always comes back,” he said, words now slurring one into the other, and Vashi wanted to shake him back awake. “Who?” he asked, but Erasas didn’t answer, and would probably deny it in the morning. The fire crackled, sending sparks up the chimney, and Vashi suddenly realized why Erasas was taking more and more sleeping draughts when he was in the palace. He didn’t know what was watching Erasas sleep, but the thought of it standing over him kept Vashi up most of the night. He held Erasas in his arms, rocking him back and forth until the music only formed in their breaths and heartbeats, but he never felt as though they were really alone.

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Chapter Four

Domina watched from the doorway as Bastian lowered himself into the hot water. The oil had been perfectly measured and the temperature was exactly right, so Bastian had to assume he had some skill. Domina looked nervous, however, half in shadow. If he had been properly trained as a beloved he would have reveled in it. The warm water came up to Bastian’s chest, and the tub itself was large enough that if he sprawled out he still wouldn't have touched the sides. The oil was already starting to work on his tired muscles. But the bath wasn't true Camillian marble; the stone absorbed too much. "Next time four drops," he told Domina. Domina nodded. Bastian had his eyes closed, but he felt it. The fact that he was being watched was not enough to keep Bastian from slipping into a healing meditation, but there was still something bothering him. "What is your name?" he asked, finally. "I told you. Domina." "Domina is a name Camillians give their pets. Their female pets. It means pampered one. What is your name? Or can you remember it?"

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"Niel," Domina…Niel said. "It was my father's name. I was with him when they took him and they took me, too. When the mistress finally found me I couldn't remember my real name." Bastian nodded. "Women are not to my tastes," he said. "If they are to yours, tell me and I will not allow Becca to do this to you." Niel shook his head, but didn't look at him. Bastian continued. "Women are wonderful creations, but know that you are not a substitute for one. You do not have to accept a woman's name unless that is the name you want." "You can't tell a Camillian what he may or may not do," Niel said bitterly. Bastian sat up, causing a wave to splash over the tub, and for a moment the only sound was the water slipping down the drain in the floor. Because of the oil, Bastian could feel it run all the way down to the ancient, unused aqueduct, and he wished it well under his breath. "You have no idea what becoming a beloved means," Bastian said, finally. "If men wanted a whore to be told what to do, they would get a whore. They do what you want them to do, and the only thing they get to decide is when they can't bear it any longer." Niel stared at him as though he were deranged. Bastian had to smile at the exceptionally alarmed face. "My first teacher was a brute of a man. I promise I won't do that to you. Take off your clothes and join me. I'll show you how to scrub a man's back." "I know how to scrub a man's back," Niel said. "I've been training for months." But he'd already taken off his robes, hesitantly. "After several months," Bastian said, helping Niel into the warm water, "my master allowed me to actually hold the sponge. Do you trust me?" Niel nodded hesitantly.

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"Good," Bastian said, and brought the sponge, still rough and raw from the ocean, across Niel's back. One stroke, hard across his line of power. "You have to cleanse inside the man as much as the outside. There are many patterns you can follow." Niel leaned back into him, and Bastian supposed this was not going to be as horrible as he’d thought.

Eventually even the marble couldn’t keep the water warm. Niel got out of the water first, bringing Bastian a robe. He pulled it on and led Niel back inside the house. The air was cool, especially after the heat of the bath, but Niel stoked the fire in the central part of the house, and soon the walls themselves were radiating heat. Niel followed him into the room, glancing at the bed, and went to touch the tie at this throat. Bastian stopped him. “I sleep alone,” he said, quietly. The words weren’t meant as a rebuff, and realization dawned slowly across Niel’s face. “I thought --” Niel began, but then didn’t continue. He didn’t have to; Bastian knew what he thought. “I’m here to train you,” Bastian said, and that wasn’t a lie -- just not the whole truth. “That doesn’t mean I can force you to bed with me, even if I wanted to. For now, I sleep alone.” “Yes, sir,” Niel said, for the first time, and left him alone in the bedroom. Bastian knelt in the warm room and prayed, but it was to an old, cold god whose displeasure was paid for with blood.

Bastian woke sharply, feeling the metallic taste of fear in the back of his throat. The room was still quiet, the glow from the fire turned to light orange in the room. For a moment he wished he’d just dreamed that sense of presence from another.

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But there was another, and Bastian soon heard the other’s heartbeat as steady as his own. Something moved, closer to the bed than Bastian at his most paranoid thought possible, and then came the cool, metal kiss of a blade against his throat. Bastian closed his eyes. His uncle Chivas would not wait to slit his throat if that was what he, or the demon he had inside him, demanded. “You used to beg me not to cut you,” Chivas growled. “I used to believe you would cut me,” Bastian said. The sword withdrew, and Bastian sat up, despite himself, and touched his throat to ensure he wasn’t bleeding. Chivas paced the room as though caged. He had always been strong, able to pull men to him against their better will, forcing them to obey; now his power was like a physical blow. “Your prayers keep you safe.” If the words were meant to impress Bastian, he barely blinked. It was more likely that Chivas had watched through the open window and waited for him to get down on his knees. It was a testament to how strong Chivas was that Bastian found himself biting back the sharp reply. “What do you want? You know you’re not supposed to be here,” he said instead. It was true. The royal family had been allowed to remain during the occupation, and was kept to mostly ceremonial roles throughout the worst of the control, but Chivas had been exiled. “I wanted to make sure you were” -- Chivas looked up and down Bastian’s body under the blanket that had pooled in his lap -- “intact.” Bastian didn’t let his face show how much the leer disgusted him. He kept his expression blank. “You know I’m intact. I’m sure your madam has told you the condition I was in when I arrived.” “I heard. You were, as you have always been, in remarkable condition.” Bastian nodded, but said nothing. He knew what was coming, but that didn’t make hearing the words any easier. “Why are you in such remarkable condition, Bastian?” “Because you saved me,” Bastian repeated, as he always did.

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“You would have been murdered, just as your father had been. What did you say to me the day I saved you?” “I would do anything,” Bastian said. Just when he thought he couldn’t hate his uncle any more, there was always more hatred in his well. He’d been a boy and had just seen the ax fall over his father. He would have promised away anything if it meant sparing himself, but he had been so young. He hadn’t understood. If he had truly known what he had been promising, or what he would have to give up, even as a boy he would have preferred the ax. “You think that now, but do you really? I can give you back that fear. I can put you back on that day, forever if I wanted to, and leave you with nothing but dread and helplessness. Would you like that?” “No,” Bastian whispered. “My grandfather lost his way, and the country crumbled because he didn’t follow Anspar. I have one of his minions inside me, and you will follow.” The name of the god made Bastian shudder. The country crumbled because Chivas’s grandfather had spent large amounts of time praying to his god for deliverance when he should have been fighting the battle raging outside his window. The country crumbled because men like Chivas had assured him that the years of occupation was punishment for his earlier disbelief. The country stayed crumbled because men like Chivas made fortunes controlling the flow of Illia’s natural resources to Camille and beyond. Still, Bastian forced himself to smile. “Yes, Chivas.” Chivas licked his lips then cocked his head as though listening to something. Chivas was larger than Bastian was and half a foot taller. He’d found Bastian the night before he was to be offered to the old lord protector. Chivas had found him, hidden him away at the school, out of the lord protector’s reach, and provided the funds necessary so that Bastian could afford the senior training required to bring his education to the final level. With just the

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basic training, Bastian’s contract would have probably been sold to a higher-end brothel. His begrudging gratitude was something he fought with daily. “Your prey will be in the market tomorrow, in the square. You’ll have your young charge ready for the spell.” “They know each other already. Niel’s said that he’s bought his time on several occasions.” Chivas snarled. Several years ago he probably would have smacked Bastian for arguing, but he wasn’t about to damage the merchandise now. His face twisted, his eyes darkened, and for a second Bastian swore he closed his eyes sideways, left to right. “You belong to me. Never forget that.” “I thought Becca bought my contract.” Bastian couldn’t hide the revulsion whenever he felt the demon. It was stronger, too, inside Chivas, which could only mean that Anspar, in all his evil glory, was waking. Bastian shuddered. “She has. But never forget who owns you.” Chivas moved again, his face an inch away from Bastian’s. Despite the blade against his throat earlier, Bastian felt a stab of fear for the first time. Chivas didn’t smell like a man anymore, but like the interior of a damp cave. Bastian could almost taste the leaf rot on Chivas’s too hot breath. “Who do you belong to?” Chivas whispered. Bastian looked away. “You.” “Do you think that’s enough, Bastian? Who do you belong to?” “You,” Bastian repeated. “Both of you.” Chivas smiled at him, a dark, twisted thing, and the relief that the anger had passed in Chivas was like watching a promised storm break up over a mountain range. Chivas kissed him lightly on the cheek and then turned around. Bastian supposed he must have crossed the main room, no doubt stepping over a sleeping Niel, but he heard nothing, not even the door, which had creaked every time either he or Niel opened or closed it.

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Bastian waited then willed sleep to find him, but he was left awake, flat on his back, for hours. Eventually it hurt to lay still. He got up, dressed, and snuck out of house. The door creaked open and closed, just as Bastian was afraid it would.

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Chapter Five

The slave ships slipped into the still, black waters of the harbor. Once there had been walls of defense up, protecting the city from the open harbor. But when the occupation had settled in, the first thing the Camillians did was destroy the walls, bit by bit. The bouldersized pieces that had been left on the beach now had their rough edges smoothed by three generations of tides. The largest of the boulders had been dragged out into the low tide, creating a treacherous harbor that had claimed more than a few ships. Eventually, they had just stopped attempting to enter. The slave ships were moored at the mouth of the harbor, and the lanterns on the small boats rowing toward the shore hovered over the water like deliberate, slow fireflies. Vashi watched from the catwalks and felt his discomfort grow. Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned away from the skimming lights, to the lord protector himself. Vashi bowed his head. The man’s skeletal body no longer looked strong enough to support the weight of his head, but Vashi felt how much strength was still contained inside him. It made his knees weak and his belly flutter just being close to him.

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“Vashi,” the man said, instead of a greeting. Vashi didn’t answer -- not that he had to. The man continued on as though it wasn’t expected of him to speak. “My son is not in his room.” “No, sir,” Vashi said, because that was expected of him. Averance nodded once then continued. “Where is he?” Vashi’s lip twitched. He was at the brothel. Vashi was certain that Averance knew where his son was, but he waited to see if Vashi would volunteer the experience. Vashi said nothing. The old man took another step forward, and for the first time Vashi felt the hunger from him. It pulled at Vashi, and he felt, for an instant, as though he was being consumed. He batted something away from his face, feeling whatever it was across his palm as though it were liquid. Vashi wanted to wipe his hands over his trousers to rid himself of the sensation, but found he couldn’t, not with Averance just staring at him like he was. Averance took another step forward, pinning Vashi to the wall. If Averance had used two of his largest guards to hold Vashi against the wall, the sense of imprisonment would not have been greater. He couldn’t even fight when it was his own muscles that locked him into place. Averance smelled him then, licking his way down Vashi’s throat. He growled, deep in his throat like a wild beast. It wasn’t that Vashi feared the man tearing his throat out; this was something much worse. The sensation of wet, clammy saliva washed over his skin. If he could have moved, he would have happily tossed Averance over the edge of the catwalk to his death on the broken bits of wall below. “There are slavers in the harbor,” Vashi said, because he had to say something, and his mouth couldn’t seem to form the words step back or go away. Averance laughed again, not moving. Vashi had time to think that any time now Averance would lick his skin again, and this time something long and dry, not like a human at all but something forked, like a reptile’s tongue, would slide across his skin. Averance tasted something from him, something

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he was suddenly aware was extruding from him, and the more of the milky, shining fog that seemed to rise against his skin, the stronger Averance felt. Vashi tried to fight, throwing all self-preservation aside to actually push the lord protector away from him. But he still couldn’t move. Averance was laughing harder. “Of course there are slavers in the harbor,” he said, though he didn’t stop laughing to say the words. “I invited them.” Vashi knew it was a dream. There was no other way for all of this to make sense. But he couldn’t force himself to wake. He didn’t want to look up, but even that will was taken from him. A man stood behind Averance, on the windy catwalk, the gale force wind now swirling around his robes and long hair as though some god would like nothing more than to dash Vashi on the rocks below. But the man was also with the boats now reaching the shores, urging them faster. The smell of salt spray reached Vashi now, and the icy breath of the sea itself slid across his skin as the lead boat was not rowed but floated over the treacherous rocks below. If Vashi could have, he would have screamed. The layers of dream peeled back, revealing the man with his dark eyes and pale skin and red hair for what he was. Beneath the skin and muscle of his face was something red, bloody, and laughing. Vashi woke screaming, in his own room. He touched his throat, feeling the slick dampness of saliva across it, and where the liquid touched him, it suddenly burned. He leaped up, using the blanket itself to wipe his throat. He reached for the clothes he’d worn the day before, but found Erasas’s pile first. His fingers touched something cold and hard, and he jerked back like he’d been bitten, but it was only Erasas’s flask. He took it, reaching for the same trousers he had worn in his dream. They, too, had the spit on them. He let them fall from his hand in disgust and swore he saw them move even after they’d come to a rest on the floor, the sound of dry rattle like the warning of a snake coming from them. He bit back another scream, kicking them as far into the corner as he could, and dressed in Erasas’s discards. He was still pulling on his boots as he all but fell into the hallway.

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The hall was quiet, but Vashi felt so alert he sensed the guards moving around in pairs and small groups. Though Vashi was alone in his stretch of hall that ran from the grand staircase to one of the back ways into the great dining hall, he felt the guards moving as though they brushed past him where he stood. Their voices were low, the soft murmur of men who were accustomed to being up in the dead of night when all other sensible men were asleep, and all their talk was about the black ships in the harbor. Vashi felt his skin pale further. If it wasn’t a dream, it meant that man was somewhere in the city. The dream’s details were starting to slip away, from the feeling of the wind around his legs to the crystal light slipping down from the moon, the fear dwindling in discrete units -- but he’d never forget that leering face. The halls seemed to close down around him and he all but bolted for the staircase. He passed several sets of guards, their surprise at seeing him nothing compared to their inward alarm at the expression on his face. Vashi saw the milky substance around their heads like the halo of a torch burning in a smoke filled room. He pushed past the men and bolted down the last dozen steps and outside at a pace that would have broken his neck if he had fallen. Once outside, the tension in his body slackened, but not enough for him to stop running. He had to, at least for appearance’s sake as he walked past the guards at the two gates, though his entire body jangled. He couldn’t walk fast enough to rid himself of that feeling of being watched. He kept walking down, closer to the sea, though that was the last place he wanted to be. As soon as he could he turned away from the harbor and the palace, into the market. The dream hadn’t been entirely correct. Rolls of fog came off the low tidal pools and into the lower parts of the city. As Vashi walked into the salted, heavy air, he knew he should be alarmed. A well-dressed man of noble birth, though on the wrong side of the bed, and a Camillian to boot, should have been a meaty joint of beef to the hungry criminal element of the lower city. But Vashi actually felt more comfortable. He moved in the mist,

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aware of the men also in the fog in the same way he was aware of the guards, but something in him nodded to something in them, and they allowed him to pass unmolested. He entered the market, and at once the panic in him drained out. He looked around what should have been an open square, but of course he saw nothing in the darkness. The lord protector did not pay for torches in the lower city, and oil was too expensive for lamps. Someone was coming, though moving silently enough that the only thing Vashi heard was the whisper of the fog sliding over his skin. He knew he should have turned around, thinking this was just part of the same dream, but dream logic failed him. His bones ached, but at least when he stood by the fountain, the feeling of being sought lessened. He sat down, and when the feeling didn’t intensify, he took out the flask. The empty fountain gaped behind him, and he stared at the child with his open mouth holding a Camillian crested vase. When he saw the redheaded man who had answered the door move through the mist, Vashi was actually surprised. He didn’t know much about beloveds, but he was surprised to see him out so early. Not that the young man approaching him looked like any young man Vashi had seen in a brothel. There was a haunted look on his face that hadn’t been there the night before. Vashi didn’t think the redhead saw him, despite making an almost straight line to where he sat. He was staring off into the distance, but his shoulders were so tight he looked as though he was fighting not to look behind him. His beautiful skin had lost its glow, and his jaw was clenched. Vashi stood, and the motion obviously startled the young man. He jerked back as though Vashi had slapped him. He blinked, twice, and if Vashi didn’t know better, he would have sworn the young man looked surprised to find himself in the middle of the town square before most of the small shops and markets had opened. It didn’t take him any time at all to

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recover, and within the same second of seeing Vashi for the first time, he smiled that same knowing smile. “May I have your name?” Vashi asked, surprised by how thick his voice was. “Why?” the young man asked. “What exactly would you do with it if I gave it to you?” Vashi didn’t answer. His tongue felt thick as well, and for the first time in his life, it failed him completely. At least he caught himself before he gaped. The young man blinked. “I thought so,” he said, finally, when it became apparent Vashi wasn’t going to answer. “Then may I make my own name for you?” Vashi asked, trying again. “You can.” The redhead wasn’t smiling. His eyes were wide and looked bruised, and when he swallowed, it looked as though he were forcing himself to do so out of habit, despite how dry his mouth was. He kept looking behind him; something had obviously terrified him. “But do not expect there to be any power in it.” “So I can call you Red?” The man nodded. “It will do as much as any.” “You are new here, Red.” “Yes,” he agreed, but the teasing tone of his voice had gone again. “And old. It is a long story.” There was something else he wanted to say. He seemed to be leaning in closer to Vashi than was appropriate. He felt as though he were drunk, though he didn’t have the smell of alcohol to his breath. Something inside Vashi, something that was long quiet, woke up around him. They stared at each other for a long time. Red blinked, but the fear in his eyes slowly retreated. Vashi took out a flask, offered him the hard brandy of Camille, and for a second it looked like Red was going to refuse it. Instead he lifted his hand. Vashi held the flask like an

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offering, and again, as obvious as though he were just reading a book, he saw Red wanting to take it and yet being afraid of it at the same time. “Is that Illian brandy?” he asked. “No, sadly. Erasas only drinks Camillian.” “Tell him it’s a wise decision,” Red said, and took the flask. His throat worked as he swallowed, the veins obvious under his pale skin, and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “May I keep this?” It was Camillian silver, and most importantly, not his to give, but Vashi nodded, regardless. Red smiled as if not entirely pleased and pocketed the flask somewhere Vashi didn’t see. Red leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, a distant peck that one would bestow upon a long-absent cousin or elderly aunt, but Vashi felt heat rush through him nonetheless. Vashi grabbed his wrist just before he turned to go. “We have to see each other again.” “No, we don’t,” Red said, again with the smile. “But I do allow you want to. You smell like him,” Red said. His face looked haunted, too, and it was a familiar haunt. If he’d raised a mirror rather than his chin, Vashi wouldn’t have recognized the expression any better. He stood and opened his mouth to tell the man about the dream and the thing that had worn its human face like a mask. But before he could take the breath to do so, long fingers pressed against his lips. Vashi looked up, meeting blue eyes that were suddenly the oldest he’d ever seen. Red kissed him, and the words died in Vashi’s throat. They broke apart. Red wiped his mouth with the back of his fist, but then licked the spot his lips had touched. It was dark; the only light came from what little moonlight banked off the white fog. Still, Vashi saw the shocking red hair as though they stood under the sun itself. He was so close Vashi could see the white skin of his scalp through the mane of red -not like the man in his dream, Vashi saw. That man’s hair had been thinning, and the red was beginning to lose its brightness, whereas this was the sleek red of a fox. His lips looked

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pale in comparison. He was cold, his mouth turned down in a tight-lipped frown. When Vashi kissed him, it took a long moment for the skin under his own lips to warm. It wasn’t right; he didn’t even know Red’s true name. That may not have been important for Erasas, but it was to Vashi. But this wasn’t a transaction, he told himself. That thing with the leering bloody smile was still in his head, and the fog wouldn’t hide him for long. He tightened his mouth. He would give the name tomorrow, or the next day. This would hide them from that thing. It was oddly comforting that Red was as much on the run as Vashi was. When Red touched his hands to Vashi’s neck, Vashi lifted his chin and let Red fumble with his buttons. The mist was cold, the wind off the sea colder, and they were in the middle of the square. It didn’t stop Red from sinking to his knees. Vashi tried to twist away, unhappy with the inequality, but Red dug his nails into Vashi’s hips and didn’t let go. He didn’t lower Vashi’s trousers an inch more than they had to be, and the next second, Vashi wished that he was up against something that could take his weight. Again, there were no words. The wind had picked up, moving the fog like ghosts across the square. With the wind came the sounds of waves crashing from the shore. Red smiled, pushing back on his thighs. Vashi fought, unwilling to topple back, but Red was stronger than he looked. Vashi shook his head, not even sure why he was doing it, and spread his arms. He fell back, and the fog, which had been inconsequential against his skin, was pillowy soft and comfortable. There was no way the mist should have been warm, or able to support him, but the sound of the waves crashing against the shore somehow made it possible. Red got off his heels, following him where he relaxed, and slowly, carefully, took him inch by inch until his nose pressed against Vashi’s belly. Vashi knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he put his hands behind Red’s head, forcing his hips up, carefully at first. But with the encouraging sound Red made, Vashi became more daring. His hands dug into Red’s hair, hard, enough that it should have brought tears to Red’s eyes and some sort of retribution, but he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t been hard before;

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it was difficult to be hard and petrified at the same time, but the louder the waves were, the more distance there was between him and the dream. The harbor had been black glass polished under the moonlight when the slave ships had entered the mouth of the protecting rocks. Now it seemed the sea was trying to throw itself up and onto the rocks to get away from the ships. The market was at least a mile from the shores, yet as they stood there, embanked in their fog, the surf was so loud they might as well have been standing on the coarse sand of the beach. The rhythmic pulse took over, calming Vashi’s frantic heartbeat so that his blood ebbed and flowed in his body to the same call of the tide, and Red matched his speed to the waves. Vashi closed his eyes, letting it happen. Red was doing something with his hands now, one hand taking up the same pace as his mouth. It seemed his cock was never without the tightness or attention. The action sent fluttering signals that batted against his throat and belly. The sensation darted and crossed the pleasure/pain threshold a dozen times yet was never either too much or too little. Red used his free hand to pull down Vashi’s trousers as much as he could with his thighs spread as far as they were. The fog cradling him moved down his body, and fingers of mist curled around his hips, lifting him even further from the ground. Red smiled and the sensation on Vashi’s skin was like rabbit fur across his bare belly. He’d let go of Red’s hair, which was a pity, because it suddenly occurred to him that if he just took Red’s head, thrusting hard and deep down his throat, the resulting orgasm would be spectacular. Just as he was preparing himself to feel disappointed about that lack of immediate release, Red sat up further, gripping Vashi’s hips tighter than the fog did, his warm fingers the only real sensation that Vashi felt from the roots of his hair to his toes. Just letting go, letting his body come, was as easy as a sigh. His body tightened and bowed around the rush of heat and pleasure coming from his cock, diffusing through every inch of his skin. He should have fallen. Nothing supported him; he didn’t have the muscle coordination to catch himself from falling.

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Even if he had, there was no mistaking the draw from Red, supporting him. Red stood, again wiping his mouth with the back of his fist and again licking clean the spot where he’d done so and with his other hand he wrapped the tendrils of fog around his wrist and pulled. Vashi landed, carefully, down on his own feet, and fell forward so that Red was supporting the weight he couldn’t. His heartbeat had changed. It still had the waves beating against his chest, connecting him to something greater, but the panic was completely gone. The masked thing would try to track him during the night, but find only the sea around them. Red smiled a second time, but this time Vashi didn’t feel it and that saddened him. “He can’t find you now,” Red said, and kissed his cheek. His lips were still sticky and smelled unmistakably of Vashi. Vashi found himself licking them the rest of the way clean, and Red let him. “Why won’t you tell me your name?” Vashi said. He was going to take Red’s wrist, holding him to him before Red could disappear with the thinning mist around them, but he didn’t dare. The very real fear gripped him that if he did try to take hold of Red’s skin it would dissipate around his fingers and might not be able to form again. “I have no answer for you,” Red said, distantly, and while he didn’t disappear like Vashi was afraid he would, his steps echoed wetly against the buildings and the mist was suddenly again all around him. Vashi was motionless, against his will, and as much as he wanted to run after Red, chasing him down just to be with him, he couldn’t move until the echoes Red threw off were so distant they were directionless. He paused then realized his trousers were still down by his ankles. The mist had gone, and the wind was cold on his flesh, but although he felt it on his skin, there was no real sensation of chill. He pulled his trousers back up. Then, rather than returning to the palace, he went to the brothel where he knew Erasas would be. There was no way, even with the potion, that Erasas would be able to sleep in that room with the nightmare.

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It was later than he thought, in that part of night when most people didn’t fight their natural need for sleep, regardless of how deep their cups or depravity went. The young boy who answered the door on which Vashi pounded had sleep-crusted eyes and a sour attitude. He’d wanted to deny Vashi entrance, the words, “we’re closed” so close to the tip of his tongue that Vashi heard it without him saying the words. But he shrugged and let Vashi pass. Vashi wondered, as he took the stairs two at a time, whether it was because the boy recognized him as the stalwart companion of the son of the lord protector, or whether Red’s spittle, still on his skin, wouldn’t let the boy deny him anything he wanted. He knew he was being ridiculous, but when he reached the room Erasas always requested -- the double mirror about as secret as the extra taxes added to the price the morning after the whore’s night -- he knew the door would be locked; just because Erasas had a special agreement with Becca did not mean he trusted the other visitors to the whorehouse. The moment Vashi seized the door handle, there was the very real sound of metal moving against metal, then the door was open in his hand. He pushed it in, drawing the bolt, and it was louder than Vashi had wanted. The whore in Erasas’s bed was a girl this time, but nothing surprised Vashi anymore about Erasas’s many and varied tastes. She hadn’t woken, but Erasas had, and the naked steel in his hand was about a foot long and shiny new. Vashi raised his hands, waiting for Erasas to recognize him in the dark. Vashi didn’t know how he could see both of them in the bed as clearly as though it were day when he recognized at the same time that the room was pitch dark -- but he did. Eventually, Erasas put the blade away. “Come in, if you’re coming,” he grumbled, still mostly asleep, and Vashi undid his trousers for the third time that night. He was naked by the time he reached the bed, and Erasas was warmer against his skin than a roaring fire. He slid next to Erasas, feeling the heat on his skin, and Erasas grumbled again, turning over onto his side to give Vashi more of his skin to cling to. He grumbled again, as Vashi stuck his cold hands over Erasas’s lower belly to warm them, and then started snoring.

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Sleep came eventually, and Vashi’s last recognizable thought was that darkness had settled over him as comforting as the blanket over his shoulders.

Vashi woke to the sensation of being watched. He didn’t have the comfort of Erasas’s blade, but when he opened his eyes, it was only the whore, watching him from the other side of Erasas’s still-slumbering body. Her grey eyes were wide, her dark hair still glossy on her shoulders. She licked her lips. He willed her to go, to not try to arrange a price for the morning after and demean them both. She nodded as though she heard him. She sat up, as beautiful and naked as a woodland creature, and just as she pulled on her robe, Vashi caught a glimpse of her tense arm muscles. Erasas was awake now as well, watching her. She turned, questioning, but he shook his head. She nodded, and started to get dressed. Erasas slipped her an extra coin. Vashi didn’t see what denomination, but it looked heavy and it glinted as only gold did. “Thank you,” he said. She palmed the coin, and it disappeared somewhere Vashi didn’t see. “No, sir. Thank you,” she said, with what sounded like real emotion. Erasas kissed her bare shoulder, and then turned so that she could dress in private. It was an oddly touching moment, and Vashi felt embarrassed to be in the same room. “This is a first,” Erasas said, his voice dry. “I thought you disapproved of brothels.” “I came here to sleep with you, not her,” Vashi said, voice sharp. Vashi’s tone told Erasas not to flatter himself, but Erasas reached up and stroked Vashi’s upper arm. He smelled of sex with the woman, of stale perfume and staler ale, of dried sweat and of sweet smoke, but Vashi let himself be pulled back to the mattress. “They charge extra for that,” Erasas said. He didn’t move his lips off the skin of Vashi’s shoulder to speak. Vashi understood him, regardless.

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“You can afford it,” Vashi shot back. The ceiling here was cracked, and where the plaster had flaked the ceiling was a paler shade of gray. Erasas had left the single window’s shutter open the night before, and now it let in the full force of the sun. From the fourth floor of the brothel, Vashi could see the harbor and the dark, bloated ships moored in the once again calm, glass-like sea. “There are slavers in the harbor,” he said instead. “That’s not possible.” There were slaves in Illian, debt slaves or contract slaves who owed certain years of servitude to their masters, but they weren’t bought and sold like livestock. “Anything is possible, if Father has his mind to it,” Erasas said. “What do you want for breakfast?” “We have to go speak with your father.” “They have berries here the size of your fist. I don’t know where they brought them from, but try that with cream so thick it has to be spooned out of the jar.” “Slavers can’t take Illians off the domestic soil,” Vashi said. “They blend their own tea,” Erasas said hopefully. Vashi stood up. “We have to get back.” Vashi tugged on Erasas’s arm. “Come on.” The concern that he would be there -- the grinning mask -- was mildly alarming, but it was the same tension he felt when thinking back to any nightmare. His heartbeat still had the rush of the tide to it, and just holding still, feeling it flow in and out of him, gave him the strength to control the panic. Erasas continued to grumble but walked past the madam who had already prepared his breakfast. Vashi shrugged apologetically at her, but saw the calluses on her hand as well. He tried not to stare, but the madam’s mouth tightened as he walked past. Then he and Erasas were out in the bright sunlight. The last of the mist had been burnt off in the morning sun, but Vashi still felt the remnants of it on his skin.

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The market seemed smaller as they walked past it. The free trade of Illia had been stopped decades ago, and what few shops were still open had such a limited selection there was practically nothing to buy. It hadn’t felt that way the night before; the market had felt endless and crackling with energy. As it was, the old fountain, the horrible defaced fountain with the Camillian crest, had been empty and dry for decades. The smaller street stalls, those not part of the larger inside livestock or vegetable markets, were patched with rough wood and broken boards. The cobblestone that had once covered the proud market was cracked, treacherous for both carriage wheels and horses, and dirt had once again claimed most of the ground beneath Vashi’s feet. “We’ve killed them,” he told Erasas. Even when they first came, ten or so years ago, the market had been sparse for choice, but still bustling. Now it was as empty as the stalls were. Erasas looked at him, lip curled. He wasn’t as handsome in the day as he was at night, and the older they got, the more Vashi saw the lord protector in Erasas. Erasas had always been thin, but when he was tired the likeness was unmistakable. “I asked you what you said, Vash.” “We’ve killed them,” Vashi repeated, the words more certain now. The market was only a symptom. The hills to the south that produced the best grapes, the best horses bred on the plains, the ore from the mountains to the north, it all funneled directly to Camille, and it left the Illians with nothing. “There hasn’t been a killing in months,” Erasas said, mouth twitching. “Have you gone completely insane?” “This. Us here,” Vashi said, gesturing to the market, wanting Erasas to see how pale and gaunt the stalls were, how listless were the men and women who passed through it. Their children had been mined as well; some sold themselves to the Camille army -- fodder for food. The prettiest worked in brothels both in the city and abroad, the strongest in the fields or the mines. There wasn’t an Illian between childhood and middle age in the city who wasn’t a whore.

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“It is the way of things,” Erasas said. It was an old argument, though one they hadn’t had to have before. “We take their lands, their crops, their resources, and yet still they owe us?” Vashi asked. Erasas hesitated. Vashi stopped arguing; maybe he’d just made his point.

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Chapter Six

The next morning, as ordered, Bastian got Niel ready. The boy did have talent. If any of the scouts had found him, Bastian had no doubt that he would have been purchased and dragged off. The problem with Niel was that what he had learned was either wrong or just motions he was going through with no concept as to why he was doing them. “No,” Bastian said, voice sharper than he meant it to be. Niel had disrobed well enough, but he’d knelt by just falling to the earth. “Has no one shown you how to kneel?” Bastian asked, but managed to curb the bite in his voice this time. Niel was going to say something, but didn’t. He bit his tongue instead, but Bastian saw the frustration in his eyes. “You need to leave yourself open. Can’t you see the sounds around you?” “I can see the sounds,” Niel said, but his voice was soft. “Then why don’t you let them help you lower yourself to the ground?” Niel stared at him blankly. Bastian touched his throat, still feeling the blade on it. The last thing he wanted to do was touch that part of him that the god fed from. Still, he pulled off his robe, letting it swirl around him and the thin notes that Niel had managed to conjure. They were mostly dull

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browns and grays, but still he managed to make them play with the light silk of his robe. Niel stared, as the robe floated a foot or so away from him before sliding down to the ground. “Parlor tricks,” Bastian said as he stepped over the pooled silk. He locked his fingers behind his head. “Look at me.” Niel did so. There was enough noise from the market below them, and the water from the pond was a steady base to keep the sound constant enough for him to build up brighter colors. With his eyes closed he saw them as ropes, and from there, it was a simple matter of using the ropes already in the air to slowly lower himself down, inch by inch until he was resting comfortably on his knees. He heard Niel’s gasp and smiled. It was easy to spread his knees. He felt Niel; the ropes that bound them together in the music that the sounds held told him which part of his body was the most sensitive. Bastian stroked the inside of his own thighs, his belly, his throat, and felt Niel’s gasp as though he were being touched instead. Bastian’s cock was hard, flat against his belly and he knew Niel was hard as well, but the erection was easy enough to ignore when it wasn’t time yet. He still saw the sounds around him, and it was the easiest thing in the world to pull the complementary colors towards him to create the most harmonious sound. It was his favorite part, to feel the colors moving over his skin. He needed the other person to summon the colors together, but if it were possible to pull the music to himself alone in an empty room, he would have done it. His whole body vibrated now. Anything more than the lightest of touches on his skin would have been too much, so Bastian let his fingers travel once again from his chest, down his sides, and to the taut muscles of his thighs. Niel, despite his training, still liked the kiss of pain, Bastian felt, so when he brought his hand stingingly down on the delicate skin high on his thigh, it was Niel who hissed and then groaned. The sound close to them was a staccato burst of broken colors, blue blending to green blending to yellow. Bastian knelt back and

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knew the ropes would support him again. He felt Niel’s heartbeat as though it hammered next to his, and knew his throat was dry from the whistling tone his breathing had taken. It was impossible to keep all the sounds away. The music became too loud for his ears, and he found his own body trembling. He raked his nails down his chest, letting the pain give him more control. Niel wanted to touch his cock, and because they were connected, Bastian couldn’t stop his own fingers from finding the delicate spot right at the base where it felt the sweetest. But before he could do anything, Niel cried out. “Enough,” he said, and the contact broke. The colors lasted long enough for Bastian to pull himself back onto his feet, and they both stood, incredibly aroused. Bastian snapped his fingers and the robe leapt off the ground and back into his hand. “You make the music,” Bastian said, exhaling, slowly. “And you control it, from the moment you step into the room until the moment you leave. Do you understand me?” Niel moved his jaw, but though he’d said the word that had ended the connection, he had no words left. “Good. I need you down at the market. Go, get dressed.” Niel moved his jaw again, made a choking sound, and disappeared back into the small house. Residual strings between them let Bastian feel him abusing himself, but Bastian held onto his own arousal and let the need fuel his body. It was time. The brothel was closed between the hours of two and four. The understanding was that the rooms needed to be cleaned and Becca’s boys and girls needed an hour or two for themselves before the next round of Camillian guests graced the rooms again. Bastian knew different. A young boy answered the door, his eyes narrowed warningly, but Bastian pushed past him without a word. The door locked and bolted behind him, the only structure in the city that was allowed to bar its doors. Bastian headed up to the grand room on the fourth floor.

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The nature of the room was shrouded. The stage at the end of the long room hadn’t ever been used; and the polished floor could have been used for dances, but it hadn’t been used for that, either. The four dozen men and women on it were all barefoot. Some wore the same fine silk clothes they wore with their clients; some wore the casual clothes of Illians. But others wore uniforms of Illian soldiers, obviously inherited, and the very act of strapping the blue jerkin on was cause for a death sentence to be carried out immediately. The silent conversation that the group seemed to be having ended the instant Bastian walked into the large room. Three generations of interbreeding between Illians and Camillians had caused some interesting blood mixing. From the group, Bastian felt the pull of his sex magic calling to others like him, though that power was so thin it probably wouldn’t have interested even the most desperate of scouts. There was at least one Camillian who was strong enough that she could have peeled his skull and brain open like an onion. Some had just a whisper of both strains of blood, which would have made them amazing whores, even without a great deal of the talent Bastian had. And there stood Becca, one of the ones dressed in an old uniform, though it was obvious even to him that it had been tailored to fit her curves. Her lips peeled back in a sneer, and with that, the group broke apart. She didn’t look away from him, and in that next instant, Bastian realized she was the one with the Camillian abilities. Her whores, or warriors as they also obviously were, filed one by one past the stage and replaced their weapons into the stockpile of swords in the stage’s false floor. The blades all looked new and hadn’t yet tasted blood. Some of the whores touched Bastian on their way out, their blood calling to his, and he suffered their touch.

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Eventually it was just he and Becca alone in the large room. Her breath came in sharp inhalations, arousal obvious on her flushed cheeks; she eyed him as she would a side of venison for her excellent kitchens. He put his hands out, not interested in the slightest in helping her vent the built-up tension, and her face went even shrewder for a second. She wasn’t about to force him flat on the floor and take him, however, so she pulled herself together. The next second, Bastian doubted if even the most blooded of the Camillians would have realized her talents. “Surely your uncle told you about me,” she said, and leapt onto the stage to struggle with the heavy wooden panels that covered her weapons pile. “He didn’t tell me everything,” Bastian said. “Which part did he not include?” she asked, her back to him. The room, however, bounced her voice back to him, her voice as intimate as a whisper in his ear. “The part that made you part Camillian. In fact, the part that made you mostly Camillian.” She turned, her eyes furious, and Bastian feared for his throat as much as he had for his virtue a moment ago. “Do you blame the product of forced intercourse for the intercourse itself?” she snarled. The wood panel snapped into place and she suddenly turned on him, stalking him across the polished floor so that it appeared there was two of her hunting him down. “I am as Illian as you are.” Bastian let her corner him. “Your grandfather saved my grandfather’s life more times than either of them could count. I didn’t know what happened to your mother, but I’m sorry,” he said. She bristled. The granddaughter of the captain of the guard as the madam of a whorehouse must have rankled her, but eventually she turned and let him go. “Say anything about it again and I will kill you,” she said.

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Bastian wanted to laugh. “Then my uncle would rend you where you stand,” he said. He’d been a stone in Chivas’s strategy game for about as long as he remembered, so the only remaining shame was residual. “Without me, there is no plan, and you know it.” “Then do your part. Averance must be under our control by the time the slavers leave.” “You know about the slavers?” Bastian demanded. She shot him a withering look. “Nothing happens in this city without me knowing about it. Your blowjob last night, for example, lacked luster toward the end. I would have thought an expert such as you would have steeled himself against the chance of becoming caught up in what your pretty little mouth was doing.” Bastian didn’t let himself flush. He had enjoyed the blowjob, probably more than he should have, but it wasn’t entirely his fault; he usually didn’t feel much about his partners, and in fact he’d trained to keep it that way, but there had been a kindness to Vashi he hadn’t expected. A sympathetic part to him that Bastian hadn’t wanted to feel but he had felt it nonetheless. Bastian rubbed his face. “All part of the plan,” he said, gruffly, and felt her reaching for him. He put it in his head that Vashi was nothing but the method to get to the lord protector. Becca obviously felt what she wanted to, because she withdrew. That she’d been trained to probe and fetch that which she wanted was frightening. Most gifted Camillians were unable to pick up anything but raw emotion. “They’re going to want to remove Illians,” he said. “You can’t allow that.” “Sacrifices have to be made,” she said, harshly. “We needed the compromise.” He looked at her, hard. He had none of the blood, but he’d had training too. He pushed, never liking the feeling of pushing his fingers slowly through pond scum, but then touched it. “Weapons,” he said as the word came to him. He opened his eyes. “You sold your own out for more weapons.”

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“My mother died when we came against them with broken hoes and sharpened door hinges,” she said, her voice shaking. “When we take them, it will be with the power of everything and anything I can muster. You will drop to your knees and snare the pigsticking protector with your charms, and you will leave everything to me. I am owed vengeance.” “You are owed vengeance,” Bastian repeated. Her mother had died; his father, the crown prince, had been publicly beheaded for the uprising, and Bastian had been forced to watch the axe fall, not once but three times before…before…he couldn’t even say it. He’d just been a boy, and the then-lord protector -- a man as fat and greedy as the current protector was skeletal -- had stood over him, hand on Bastian’s shoulder. The first waking of Bastian’s magic had come when he’d felt the man’s lust for him, the way he’d licked his lips when he thought of Bastian… He’d been smuggled out of the palace that night, before the protector had called for him, but the group he’d been with had been ambushed. His woken magic had been caught by a scout, and he was sold to the school -- their youngest pupil in decades -- before anyone knew who he was. And his uncle had found him first. “I am,” Becca said. “And you would do well being what assistance you can, Your Highness, and not getting in my way.” He smiled, bitterly. “Of course,” he said, and turned on his heels. Around him, the first guest had arrived, wearing his lust like a pulsing, purple robe encasing his flesh. Bastian hid his mouth and nose behind his hand, not wanting to smell it. Niel waited for him outside and Bastian reached for him. “Get me out of here,” he said, and Niel didn’t try to argue. Bastian was able to relax only when he was back next to the pond, the water rushing down the rocks in an endless note to a song that Bastian couldn’t quite form in his head.

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“What happened?” Niel asked, though it wasn’t his place. But Bastian was quite sick of places, so he rubbed his face again and cleared his throat. “It’s hard to…” he began. “The madam is not quite what she says she is.” It was not quite where he wanted to finish, but it was as good a place as any. He stopped willing the words to come. They were in the bathhouse, working on the silver flask. Bastian didn’t have everything he needed to bind the owner to Niel, but he hoped he had enough, and any disaster could be forced down the drain. He completed the ritual, felt the magic in him feed the spell, and then nothing. Even though he knew Erasas was in the correct area, there was nothing linking him and Niel. Something had worked -- he’d felt the energy go somewhere, but it was so distant it couldn’t have been anyone in the market. They went outside into the blinking sun. “She is raising an army,” Niel said finally. Bastian didn’t ask him how he knew, but Niel told him, regardless. “There isn’t a whore who has passed through that door who does not serve her.” Bastian hesitated. Even in the school, her reputation was formidable. She sold individual contracts to the highest bidder. Bastian didn’t think there was a Camillian house in the city that did not have at least one of her handpicked whores. If she gave the word, it would be a slaughter. “Is that her plan? Slit throats in the middle of the night?” “Would you blame her if it was?” There were no innocent Camillians in Illia. They’d all raped, plundered, and stolen that which they wanted. Bastian shook his head. The pond ran, the sun touched on their shoulders, and they were speaking of mass murder. Bastian couldn’t stop the shudder at how easy it was to accept. “My father…” Niel began, but then silenced.

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“Your father what, Niel?” Bastian asked. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then shook his head. “My father supports you.” “I don’t think so,” Bastian said, doubting that any of the older generation would understand what he’d let himself become. Niel shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. They both heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. Bastian could feel lust coming from one of them. It wasn’t directed at him, though, and at least it didn’t feel bloated and sick. “Erasas,” Niel said, and stood. Bastian knew he should have stood as well, but he was too tired. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “Find his hunger and feed it to him.” Niel nodded. Erasas stepped away from the steps first, his need obvious. He smelled of the whorehouse -- that was something Bastian could never mistake -- and he saw in the next instant that Niel felt it too. He wanted to tell Niel not to worry, that regardless of how many times a customer visited lesser whores after feeling the music, it would never compare to how it felt with a beloved. Erasas saw Bastian in the next second, drawn to him only because Bastian had left himself open. He locked down the energy that was leeching out of him, and Erasas’s eyes lost their focus for a second before returning to Niel. The idea of seducing him suddenly revolted Bastian, and he was exhausted by the thought of any more killing. So instead, he neatly folded his hands in his lap and waited for Erasas to completely forget about him. It wasn’t hard. It just took a twist of Erasas’s lust to return his full attention to Niel. Vashi, behind him, looked for an instant thrilled to see him. Bastian, in a fit of selfishness, threw the excess energy at him, wanting to blight out the memory in Vashi as well, but Vashi was stronger than Bastian had thought. A puzzled expression crossed his face, just for a second, and then Bastian felt Vashi throw him off like a willful colt. It left Bastian

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naked and exposed. If Vashi had the ability and wanted to do so, he could have slid all the way inside Bastian unhindered. But the moment passed. Bastian was able to recover, and it was just the two of them after Niel took Erasas inside. “Last night,” Vashi began. “Yes?” Bastian agreed. Vashi fell silent again. Bastian felt the fury inside him grow. “Slavers violate the treaty agreement,” he finally said. “I said that to the lord protector himself,” Vashi said. Bastian’s attack and Vashi’s deflection had left them oddly linked; Bastian saw that he had argued -- adamantly -- though to argue so passionately for the rights of Illians had lost him more points of favor than there were to count. “The lord insisted that it was time for a new treaty.” “A new --” Bastian began and paled at the thought. On threat to Bastian’s life, his father had signed a twenty-five-year extension of the original treaty before they killed him. But there were no more royals left except a distant cousin of Bastian’s that the lord protector kept on a set of strings. He had no authority to sign anything. “With whom?” “Does it matter?” Vashi said bitterly and, of course, it didn’t. The lord protector had no concept of the army he housed in the city, of the fact he’d signed over hundreds of assassins’ contracts to his followers’ own homes. Bastian gritted his teeth. Vashi hesitated, just for a second. “I must have your name,” he said. “Please.” “I told you. Red would serve you better than my real name.” Bastian wasn’t willing to give up even a false name, not if Vashi had as much power as Bastian thought he did. “I like Red.” “Red,” Vashi said. He shook his head. “Last night you saved me, didn’t you?” Bastian nodded, but wasn’t looking at him. He willed Vashi not to ask why, and he didn’t. It left them nothing to say, and for a moment they were silent. From the house, the

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music started, stronger than he honestly had thought Niel capable of. Bastian almost felt proud. Vashi cocked his head as though he heard it too. “I would like to thank you. For last night.” Bastian tried to laugh, but it only came out as a dry heave of his shoulders. “You don’t have to thank a whore for doing what whores do.” “You are not a whore,” Vashi said. He sounded mostly convinced. Bastian leaned back, but narrowed his eyes. “You have no idea what I am.” It was a challenge, and Bastian fully expected Vashi to back down and look away. Instead, he met Bastian’s eyes frankly. And he didn’t look away. Vashi’s face had a fine, aristocratic nose, but his eyes were just slightly too wide-spaced to be truly like the other nobles that visited the whorehouses. He hadn’t seen battle, but he’d trained for it despite the softness of his hands. Bastian reached for Vashi’s wrists, totally surprising both of them, and rather than Vashi taking a step forward, he dropped to his knees. Bastian stood, but only because his back was to the fountain and he didn’t think he’d be able to jump over it if he tried. “What are you --” he began, but he’d already taken Vashi’s wrists, and now Vashi was holding onto his. “You have me in your debt,” Vashi said. “I hope you will give me the chance to repay you, even with my modest talents.” “You don’t --” Bastian began again, but stopped trying to pull his wrists free. It didn’t work like this; sex wasn’t supposed to be just…given away without talk of cost or duty. Sex was never free. Still, it didn’t feel entirely wrong for Vashi to be on his knees in front of Bastian, right in the open, and when Vashi tugged down his trousers and the cold air touched his skin for the first time, it was almost too erotic for Bastian to bear.

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His body betrayed him, along with his too quickly beating heart. The sweat that slid down the back of his shoulders was different. He didn’t like different, but this was…interesting. Vashi waited, looking up at him, and Bastian realized with a start that Vashi was actually waiting for permission. He tried nodding, flexing his knees to work out some of the…he sought the proper word and settled for anticipation…to work out some of the

anticipation building in the muscles of his thighs and belly, but still Vashi didn’t move. Bastian was about to demand that Vashi put an end to whatever trick this was. Instead, Vashi shook his head. “I’ll settle for not having your name, but I won’t settle for not having your permission.” “You have my permission. Would you like my mark on a piece of parchment as well? In blood, perhaps?” Bastian asked and had to bite back the snarl in the words. He hated being toyed with, and this seemed more and more like a big game. “Why shouldn’t it be fun?” Vashi asked, still on his knees. Bastian almost tripped over the fountain despite himself. He wanted to clamp down on his thoughts but Vashi stroked his fingertips along Bastian’s body, relaxing him. There was no point in fighting it, if Vashi could feel him -- and it felt good, being able to let go. The warning was in his head, telling him that Vashi wanted that, to push into his mind to gather information, but Bastian would be on guard for that, and he was too well trained to believe that a stray thought would betray him. He nodded, again, relaxing the net around his mind, and shuddered when Vashi’s pink tongue touched the head of his cock for the first time. Bastian didn’t hold onto the back of Vashi’s head, though he had every right to. The years of his training wanted to make this more than it was, to guide it along and make music for Bastian to escape into, but the song wouldn’t come as long as he was passive. Vashi licked his cock again, inexpertly, and Bastian tensed.

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Vashi looked up at him, and Bastian realized he was sending his tension down to Vashi as though he were the one holding the reins. “You don’t trust me,” Vashi said. There wasn’t any accusation in his voice; it was a fact, not a question. Bastian nodded. He didn’t. Vashi moved his hands so that his palms were no longer pressed against Bastian’s thighs. That broke the contact between the two of them, and the discomfort Bastian felt over leaving himself too open in front of Vashi drained away. “Better?” Vashi asked. “Not quite,” Bastian said and his voice grew darker. “You can cross them behind your back.” “I can?” Vashi asked, sounding surprised. “Like this?” He shifted, still on his knees, and reached behind him. One hand clasped the other low, on the small of his back, and that bound the magic. Almost. “Hold them higher,” Bastian said, voice tight. The tension in the air matched the tension in Vashi’s shoulders, and it already was enough that Bastian could relax; as Vashi struggled, taking hold of both wrists, the tension broke, both in him and in the air, and a perfect state of calm touched them both. The sound of the water trickling over the rocks came again, and Bastian reached down and touched Vashi’s face. “Now?” Vashi asked. “Now,” Bastian agreed, but Vashi didn’t move. He waited on his knees in front of Bastian until Bastian came to him. Bastian’s erection had faltered somewhat when he was afraid Vashi could read him as much as he could read Vashi. And if Vashi learned of his name, Bastian knew he would suspect him. But that thought was as fleeting as a flash of gold from a surfacing fish. He took a step forward, the smallest part of him barely aware of the danger in letting Vashi in, and then he was standing in front of Vashi.

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Vashi opened his mouth, maybe to speak, maybe to take him in already, but Bastian took his head instead and pulled him to the crux of his thigh. “Kiss me here,” he said. There was power in a kiss. It could draw power as much as it could give it, but they were both protected by Vashi binding himself. Still Vashi hesitated, just for a second, and his breath touched Bastian’s skin and warmed them both. Bastian wanted to tell him that there was no danger, but if he didn’t believe it, he wouldn’t believe Bastian telling him, either. Eventually -- though it couldn’t have been longer than a couple heartbeats -- Vashi pressed his lips against Bastian’s leg. The response cut through Bastian, leaving his breath jagged in his throat and his cock straining against his belly. The song came to Bastian, unbidden and uncontrolled in a crashing of wild notes, and he realized with a start that he hadn’t summoned them. Vashi tensed, startled, but his lips didn’t break the connection. Still, he hesitated until Bastian touched his head. “Lick,” Bastian said, calmly. This he could control. His breath was the first thing he reined in, then his heartbeat, and when Vashi began slowly drawing his tongue across Bastian’s skin, not towards his cock as Bastian thought he would, but down, drawing the energy away to a more controllable location, Bastian was impressed. Bastian took his cock delicately between his fingers. Vashi’s lips were still against his upper thigh, and he was breathing harshly though his nose. The sound mingled with the pond’s music, and under his control, the song soared. His fingers knew exactly where to touch to build the most delight, and with Vashi’s lips still touching his thigh, Bastian knew he felt everything, too. Bastian smiled. He ran the palm of his hand along the underside of his cock, knowing full well Vashi was trembling at the thought of wrapping his fingers around the base of his own cock and fucking his hand with an ageless rhythm, but it wasn’t quite time yet. Vashi groaned wetly against Bastian’s skin. He shifted on his knees, obviously trying to find some sort of friction to move against, but there wouldn’t be until Bastian let there be.

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He slapped his other thigh hard, letting his fingers sting his skin like a wasp, and felt Vashi shudder as though Bastian had set a live ember against his own skin. Bastian thought that interesting, so he did it again, and Vashi writhed on his knees, but never once broke contact. The head of Bastian’s cock was sticky with precum. His fingers felt hot against it. With it as his only lubrication -- all his oils were in the house, where Niel and the protector’s son were engaging in their own song -- Bastian slowly wrapped his fingers around himself. He closed his eyes, moving his hips up into his hand rather than sliding his hand down, and Vashi had to fight to keep the contact. The sharp thrusts had far less finesse than Bastian had ever used before, but they felt so good he could barely keep himself from coming between his fingers. Vashi couldn’t; Bastian felt his orgasm climbing up and over his hold, but still he didn’t break his binding, though his orgasm would have been less without some pressure to build it upon. Nor did he break contact; and Bastian found that to be stranger still. Bastian didn’t let go of his cock while Vashi regained control of his breathing, and then Vashi, quite deliberately, pulled away. Vashi didn’t let go his hands, and Bastian didn’t know if he could handle that much post-orgasmic energy, but he butted Bastian’s hands away from Bastian’s cock with his nose. “You don’t --” Bastian began, but Vashi bit him, hard. Well truthfully it was just a nip, but Bastian’s skin was too sensitive and it hurt. Vashi made a harrumphing sound in the back of his throat then took Bastian’s length down his throat. It was Bastian’s turn to writhe. He grabbed the back of Vashi’s head, against every bit of training that told him the client chose the pace and speed. If Vashi had any qualms about it, Bastian would have felt it.

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There was something incredibly erotic about a man giving voice to sexual sounds he was making. Everything drove Bastian on, from the slight gagging noises Vashi made while trying to breathe around Bastian to the gasps of encouragement. Bastian tensed, straining on the tips of his toes, and Vashi took the strain. He was coming, and the lack of finesse made it achingly better than anything Bastian had experienced before. Erasas had emerged and was watching them from the house. His frown deepened when he realized Bastian saw him. Bastian didn’t look away, though he knew he should have. Chivas’s plan involved Erasas, and Bastian’s seduction of him, but that was suddenly the last thing Bastian wanted. So he helped Vashi up, feeling the blood rushing to Vashi’s feet and hands as though his own feet were numb. He kissed Bastian on the lips, despite the fact that Vashi was again open to him, but nothing passed between them. That didn’t stop Erasas’s glare. Bastian almost wanted to step back. There was no threat in it; Bastian would have expected that. Instead, there was hurt. He hadn’t felt the emotional tangle from Vashi that usually accompanied a man already involved with another, and Vashi was really not practiced at all when it came to pleasure, but maybe Bastian was wrong. He took a step to the side, still not able to step back, and Erasas took Vashi’s arm. Bastian stepped aside again, and the two of them left the roof. Bastian had spent his life never once being treated like a common whore, but the first time he had given something away, he was made to feel cheap about it. Niel emerged from the house, triumph on his face, but when he saw Bastian’s face it died a little. One of Bastian’s ex-masters would have snarled at Niel, but Bastian just rubbed his face. “You did well,” he allowed. “I felt your control from here.” It was in perfect contrast to the lack of control he’d had, next to the pond. “You don’t like him.”

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“He’s the son of the lord protector, Niel. What do you expect?” “Nothing,” Niel said. “Only…” “Only what, Niel?” “He’s not a bad man.” “Not a bad man?” Bastian demanded. “He can make the music, too, and it’s sweet.” Bastian didn’t say anything. “Master?” Niel asked. That brought Bastian up short; he hadn’t asked to be called that, but the word felt good. “It’s nothing,” Bastian said. “Please, Niel. If you can, I need a bath.” Niel bowed his head and turned. Bastian returned to the house long enough to grab his oils and his hourglass. The hourglass itself was approximately the same size as the hourglass scar that was on the palm of his hand. It wasn’t an exact match; Bastian had grown a couple inches since his teacher had put the cold glass against his skin. For a moment, nothing had happened. Bastian had thought, wildly, that he was safe, he didn’t have the blood in him, and though he’d still belong to the school, he wouldn’t have to take the other courses that could turn him into a killer. But then the glass started to glow. Red at first, then orange. The molten hot glass felt fluid against his skin. It had burned and burned and burned. He’d been lashed into place, palm outstretched. He couldn’t scream, and if he moved, the scar would have been ruined. When they’d finally taken the cool hourglass off his skin and cut him down he only cradled his burning hand and sobbed. But the glass was tied to him now, and he needed it. He brought the oils and the glass to the bathhouse. The tub was mostly filled by the time Bastian arrived, but he still took his time setting out the small vials, carefully.

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“Are you going to teach me this part?” Niel asked, staring at the glass. These weren’t the pretty, silver wrought containers he used for the soft side of his craft. These vials were thick, leaded glass with murky, dark liquids. The predominate smell from them was pine, but still Bastian tried to hold his breath as he emptied a capful here, a drop there, and a drizzle there. “Probably not,” he allowed. Niel didn’t look that disappointed. Bastian pressed the hourglass in his hands. “This is the most valuable thing that I own,” he said then stepped into the tub. The water had enough bite to it that it stung his skin, just for a second but then went away as he lay down. The fumes in the water were already making Bastian dizzy. “What do you want me to do, master?” Niel asked, his voice thin with concern for the first time. “When I put my head under the water, and not before, you’re going to turn that hourglass over,” Bastian said. Niel’s face was a mixture of the questions “I am?” and “Why?” but he didn’t ask either one of them. Instead he nodded. “Yes, master.” “Good.” Bastian took a deep breath. Years of experience taught him that panting just before gave him a few extra seconds, but he didn’t want to do it in front of Niel. So instead, he put his head under water. His eyes stung for a second, even with them closed, but then the water’s heat pressed in instead of the sting, and he saw. The first images in his head would be the ones closest to Vashi. He was so close he felt Vashi’s thoughts. The confusion over what had happened by the pond and the night before in the fog troubled him, but in the distant way of a man who was accustomed to pushing thoughts off. Bastian felt him, walking away from the house, and though Bastian could feel the weight of the water against his throat, feel every heartbeat in his chest slowly ticking away the time until there would be no more breath left in his chest, he knew that Erasas was

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deeply disturbed by seeing Bastian with Vashi. It was a cold logic, like someone had told it to him in passing rather than being there and seeing it. They were talking, nonsense words as the time dilated even further. Same day, only the disgust on Erasas’s face as Vashi accosted a slave dealer in the market. He demanded to see the paperwork on the group of women and children in the harsh metal cages set up, and when the dealer could not produce it, Vashi had pulled a sword on his throat. The Shular had all but wet himself, and the lock on the cage door fell onto the dirt floor with a puff of dust. It was the knife in the sunlight, the dust settling to the ground, and the disgusted sound he made in the back of his throat that Bastian saw and heard. The rest was extrapolated, like the way a distant memory only had the bare bones of detail to it. His heartbeat began to thud heavily in his chest, and the need to breathe grew stronger. Still, Bastian relaxed further, letting the first split happen. If Bastian didn’t try to stop it, Vashi would return to the palace where the lord protector would say he was forgiven, but he would wake to footsteps in his room just before dawn. His heartbeats became more distant, and Bastian felt himself spin away from the two as they walked on. The images became more of a story he had been told, and the tension in his throat grew. Though that set of outcomes, the one that led to the thing Bastian feared most, clung to him, leaving Bastian even more starved for breath. He struggled for control, needing to follow that other line down. He needed to see how else it could, or should be. And there was another story, branching away from now like a tree. Death still waited from a fall off a horse or a festering wound if Vashi were not careful, or if he didn’t have Bastian with him, but for the most part, Bastian saw how interwoven Vashi was to the survival and freedom of Illia. He was there, dressed in his finest leathers, with Bastian at his side on a glorious summer morning, far away from the city on the new king’s coronation day. It was too distant for Bastian to know who the king was going to be as he stood there like a

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ghost behind the two figures on the hill, but he could touch their happiness and the joy they had for being together again like it was the warmth of the tub around him. And then it was just warm water around him. He fought the hands trying to pull him up, not wanting to break the surface of the cold, real air. He was so tired. If he just opened his mouth…without really understanding why his jaw had locked up on him…but then he was through the skin of the water. It took him a second to remember how to breathe, however, and that was the longest second of his life. He tried to cough, couldn’t, and sucked in a lungful of air that burned caustically like lye all the way down. Then at last he could cough, and he did until he choked and had to force himself to breathe again. “Did you see what you wanted to?” Niel asked, finally. Bastian nodded, when he could. “We have to get to the palace,” Bastian said when he could speak. Niel didn’t argue. “I’ll fetch you a dry robe, master.” Bastian had brought two of them into the bathhouse, but both blue robes were black from being wet. Over half the water in the tub was on the floor now, and Bastian swore under his breath. The top sodden robe was his most favorite, and if the washer women couldn’t get the last trace bit of oil off the cloth, he’d have to throw it out. There would be no way he would let the concentrated oil touch his skin. There would be no way to break from the image sent. He drained the basin, pouring buckets and buckets of pure, clean water over his head until the water was ice cold but ran clear, and by then Niel was back. He lifted up his own robes to make it to the tub, and when Bastian glanced at him, Niel shrugged. “You did not want to come up, master. I had to fight you.” “I am very glad you did.” “That’s probably because you can’t feel the scratches down your back, master.”

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Bastian smiled, and took the green robe from Niel’s hands. “I excel at getting scratches down my back. Ask me to show you my techniques when we get back.” “Yes, master,” Niel said. Bastian strapped on his boots before they left, but the moment they reached the streets, he knew something was wrong. The streets were silent, as though they, along with the people who lived on them, were all holding their breath. Bastian grabbed Niel by the arm, pushing him onto the staircase that led back to the house. Bastian ran up it right behind him. It wasn’t the sound of chains the slavers carried that gave away their position. The chains were wrapped up in the same silk they traded for. Their bootfalls were heavy, but no heavier than the uniformed boots of the Camillians. Their shadows remembered the weight of their crimes and the air itself whispered painful memories to Bastian. The next second, just as Bastian had cleared the lip of the roof, a group of Shular slavers came around the narrow streets. Only one of them looked up to where Bastian was, and although Bastian jerked away before they could make eye contact, Bastian felt chilled. “What do we do if they come up here?” Niel asked, his whispered voice trembling. He looked around madly, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon, but they were miles away from Becca’s weapons cache. Bastian stared at the staircase, cold dread fighting for control. “They won’t,” he said, voice hard. His voice put words into being, and the men moved on. “How did you do that?” Niel asked, awed. Bastian shook his head. He didn’t understand it, but he wasn’t pulling from himself. Now that Bastian was aware of the danger, he felt them everywhere. “We’ll have to wait until dark,” Bastian said, but it killed him to say it. He took a shaking breath. Niel glanced towards the house, but any protection it could give would be a façade. He stayed out with Bastian for hours.

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Chapter Seven

“Just say it,” Vashi said, finally. They’d made it back to the market, but behind the dry fountain were cages made of iron -- ugly, black things. A sinking feeling crossed over his chest. He no longer had time for Erasas’s game. “You’re not to see him again,” Erasas said, his voice more like a petulant child than a man with as much authority as he had. “What?” Vashi demanded. That wasn’t what he expected Erasas to say. “You heard me. You’re not to see him. Ever. If you want a whore, I’ll get you one, but not him.” Vashi momentarily forgot about the cages. He turned to his friend, not really ready to understand the threat in Erasas’s word. “You are not telling me this,” Vashi said. Erasas’s fists clenched. He wasn’t stupid, Vashi knew that, but he didn’t let go of thoughts easily. “There’s something wrong with that one, Vash. He…I-I hear things. You trust me on this. I’ll take care of you, but not with him.” “Erasas --” Vashi began, knowing that Erasas knew how he felt about sleeping with Illian whores. And despite knowing what…without the man’s name it was like a sore in his

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head just thinking about him. Whoever Red was, Vashi knew he was more than a whore. “I’m telling you. Stay out of this.” Erasas said something, but Vashi was no longer listening. Behind where Erasas stood, white robed Shular men, their faces veiled, were herding a group of very frightened women and children into one of the cages. Fury bubbled inside Vashi, drowning out Erasas entirely. He brushed off Erasas’s attempt to grab his arm, reaching instead for the sword that only Erasas was allowed to wear on public streets. The peace catch was unsecured, as Vashi had no doubt it would be, but Erasas held out his hand. “They’ll put you in jail if you draw a sword against an unarmed man,” he said. Vashi still made an attempt for it. Erasas still held him back with one hand, and drew his own sword with the other. Instead, the short sword pulled easily from the leather scabbard, and Vashi pushed Erasas aside. The slaver in the lead had just finished herding the last of the women into the cage, and if he was surprised at the blade now suddenly pressing against his throat, he didn’t let it show in his palest of blue eyes. “Do you have permits for all these people?” Vashi asked calmly, behind Erasas, as though the two of them behaving thusly was common and every day. When there was no answer, Erasas threw the slaver up against the bars, rattling the entire cage, and the women inside made a collective, muted sound of fright. They weren’t crying or sobbing, and somehow that disturbed Vashi even more. After three generations of overrule, it was as though they all expected this to happen. “They were debtors,” the man beneath Erasas’s blade hissed, the words in the foreign accent coming off more reptilian than human. “They were fair deals.” “Let them go,” Vashi said.

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“They were bought fairly,” the slaver snarled, then made a keening noise like a trapped beast when Vashi drove his knee up into his groin. Erasas removed his blade long enough to let the man shake his head against the bars half a dozen times, then replaced the blade an inch higher on his throat. “Do you want me to repeat myself in case you didn’t hear me the first time?” Vashi snarled. The slaver glanced over Erasas’s shoulder, to where Vashi stood, and then he looked back to Erasas, and understood who he was. Vashi smiled, showing teeth, and the slaver nodded. Being the son of the mad duke helped on occasion. Erasas let him go, and the slaver scrambled for his keys. He unlocked the door, the heavy metal padlock that had probably been made of Illian ore dropped to the dirt, and the snaking chain followed. None of the other slavers interfered, even as the women gathered themselves up. “Hide yourselves,” Vashi told them as they ran past. “Forget your debt contracts, if you have them. Leave the city by whatever means necessary and hide.” A moment later they were alone in the markets, not an Illian in sight. The men from the marketplace had left as well, abandoning what meager offerings they had for sale, and Erasas finally put away his sword. “You stupid --” Erasas began, but changed his mind. “What exactly did that accomplish?” “It accomplished a lot,” Vashi said. “Just not for us. Thank you.” Erasas looked down at the hand that had drawn the sword. “Well then. They’re welcome.” “I want to see your father,” Vashi said, finally. “Will you arrange that for me?” “You don’t need me to arrange anything for you,” Erasas said, bitterly. “Father’s always liked you better.” “Not lately,” Vashi said, truthfully. They’d had a fight, as much as you could have a fight with someone who held the power of life or death over you. Vashi hadn’t wanted to go

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when Averance had asked him to take a group of dignitaries to a brothel. Conversations they’d had since were tight lipped and over quickly. “My father angers quickly. He doesn’t forgive so much as he doesn’t forget past favors. Trust me when I tell you that you are still the favored son.” It probably hadn’t escaped Averance that his only son was smuggling a beloved into his chambers. If Erasas had wanted, he could have ensured that the old man would never have found out. But knowing the both of them as well as Vashi did, he knew that Erasas was prodding Averance with a stick, hoping to provoke any reaction at all, one way or the other. Averance was probably giving Erasas all the rope in the world with which to hang himself. Erasas only shook his head. Vashi left. The conversation was over.

And Averance did see him. The guards posted to the lord protector’s door waved him in without even inquiring inside if he’d be welcome. Vashi hadn’t realized he was still in so much favor. It was still early; but Averance had already had a tray from the kitchen. The man was gaunt, thinner even than his son, but where Erasas was thin, Averance was a corpse standing upright. When he turned to Vashi, the grin on his face made the skull beneath his skin suddenly prominent. “Vashi,” he said, as warm as any time in Vashi’s childhood that Vashi had sought sanctuary in his house. “I trust my son is well.” Averance wanted to be lied to, that much was obvious, so Vashi smiled. “He is fine.” Averance nodded. “And you, boy?” The word wasn’t as abrasive as Vashi expected it to be. “I’m concerned, sir,” he said.

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Averance’s foot twitched, and he began pacing back and forth across the rug. His favorite path had been trod into the otherwise bright pattern, giving the impression of the flowers dying around him. “Concerned about what, Vashi?” “There are slavers in the market, my lord. Surely that has to be a mistake.” “I’m sure what you mistake for slavers are ambassadors, Vashi,” Averance said, his voice cold. It wasn’t like the dream, but it was close enough that Vashi had to shiver. “Ambassadors who arrive with an empty hull and herd women into cages?” Vashi asked. There was slavery in Illia, though it wasn’t called that. The duration of Illian slave contracts were calculated based on the sum of their indebtedness. If they were shipped off to who knew where, there would be no way to manage the contracts. Averance narrowed his eyes. “Are you questioning me, Vashi?” “No, sir,” Vashi said, though that was exactly what he was doing. He opened his mouth to tell Averance about the dissent that was already spreading across the city and the lands, but then closed his mouth, not wanting to give the man more reason to punish the locals. “How much do they pay you per head?” Vashi asked, suddenly. Averance’s smile faded. “Do not push me on this,” he said. “It does not concern you.” Vashi’s jaw clenched. He forced it to unlock. Averance’s suddenly shrewd look was like a collar around his throat. “You’re right,” Vashi managed, and swallowed, almost normally. “It doesn’t concern me at all.” Averance motioned toward the door. “Perhaps we are done here,” he suggested, though there wasn’t a hint of suggestion in his voice. “Perhaps you should go and think about your betters before you come back to my most private chamber and question me.” If that didn’t revoke his very special access, Vashi didn’t know what would. Still, he looked around the room, to where the stonemasons had carved the dark god’s sightless face in the corners of the room and said nothing of the irony.

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The lord protector wasn’t alone. The man from his dream stood behind him, in the shadows. He was absolutely still, but was regarding Vashi with distaste. The lord protector turned to him. “May we continue the negotiations?” he asked, mildly. Vashi found himself bowing regardless, and Averance dismissed him. They were not to talk of peace, but the buying and selling of Illians. Vashi had to get out. The hall felt cooler on his cheeks, and the air a lot less thin when he inhaled. He returned to his rooms, but even with the sunlight through the arrow slits in the wall, he still felt that thing watching him. “Is this your plan? To sacrifice your own people yet again?” he called, feeling ridiculous to want to speak to it, but there was no more denying something was there. It didn’t answer him, however; Vashi wasn’t sure what he would have done if it had. He made his way to Erasas’s room, fighting the urge to protect his head the whole way.

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Chapter Eight

When true dark fell, Bastian told Niel he had to stay. The idea of having to protect the both of them was too much for him. Niel was obviously going to argue, but then didn’t. In the darkness, the house would protect him. Bastian climbed down the steps slowly. Stepping onto the streets felt much the same as swimming away from a boat in open water. He felt the sharks around him, though thankfully not under him, and he moved as still as he could so as not to draw attention. The sharks weren’t the only predatory beasts out that night. A beloved or not, he was an Illian out in the middle of the night, and could still be taken down for attempted espionage even if he avoided the slavers. The aqueducts under the city had old and rusted pipes. It was a simple thing to warm a vial of the oil he kept next to him at all times in his hands, then pour it into the stream to let it find him a way. He knew of three, and a moment later, the running water told him which was best. The palace was as brightly lit as it was well guarded, and a lesser man would have given up at the third set of guards patrolling the walls. But a lesser man would not have grown up

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as a prince of the realm, especially as a prince with a sweet tooth and an absent-minded nurse who’d rather sit in the sun than watch her young charge. He knew three different ways into and out of the palace, but since two of them involved crawling through boot-high rivers of dung, he took the kitchen route and arrived only slightly damp. The water runoff passage hadn’t been that small when he was a boy. But he got stuck only once and wriggled his way through using the scum on the rocks to help him slide through. The interior of the palace hadn’t been altered in any way. Bastian knew it should have comforted him, but it only made him angry that the Camillians had taken over everything. There was what felt like a fly buzzing around his face. He waved it away, briefly aware that the sound was coming from inside his head as much as outside, and then he felt like someone had reached through the wall and yanked him backward. His stomach rebelled at the jerking sensation, as sickening as a tooth extraction. He rubbed his face, still feeling whatever it was crawling across his skin, but then smelled the stench of burning flesh and knew where he was. He opened his eyes. Chivas stood naked over the altar, and when he moved towards Bastian, he did so with the ripple of a jungle cat stalking its fear-stunned prey. He was afraid, Bastian saw that now; the demon was the breadth of a hair from his skin, and he was losing control. “You told me you would never do that again,” Bastian said and waited -- for Chivas to tear out his throat or for the waves of sickness to pass, he no longer cared. “I gave you one task,” Chivas growled. Nothing touched him, but Bastian felt his hands being forced to his side, his legs spread, and his head moved to the side, exposing his throat. He was tired and his hand throbbed from the burn. He wished he hadn’t used the oils on his skin; even the tiniest bit that remained on him was enough for Chivas to drain him with.

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“It’s not that simple,” Bastian tried, but the words were thick in his mouth and sounded hollow and tinny. He shook his head. He wasn’t going to beg for a second chance; he hadn’t wasted his first one, yet. “You had the protector’s son in your house, and you left him for your boy while you were amusing yourself by the pool. Do not tell me it is not that simple.” The words were a snarl. Flecks of spittle flew from Chivas’s face and landed on Bastian’s chest. He closed his eyes. The room’s heat was enough to make his skin slick with sweat, and the smell -- rotten and cooking meat, blood boiled on hot rocks, and Chivas, like a sick, caged beast -- it was all too much. Bastian was falling back all over again, and this time he couldn’t stop himself. “The protector’s son doesn’t want me. He was already infatuated with the boy,” Bastian said, speaking from miles and miles away. “This was the only way to him. I am doing your will, I swear.” Chivas smiled, and it showed the grinning god that lived under his skin. He leaned over, inhaling the scent of Bastian’s thigh. Bastian knew what he was taking from him; the bath hadn’t been enough to wash Vashi off completely. “You love him,” Chivas said, finally. “No!” Bastian protested. It wasn’t a lie -- he wouldn’t have been able to say it to Chivas if it had been. The words didn’t entirely match how he felt for Vashi. The demon paced behind Chivas, in his eyes. It was so close to the surface now. Chivas thought he still had control, but at the very least he’d contained it. It would tear Chivas apart. “It is,” Chivas snarled. “Kill the lord protector, or I’ll take everything away from you.” “I don’t --” “Kill him!”

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Bastian stopped. That wasn’t his uncle. The thing inside him was out now. Despite his revulsion, Bastion forced himself to bow his head. “Why is it important that he dies?” he asked. The demon panted like a dog, straining at the leash Chivas had to keep him at bay. “It will be glorious,” he howled. “What will?” Bastian pressed, knowing he should stop questioning the thing before it lost its temper, but it grinned at him, using his uncle’s face, and at that moment, he saw whatever control Chivas thought he had was an illusion. “Because the next lord who comes will be a true servant. He’ll welcome my master with open arms, and our reign will be glorious.” The horror of the very idea almost struck Bastian dumb, but he had just one more question. “Your master has to be invited in?” he asked. The thing hissed. Bastian supposed it would be the only answer he would get, because in that next second, he was talking to Chivas. “But you do have someone close to you now,” Chivas said, and smiled as though their conversation hadn’t paused. “I have him now.” He licked his lips, lavishly, and Bastian could almost smell the rich scent of blood off his lips. “If the protector isn’t dead by week’s end, I’ll take him instead.” “You can’t,” Bastian said, but the words were dull and listless. If Anspar got into anyone…he rubbed his face. Chivas kissed him on the head, the wet, warm blood dripping onto Bastian’s skin. He was being pushed back away, through to the empty hall. Bastian was again alone but for the dying buzz inside his head. He pushed himself up, unable to remember sliding down the wall to begin with. He forced himself to walk away, knees weak. He was beaten and needed time to heal before facing the protector. Sinking a knife into a man’s rib cage. It wasn’t what he’d trained his

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whole life to do. But it was close enough. Although it would not suit Becca’s needs, Chivas would be satisfied, for once. But if he knew Chivas, pulling Bastian to him would have taken every ounce of energy he had. As he walked down the cold, drafty halls, he actually felt alone in his head. Which was ironic, because all around him, in the shadows, in the stones, and in the cobwebs, Bastian felt the cold god and Chivas, his loyal follower. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Chivas was hiding out somewhere in the palace. No one knew the walls better, and being close to the old temple would please that thing inside him. The old ways were closer than anyone thought, and Anspar had more than a single minion. If any of them entered the lord protector, or really, any high ranking Camillian, there would be no protection in Illia that could save them. And yet here, where Anspar was the strongest, Bastian wasn’t alone. Because Vashi was here, too, and while Bastian wasn’t strong enough to fight alone, they may be strong enough together. Bastian felt for Vashi. The last bit of the bath’s magic told him when he was getting close, and the wood remembered Vashi’s touch. He felt for the room that had the strongest memory, and let himself into it. The lock tried to fight, but he held it for a moment longer with his branded hand, and the chambers inside the lock twisted themselves into the right configuration. He didn’t know why he didn’t knock. He was certain that Vashi would admit him. But it suddenly seemed right that he creep into Vashi’s large bed unannounced. This room had once belonged to a distant uncle. Bastian felt him and all the others dead by Camillian hands. If he was still enough he was sure he’d feel his own father stalking these halls. He pushed those thoughts aside.

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Vashi was asleep, though his dreams apparently weren’t comforting. He was gritting his teeth, and every muscle in his body was tense. His hands lay over the fur blanket in tight fists. Bastian slid along beside him. He knew they wouldn’t come for him until dawn; he had several hours to get them both away. Bastian ran his fingers over Vashi’s knotted knuckles. He was tense; waiting for Vashi to wake up and push him back, but either he was too deep into his dream or Bastian was still touched by something. At last the tension throughout Vashi’s body relaxed somewhat. Bastian slid down, so that he could kiss Vashi, rubbing his cheek against the back of Vashi’s hand. He smiled, feeling the way Vashi’s fingers moved though the fur. He kneaded it like a cat. Bastian slid his tongue between the fingers and then up and over the rough knuckles. He looked up and saw Vashi looking at him. Vashi turned his hand over, exposing the palm. Bastian pressed his forehead against it. “My name is Bastian,” he said then exhaled, unmoving, and felt Vashi tense again. It didn’t surprise him at all that Vashi had enough knowledge of Illian history that he knew who he was. “Vashi,” Vashi said. “I know that,” Bastian said. He hadn’t moved, nor did he want to. He felt safe and protected, something he’d never really had before, as if he never had to lift his head again, never had to leave the roar of the fire, the feeling of fur under him, the smell of Vashi’s skin on his cheek. “Um,” Vashi said. He stroked the back of Bastian’s head, entwining his fingers. “Are you going to look at me again?” Bastian sighed, but pulled himself up on his elbows. He was afraid that the spell would break and the harsh reality would win, but Vashi was stronger than that. Vashi smiled again, with a glint in his eyes. He lifted the blankets, and Bastian wasted no time stripping off his

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clothes and joining him. It was roasting inside and just pressing his naked body against Vashi felt perfect. He stopped though, just before climbing on top of Vashi. “I can make this amazing,” he said, his voice low. Vashi knew what he was talking about; he’d seen Erasas and Niel moving against each other, but then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t need that. I just need you.” Bastian met his eyes. “I don’t think you truly understand what you’re missing,” he said. He’d never had anyone refuse his talents before. Vashi ran his fingers over Bastian’s forehead, down his nose, then smudged Bastian’s lips with his thumb. “The boy was in another place,” Vashi said. “I saw his face. He could have been with anyone. I want you to be with me, and just me.” Bastian hesitated, never having thought of it that way. He kissed Vashi, tasting his lips. It was different without any of the buildup. Bastian had never done it this way before; it was strange, but he trusted Vashi. “You seem surprised,” Vashi said, breaking from the kiss first. Bastian tucked a stray strand of hair from Vashi’s forehead. Vashi closed his eyes at the touch and Bastian pushed his hips, sliding down Vashi’s belly so that their groins were aligned. He shifted again, running the length of his cock against Vashi’s. Vashi groaned. Bastian kissed him again, tasting that sound, and grabbed Vashi’s wrists, pinning them over his head. Vashi fought and raised an eyebrow, obviously asking if Bastian minded a real attempt to free himself. Bastian shrugged. The next second, he was flat on his own back, his wrists pinned over his head. “Where are your tricks now?” Vashi asked, his turn to shift against Bastian.

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Bastian grinned, liking the feeling of restriction. He tried to pull free, but Vashi’s hands were like iron. He could move his hips, thrusting up against Vashi’s belly. Vashi kissed him again, gently this time and shuddered when Bastian bucked against him. “Spread your legs.” Bastian shuddered. “Trousers.” “What?” Vashi asked. “I have oils in my pouch. You need it. Please, Vashi.” Vashi fumbled for it. The golden oil was always marvelously warm and silky. Bastian held out his hands, and Vashi poured some onto his palm. “Look at me,” Bastian said, cocking his head. Vashi shuddered, eyes lowered, but Bastian shifted again, sliding between Vashi’s spread thighs. “Vashi? Please look at me.” Vashi raised his eyes. Bastian pushed him up, so Vashi was on his hands and knees, and that allowed him better access to Vashi’s cock. “Don’t look away,” he said, running his free hand down Vashi’s well-developed chest, down his belly. Vashi shivered. Bastian smiled. The oil was body temperature now. Bastian let his fingers wrap around Vashi’s cock, kissing him and capturing the gasp he knew would come. Vashi, despite himself, began thrusting into Bastian’s hand, so Bastian slacked off all tension, his touch no more than a whisper against Vashi’s skin. Vashi shuddered a final time, but didn’t look away, his frank blue eyes open with wonder. Bastian licked his lips, and Vashi nodded. For a moment the only sound was their breathing. Bastian arched his back, and Vashi lowered himself. His strong hands closed down over Bastian’s hips, but he didn’t look away from Bastian’s eyes. Bastian was hard, and though the fur blanket was still over Vashi’s shoulders, he brought with him the cold air so that the eddies of air traveling over Bastian’s skin were a dozen different temperatures. A frigid draft from the window competed with the blasting heat from the fire on Vashi’s skin,

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touching him like fingers. Bastian nodded to Vashi, locking his own hands behind his head. Vashi pulled Bastian up and then slowly slid inside him. Bastian wrapped his legs around Vashi’s hips. He had a dozen techniques he could use to take back control, riding Vashi like one of the Camillian racing horses until they were both dripping with sweat and their muscles threatening to rebel on them, but instead he let Vashi take him. He hadn’t summoned it, but the music found him. Vashi bit down on his lower lip, and Bastian felt it on his own mouth. The music was exquisite and didn’t require any of the outside noise. The colors were fire red, autumn leaves, and the yellow of roasted squash. It used the beating of their hearts, Vashi’s quicker than his. His hands tightened on Bastian’s hips, holding him still so that he could push in and in and in and in, and Bastian could only lock his hands tighter and take it. He threw his head back, offering Vashi everything he was, and Vashi let go of him, just with one hand, pressing his palm against Bastian’s sweat-slicked chest, and he understood. Bastian cried out, unable to muffle the sound. Vashi let go of his hips, covering him with his body. His weight, trapping Bastian’s cock, gave just the perfect tension to build on, and Bastian was coming so hard his entire body shook. The music crashed about him, lightning strikes of chords and thunderous trills of harmony and he was pushing himself against Vashi to ride every wave of pleasure inside him. Vashi panted against Bastian’s neck, driving himself harder and deeper, and though the angle was no longer perfect with him pressed against Bastian’s chest, it was obviously enough. Vashi’s groan came from somewhere in his belly, and he was done for too. They collapsed boneless against the bed, and Bastian had to fight to get out from under him. Eventually, though, Bastian prodded Vashi awake. “We have to go,” he said, voice low.

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Vashi made a sound in the back of his throat, pushing him away, but Bastian pushed him harder. “You have to get up,” he said, and his voice was stark. There was something in his tone that must have worked, because Vashi was up and out of bed in the next heartbeat. “What?” Vashi asked. “We have to go,” Bastian said. Vashi was going to ask why, Bastian saw it in his face, so he just continued. “They’re coming here to kill you.” “What?” Vashi repeated. “Your little game with the slavers. The Shulars are afraid you’ll stand up for their cattle’s rights. Can we go?” “How do you know?” Vashi demanded. Bastian just looked at him. Vashi grabbed his boots and followed Bastian out. He could feel Bastian’s discomfort that they had waited too long, but once they were in the cool halls, the panic subsided somewhat. “I have no place to go,” Vashi finally said. Bastian was going to tell him that it didn’t matter. As long as they were together he knew they would be all right. But, before the words came, the sound of alarm rose up across the city. He knew the chance of the Shular attacking was so small it wasn’t even worth mentioning, which only meant that there was another revolt. He ran to the window, but saw nothing. The palace was too well fortified to allow for anything but arrow slits on the ocean side. “That doesn’t matter,” he said and grabbed Vashi by the hand. The halls’ acoustics were wrong, with the ringing alarms echoing as if they came from the street. Bastian didn’t hear the voices or the bootfalls running in the same direction they were heading until they had reached a section of hall that had no doors or corners in which they could hide. In fact, by the time Vashi had come to a complete stop, Bastian heard the running steps coming up behind him as well. Heavy, fully armed guards with their swords out, from front and back, and there was nowhere to run.

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Around the corner came Erasas, with more Camillian guards. Their faces were cold. Bastian raised his hands, and knelt when ordered to. Erasas stared at them, disgust radiating from him. “He’s one of them,” Erasas said, motioning to where Bastian knelt, and the soldiers all tightened their grips on their swords. Bastian didn’t think telling them he was unarmed would help him at all, so he kept his mouth shut. Vashi took a step forward. “What’s going on?” he asked Erasas, but Erasas didn’t ask the guards to stand down. “Over a dozen whores have been planning to rise up,” Erasas said. “We’re rounding them up, house by house.” Vashi glanced down to Bastian, who was still on his knees, and Bastian begged him silently not to say his name. “I can tell you, he’s not a part of this. Let him go, Erasas. Please.” Erasas looked coldly from him to Vashi and then back again. “Take them both downstairs.” “Sir?” one of the guards asked, his flat nose giving a whistling tone to the word, but he looked surprised. “But he’s your --” “I warned him,” Erasas said. “Take them both downstairs. I’ll deal with him later.” “Erasas --” Vashi began, but two swords pressed against his chest. Bastian made a sound in the back of his throat, but Vashi eventually backed down. He still had his sword, and several guards were staring at it. Bastian wanted to tell him to give it up, but knew if he even opened his mouth, he’d get a crack across the skull from any of the men behind him. Two of them, hands shaking with excitement, were waiting for him to do something. Vashi, finally, locked his hands behind his back. The guards still wouldn’t approach him. Erasas swore at them, and pushed them aside to shove through the ring of men. “Erasas,” Vashi began, but Erasas backhanded him. Erasas was armed, so was Vashi, but Erasas still didn’t approach the sword on his belt. Bastian didn’t think that after escaping the

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Shular slavers Vashi would be killed here in the hall by his own friend. The moment passed, and Erasas only pulled the blade free. “Up,” someone told Bastian, gruffly, and he knew that a kick would come before he could unlock his hands or uncross his ankles. Then Vashi was there, helping him up, and despite the look of pure hatred Erasas gave him, Vashi walked with his arm over Bastian’s shoulder all the way down the flights of brightly lit stairs to the entrance of the dungeon. The guards looked behind them, expecting as much as Bastian did that any moment Erasas would call them back. He didn’t. The last two dimly lit staircases were as dangerous as they were filthy. There was no mistaking the smell of human filth, even stronger than the rotten straw or sour sweat, and Bastian had to cover his nose. Vashi didn’t seem affected by it at all, and kept his head high as the dungeon keeper unlocked one of the horrible little cells. For a moment Bastian was afraid that Erasas would insist on them being locked up separately, and Bastian honestly didn’t know if he could handle that. But only one lock opened, and they were thrust inside together. They were below sea level here, and the walls sweated, the saltwater leeching through. The floor was layers of dirt on hard-cracked stone, but it was as damp as the walls were. There was no real place to lie down, no bucket for waste. The cell’s bars were rusted and jagged. “I never thought Erasas the type to hold a grudge,” Vashi said mildly. “But then again, no one has been stupid enough to cross him on anything seriously important before.” “How did they know the whores were going to fight back?” Bastian asked. Vashi looked to him. “I beg you not to take this the wrong way, but the lord protector has roughly half the city beholden to him. Nothing happens without him knowing about it. He probably knew ages ago. He was probably just waiting to see who the mastermind was.” Bastian began to pace. “They’ll think it’s me,” he said. “What makes you say that?”

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“If the lady was truly betrayed, they would be rounding up more than just a dozen or so whores. They’ll blame this on me, I just know it.” “I won’t let them harm you,” Vashi said. Bastian couldn’t stop the laughter. “You can certainly try.” He rubbed his neck, thinking of the drum roll he’d heard for his father, and how cold the morning had been when they’d driven him up on the platform like some sort of flushed out game. He suddenly didn’t want it to go that way at all. “You should get away from me,” he said finally. “Take whatever deal they offer, forget about me, forget about this, and leave the city. You’ll never be welcomed here again, and there is nothing you can do to protect me, not anymore.” “You don’t know that.” But Bastian did. That he saw himself in the future, laughing on that hill, suddenly seemed more like a cruel joke Chivas had sent him than any promise of the future. “I do.” Bastian sat down on the cold stones and hugged his knees to his chest. Vashi kept his pacing long into the night and the next morning, but eventually he joined Bastian down on the ground. There was nothing else either of them could do but wait. And wait they did.

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Chapter Nine

But not forever. Bastian had heard tales of Illian prisoners being kept in the dungeons for years. He heard movement coming from below him, through the wooden staircase they were next to, but the sound was so distorted that it could have been one or it could have been a hundred other people all being dragged down. He was cold, but next to Vashi he didn’t feel it as much. “You didn’t have to do this,” Bastian said finally. Vashi inhaled. Bastian felt his chest rise as he did so, but then went back to pressing his head against Vashi’s sternum. “The men with the swords seemed to be insisting otherwise.” Bastian shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You chose a side last night, you could have convinced Erasas --” Vashi took his chin, pulling him into a kiss. Bastian couldn’t stop his body from responding. He reached over, running his fingers along Vashi’s ribs. “You don’t have to,” Vashi murmured. Bastian smiled. “You can’t make a beloved do what he doesn’t want to,” he said. He pressed his lips against Vashi’s jaw, tasting Vashi underneath the stubble from the morning. The floor was too disgusting to want to lie down on it, but Bastian didn’t need Vashi to be lying down.

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He unlaced Vashi’s trousers, just enough so he could slip his hand into them. Vashi tensed, despite himself, but Bastian stroked his lower belly until he relaxed again. “You have to trust me.” “I do trust you,” Vashi said. His voice was slightly strained, but Bastian forgave him. He began running his fingers just up and down the base of Vashi’s cock. No more than an inch in either direction, but it loosened up the ties on Vashi’s trousers enough so that he could have enough freedom for his entire hand. Vashi was already moving his hips, already hard under Bastian’s hands. Bastian had never truly loved the hardness he worked with, never liked the silky feeling of sensitive skin between his fingers, never really cared for the smell of arousal in anything but a professional sense, but this was different. He wanted to pull every groan he possibly could from Vashi’s lip and then kiss the sound away. He wanted to rut like beasts on the ground, filth or no filth, until the joints of his body felt as though they would burst from the pleasure of the oncoming orgasm. And he wanted that beautiful cresting moment, the moment that promised that this time the sweet sensation would go on forever, letting him ride it out until there was nothing but the rush of blood in his ears matching the pounding rush from his orgasm. But he controlled it. Rubbing Vashi’s length with his hands would cause that to happen -- and soon, if the sounds Vashi was already making were any indication. So he stopped himself. Instead, he slid up along beside Vashi, shivering at the feeling of his cock pressed up snugly to Bastian’s chest, and he kissed Bastian’s ear. He kept up the small movements with his hand in Vashi’s trousers, using the other to hold himself up. That left him free to rake his teeth along Vashi’s earlobe. “Do you believe me when I say I’m with you?” he whispered. “Yes,” Vashi said. The word was a hiss, and Bastian liked the way it seemed to curl around him.

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“What do you hear?” “What do I hear?” Vashi asked. His hips stopped, just for a moment, so Bastian let his hand still as well. “There’s nothing around us. What do you mean, what do I hear?” “Be still a moment,” Bastian said. Vashi’s mulish expression didn’t lighten any, but he nodded and was still. Bastian began moving his hand again, running the tips of his fingers over just the barest hint of Vashi’s skin, and he was rewarded with a shudder. “What did you hear?” Bastian asked. “Your heartbeat,” Vashi said and probably would have crossed his arms over his chest if it wasn’t for Bastian all but pinning his one side. “That’s it?” Bastian asked, hiding his disappointment. “And mine,” Vashi allowed. “There was…water, I suppose. Draining somewhere.” “Good,” Bastian said. He let his fingers find the rhythm of his heartbeat. Vashi, again despite himself, was moving his hips to the same beat. Bastian kissed him. “Give me your hand,” he said. Vashi gave him his free hand. Bastian had to kneel to do it, and it took a moment where they were all elbows and awkward angles, but he brought Vashi’s hand to his testicles, over the leather of his trousers. “Press here, lightly. To your heartbeat.” Vashi shook his head. Bastian could feel the resistance in his body, but when Bastian sank back down so that he was curled around him again, Vashi did what he was told. With the two counterpoints, the music came. This was the time that Bastian would go into his head, to feel the music through his body regardless of who he was dancing with, but it seemed hollow and empty now. It was the easiest thing, to feel Vashi’s damp skin under his lips, to lick the salt away, to feel the rough skin on his cheek. It was suddenly the easiest thing Bastian had ever done to feel the music cresting over the sound of the heartbeats, and to take Vashi with him.

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It was warm where the music was, the ground soft but dry. If Vashi came, they’d be pulled back into the cell. But Bastian didn’t want to leave Vashi achingly hard. Movement in this place was liquid, like moving in a warm, heavily oiled bath, but he managed to find Vashi’s ear. “Just stop,” he whispered, letting go of the notes from Vashi’s heartbeat, then he withdrew his own hand. The only thing that left them was the trickle of water, and as long as they heard it, they could stay. Until the morning. Bastian woke again on the damp floor, but felt well enough rested. Vashi was also awake, but was watching him. He pulled back, but then smiled, just as someone standing by the door cleared his throat. Bastian hadn’t had any sense that they weren’t alone, so he jumped. The sound seemed to have come from nowhere at all. “Touching,” Erasas said, voice cold. Bastian climbed to his feet and stepped away from Vashi, but Vashi took his own time pulling himself up to his feet, as though it pained him to move. “Have you had your fun?” Vashi asked, voice just as cold. “Do you think I’ve been punished enough?” Erasas eyed him up and down then turned his attention to Bastian, who truly did not want it. He looked down, trying to shift it off him, but Erasas’s eyes locked on his. “I know who you are,” he said, his words a threat themselves. “I know who I am, too,” Bastian said, forcing his voice to be lighter than he felt. He didn’t want Erasas to continue, but of course he did. Erasas rattled the cell’s bars, causing flakes of rust to rain down, and Bastian closed his eyes to protect them. It made Erasas’s voice seem to whisper in his ear. “I was there that day. I saw your father’s execution. I saw you.” “The lord protector who was there wasn’t your father,” Bastian said, his voice hollow. Erasas snorted. “The king was already planning his removal. The former crown prince, a common whore.”

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“I’m not common,” Bastian said. “I’m extraordinary.” “Leave him alone, Erasas. You’re not angry at him,” Vashi said. “I am angry with him. I’m angry at both of you. How could you betray me for one of them?” “You think I betrayed you?” Vashi demanded. “Erasas, you know I love you. You know I’ve always loved you. This has nothing to do what that.” Bastian shook out the thumbnail flakes of rust from his hair. “Don’t,” he told Vashi. There was no way to end this peacefully. He saw Erasas’s face and saw only the desire to hurt. Erasas shook the cell door so hard that it pulled the hinges away from the metal. Bastian was drawing energy from the rocks themselves, growing stronger, but he kept his face blank, hoping Erasas wouldn’t notice. Vashi saw it, however; Bastian saw it in the way his jaw clenched, but they remained still. “Do not talk to him,” Erasas snarled. He took a step back, but Vashi moved to him. “You have to stop this, Erasas. What do you think you have to gain from this?” “The whores who were a part of last night’s attempted coup have all been given a death sentence, to be carried out at noon tomorrow.” “I wasn’t a part of any coup attempt last night,” Bastian said, not that he truly thought it mattered. Vashi shook his head too. “He was with me the whole night.” “You came back to the palace with me,” Erasas said. “You didn’t bring him in. Ask yourself how he got into the palace without you.” Bastian was silent. “Your whore got into the palace to kill his betters, and was using you as a cover. He would have murdered my father where he slept.” “That’s not true,” Bastian said.

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Erasas looked at him, coldly. “It is true, and you know it.” Bastian did, but that didn’t mean he was going to concede the point. “What do you want, Erasas? Do you want me to beg?” “If he’s dead, we would all be safer. Vashi, please. I know you have feelings for him, but you can’t trust them any more than you can trust him. I wish you would trust me.” “Trust you? You want to kill him.” Erasas didn’t answer, at least not at first. He swallowed. “No,” Erasas said, “I don’t.” “What do you mean?” Vashi asked. “I can have him smuggled out tomorrow, before the executions. The count is off from last night. No one will know he wasn’t executed.” Vashi hesitated. “You would do that for me?” he asked. “I would do more than just spare a whore for you, Vashi, you know that. But you have to promise me you’ll never see him again. You’ll have to promise me it is over.” Vashi shook his head. “Don’t make me promise you that, Erasas.” “Something is telling me what he’s here for, Vash. You have to believe me. Ask him. He won’t lie to you. Ask him. He’s here to kill my father.” Vashi looked at him, and Bastian begged with everything he had, to whatever was listening to them in the corners, that he would not have to lie to Vashi. Vashi shook his head, and turned to Erasas again. “Fine. Yes. I agree. Just get him out, and let him go.” Bastian exhaled. So did Erasas. “Done,” he said, and it sounded like a proclamation. They waited until the door slammed shut, and heavy footsteps retreated. No guards had visited them during the night; Bastian’s parched throat reminded him of that, and there was no telling when the lord protector would remember them. “He won’t go back on his word,” Vashi said. “If he promises you safe passage, that’s exactly what you will get.” “Why are you making it sound like I have a choice?” Bastian asked.

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“Because maybe we can get that door open,” Vashi said. It was true, the top hinge did look compromised. “And if we’re found in the halls…” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Bastian didn’t even have to think about it. He went to the newly exposed metal, but it didn’t budge when he rattled it. He gave an experimental push. For a very long time it was strong enough not to budge, but then it gave a low, resounding groan. “Give me a hand,” Bastian said. “You mean a shoulder,” Vashi corrected, but stood next to him. Vashi’s body shook with the effort. Bastian had no illusions as to his own strength when compared to Vashi’s, but it was apparently enough. The metal groaned again as the bolts themselves pulled from their holes. The first one that gave way did so with a high ringing tone that Bastian thought would summon every guard in the dungeon, but it didn’t. The second gave off the same sound, ringing as it shot past Bastian’s ear. The third and last one, holding the top hinge, sounded like the town’s gong. They then used simple leverage to free the bottom hinge. Vashi pulled the door open and held it there as Bastian climbed over the twisted metal. “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” Vashi said. Bastian gave him a look, the relief that he would not have to face the ax making him grin like a fool. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him because there weren’t any. One second they were alone in the hall and he was formulating the best path to the stables where they could use another one of his passageways out of the palace, the next the door was open and guards filled the room. Not Camillian guards, however. Shular. Even the common men around the ambassador wore silken veils. They had never been introduced, but Bastian knew what the man was without an introduction. This man bought and sold souls; it swirled around him like his robes. “Perhaps you were not trying to leave without the lord protector’s permission,” the ambassador began coolly behind his veil.

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“You have no authority here,” Vashi said, stepping up, but Bastian put his hand on Vashi’s chest. “No authority, no,” the ambassador said, his voice slick like lantern oil. “But I raise the alarm, and where would you be?” “You’re not going to raise the alarm,” Bastian said. The ambassador’s eyes narrowed like a pleased cat. “I won’t?” he inquired mildly. “You know what I am,” Bastian said. It wasn’t a question. The ambassador nodded, regardless. “No, Bastian,” Vashi said, but Bastian held him back. “I know what you are,” the man said again, smoothly. “Then you know when I say there is nothing I won’t do for you if you can promise us safe passage out of the city, I mean nothing.” “Do you think I’ll give you up for just a single night?” the ambassador demanded. Actually, that was exactly what Bastian had been thinking, or at least hoping, but he shook his head. “Name your price.” “A year.” “Six months,” Bastian countered. “Bastian!” Vashi snarled. “Shut up. You can’t do this.” “I can’t?” Bastian demanded, turning to Vashi. “Would you rather he sound the alarm?” Vashi’s face was stubborn again, and Bastian knew he wanted to say yes. Bastian dared him to, hardening his face. He already had a death sentence; being caught trying to escape couldn’t be good. And Vashi had gone from being a thorn in Erasas’s side to helping Bastian escape. Vashi stopped arguing, though he obviously didn’t want to. Bastian wanted to tell him not to worry, that he was still in charge, but didn’t dare. “Six months,” he repeated.

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“I said a year,” the ambassador said. “Would you like me to ask for two?” Bastian shook his head. “No,” he said. “Bastian, no,” Vashi said, his voice pained. Bastian looked away, just for a second, and then looked back to the ambassador. Bastian took Vashi back into the cell. He kissed Vashi’s ear, wishing he could inhale Vashi’s essence and keep it with him forever. He pressed his forehead against Vashi’s shoulder. “I love you,” he said. “I love you too,” Vashi said. “You have to know, though, Erasas was right. I was brought in to kill his father. I think he’s always known, or at least he’s always felt something wrong. I’m sorry, Vashi. I really am.” Vashi was shaking his head, but Bastian held it still, tighter than he wanted, but unable to stop himself. “No. Don’t. Listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. Tell Erasas that I got you to pull the door free. Tell him that I hit you over the head and left you here. Tell him I knew a dozen different passages in and out of the palace, and I wasn’t going to risk getting caught with you, and that you’ve never been anything to me.” Vashi broke away. Bastian wasn’t strong enough to hold him. He grabbed Bastian’s wrists, but Bastian tried to pull free. “I swear it’s true. Let me go, please, Vashi. Just let go.” Vashi still wouldn’t. Shular guards moved in, and Vashi had to let him go. “We must make it look real,” the ambassador said, nodding to his guards. Bastian didn’t understand what that meant until one of them lifted the hilt of his sword. “No!” Bastian cried, lunging forward, but his arms were caught up, holding him back. Vashi fought, managing to take one of the other men’s swords, but he was thrown into the bars before he could bring the blade into the ready, and the crack on his head would have been enough to kill him.

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Bastian screamed, throwing himself forward, dragging both the men that held him despite their best efforts. The sudden power he felt would have been enough to throw off four men. They kept piling on him, though. The crushing weight of them and the armor they wore under their silk was too much. He was finally brought up short on his knees, a good three feet from Vashi’s prone body, and the consuming rage he felt left him without even the ability to cry. “I’ll kill you,” he promised, pulling from Chivas, pulling from the god, and the anger he felt became as a weapon, capable of flaying flesh from the muscle, muscle from the bones. “I’ll kill you all. Let me go.” The words weren’t snarled. They weren’t yelled, or screamed, or in any raised voice at all. He wasn’t threatening, he was promising, and if they didn’t know the difference then they deserved his wrath. One man was wise enough to let him go right off. The other, with his hands around Bastian’s throat, must have felt the heat gathering under his skin. The order came to let him go moments before Bastian would have freed himself, and he crawled to where Vashi lay. He wasn’t dead. The relief spilled out of Bastian, quenching the anger and letting the sobs come. He wasn’t even deeply under. The knot under the skin, just over the temple, would give him a splitting headache when he opened his eyes; that much was obvious, but his breathing was strong and his pulse steady. Still, before Bastian stood, he memorized the face of the man who had struck him, and the fact that the man actually quaked gave him no end of pleasure. He walked through the twisted ruin of the door with his head up, despite his own headache from the excess anger and fear, not to mention thirst and hunger, but he followed along behind the ambassador like the well-trained lapdog half of him was. And if he heard Vashi call his name, weakly, before the door closed, he might have imagined it. But it didn’t matter. It still made him happier than he had any right to be.

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Chapter Ten

They made it back to the ambassador’s quarters before the alarms started to ring. The ambassador thrust Bastian into the room. “I have things to attend to,” the man said. “I want you on the bed, face down, hands behind your back and waiting for me.” “That’s not the way it is usually arranged,” Bastian said, dully. He was tired now, despite the good night’s sleep he got, and his body hurt from the dozens of hands that had held him down. “I am aware of that. It is the way that I want you to be arranged. Do you have an issue with this?” Bastian shook his head. “No,” he said. “None whatsoever.” “Excellent,” the man said and closed the door. Bastian paced for a moment, unsure, but wasn’t willing to risk the ambassador’s return. He knelt down by the bed, praying for the first time in earnest for the strength he needed, and then lay down on the bed. It smelled of sex and sweat. He turned his face away, staring at the wall, and despite himself, fell asleep.

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Vashi was found and tended to. The lump on his skull would leave a knot; Bastian felt it on his own head, as they were tied, and he knew that Erasas would forgive Vashi for being taken by the wily Illian whore. Vashi’s smile didn’t falter, but it would take longer for his trust to rebuild. Erasas was furious at the thought of Bastian getting away, and he’d sent most of his men out looking. The fact that he was just yards away from his father’s rooms was quite ironic. So much effort, for him. The irony was the last thing he thought about until the door opened. Bastian didn’t turn and look. It didn’t matter if it was one man or a crowd. His shoulders were a bit tight from holding his hands behind his back, but other than that, he felt pretty relaxed. “So, tell me. Who sent you?” “No one sent me. I came to warn Vashi you were going to kill him tonight,” Bastian said. It was an outside wall, the one he was staring at, and chill radiated from it. “That’s amazing. I was going to kill him tonight. How did you know?” Bastian didn’t answer. His hands felt horribly exposed, behind his back, and he would have shifted his grip if he didn’t feel the man staring down at him. “You’re not going to tell me.” The ambassador’s displeasure radiated from him. “No, actually. I wasn’t planning on it at all,” Bastian said, and tensed, knowing there was going to be a reprisal, and felt the man’s pleasure at Bastian’s stubbornness. He was going to enjoy whatever he had planned. Bastian turned his head away and waited. He had time to think that bed had been moved. It would have seemed much more likely to have it by the fireplace, where the heat would have been stored in the large stone wall, but no, it had definitely been dragged across the floor, past the Camillian rug to where it now sat against the exterior wall.

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The knife slid against Bastian’s skin; it was so sharp that Bastian felt it split his skin, but the pain took a second to reach him. He cried out -- there was no shame in that -- and the hot blood running down his cold skin was just as shocking as the pain was. “But that was not why you were here.” “That’s exactly why I was here,” Bastian snarled through the pain. “Do not make me cut you again, Bastian. I do not want to lower your value.” “I told you. I saw the fact that Vashi was going to die and I came to warn him.” “And kill the overlord.” “No!” Bastian snapped. “I was going to take him and leave.” “You lie!” the ambassador snarled, but didn’t cut him. Bastian tensed, waiting for it, but instead of the knife, he grabbed the hair on the back of Bastian’s head. Tears of pain filled Bastian’s eyes, but he didn’t fight. “Don’t lie to me, Bastian. I don’t like it.” “I’m not lying,” Bastian said. “I was supposed to kill him. If I don’t kill him, my uncle will probably kill Vashi, but I did not come here to kill him, I swear. I did not come to the palace with the intent of killing the overlord.” The ambassador stroked his hair now, parting it to each side so that he could run his knuckles down the back of Bastian’s neck. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?” he asked. Bastian didn’t answer. Something prodded his wound, making him bleed again, something dripped into the wound, briefly, and it was as cold as the air on his face. Something happened inside his belly, twisting it like a fist, then the wound closed. “There,” the ambassador said. “What did you do?” Bastian demanded. “We may not have the power to arouse the senses, like you do, or draw power from the rocks themselves like the Camillians, but we have power ourselves in our tinctures and potions. You can kill the overlord now, but know that if you do, your own heart will stop.”

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Bastian didn’t move, but the cold spread through him. If he didn’t kill the overlord, Vashi would die. If he did…something was pulsing through his veins along with his blood, and he didn’t doubt the man’s words. He put his head down and exhaled. “Now get up.” Bastian sat up. It took him a second to become accustomed to the rush in his head. Things didn’t want to come into focus when he looked at them, but he shook his head and the dizziness was only momentary. “Prince Bastian. Second son of a second son, but the son of the line.” Bastian didn’t look up. “You know who I am.” “I do. I also know that you will sign whatever treaty I put down in front of you, and you will sign it in good faith. Do we understand each other?” “That wasn’t part of the deal.” Bastian felt dizzy. “The deal has changed. Now strip.” “This isn’t how it’s done,” Bastian said, but his voice was cold. He was going to let the ambassador live, but, as the man himself said, the deal had changed. He looked up, calculating under the coltishness, and faked a smile. “If you want what I am, you can’t just order me around.” “Ah, yes. You’re a beloved, is that what they call you? Supposedly one of the best fucks in the world. Are you?” Bastian didn’t look at him. He felt the backhand before it landed, even without opening his eyes, and he managed to just feel the wind brush him. The second blow was faster, but he ducked that one, too, then twisted back. He couldn’t avoid the blows forever, and eventually he was thrown and pinned hard against the wall. Bastian stopped fighting. “I’m going to let you go. You’re going to remain still.” The man shoved Bastian hard against the wall. The pain was hot, burning and focusing, but true to his word, the ambassador released him. Bastian stared at him.

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“Drop your hands. They come up, I will hurt you,” the ambassador said. “Do you understand?” “Yes,” Bastian said, quietly. The slap was with an open hand, as slow as it was insulting. Bastian glared, but didn’t lift up his hands. A second blow, catching his lip with a ring that Bastian didn’t see brought blood to his lips. Bastian covered his mouth, against orders, but the sensation of bleeding overrode his obedience. The ambassador stood back, letting Bastian dab away the blood. “Are you going to tell me one more time what you are going to do?” Bastian felt his lip curled. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said, voice dark. “Good. Now. Get on your knees. Show me what exactly you are.” Bastian narrowed his eyes. “You want to see what I am?” he asked. The ambassador nodded. It was invitation enough. The shadows in the corners stirred. Bastian shrugged out of his shirt. There was no magic in it, but that was fine. He didn’t want to draw that kind of energy. “If you are not going take orders from me, may I suggest it flows better if you are sitting down?” he said, looking downward, not out of submission, as the ambassador must think, but to keep the man from seeing inside him anymore. The ambassador crossed his arms over his chest, for a long moment, then crossed the room and sat down on the bed. “Do that which you do,” he said magnanimously. Bastian closed his eyes. His mouth hurt, both from the cut and on the inside of the lip where it had mashed against his teeth. But he ignored it. His training helped with that. He didn’t like the bare stone floor. It would hurt his knees. He ignored that, too. He took out the vial of oil, the murky one. He held it up. “To make it smoother, for later,” he said. He offered it to the man, who shrugged. “If you must.”

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“Thank you,” Bastian said, honestly meaning it, and took off his pants. He folded them neatly and leaned against the wall. He was naked. Clean limbed, strong. His skin felt good against his fingers. There was a lot he could have pulled on to make the music come. Instead, he pulled on the pain from his mouth. He remembered the humiliation of keeping his hands down, of letting himself get hit not once, but twice. The hurt, seeing Vashi on the ground. The agony of making the deal with his uncle when he was too afraid to think of all the consequences he’d had no way of comprehending at age seven. It seemed to betray the gift he had, but he used the pain inside him. The notes -- there was no way the disharmonic tones emerging from the walls could be called “music” -- crept and scurried like carrion feeders. They weren’t alone now; the presence was thick enough to be felt on Bastian’s naked shoulders. “If this is what you want,” he said, speaking to both of them. Anspar was in the room. The notes, his music, had summoned him as quickly as ringing a dinner bell. The ambassador cleared his throat, seemingly impervious to the darkening of the flames from the fire. They burned a sick green, and the smoke was oily, like it was burning flesh and not wood. Bastian wanted the ambassador to notice, and to put an end to it. If he did, Bastian would find some other way, but the man was too far into his lust to feel it. The dark eyes carved into the walls were a warning to the Illians who had lived here once, but to outsiders it was just ridiculous superstition. No reprieve came. Bastian didn’t really expect there to be. It was time. When he knelt down, he didn’t feel the cold stones on his knees. The music was never supposed to hurt, but the jangling notes were wicked, vicious things. He looked up, but the ambassador didn’t know there was supposed to be a difference. Bastian smiled, and touched his cock for the first time. It was pure hatred, not love, but it was emotion, and he could use it.

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He sucked on his finger, sending the notes in his head over to the ambassador, pulling him into it. It was like feeling pond scum between his fingers. But he used that revulsion too, letting it dig claws into Bastian’s skin even further. Every touch, every stroke Bastian felt on his skin, the ambassador would feel tenfold. “I’m supposed to know what you like,” Bastian said. “You’re supposed to tell me. Over wine. You’d tell me what pleases you, and what doesn’t. Without that, I just have to assume.” Bastian’s cock was hard. It shouldn’t have been; there wasn’t an ounce of arousal in his body, but there didn’t have to be. This was his training. He knew the exact angle, the perfect amount of pressure, even the twist of his palm after a long finishing stroke. It didn’t take long to hear the ambassador’s ragged breathing to show him that he was effective. He sat up, straining the muscles of his thighs. Normally he would have loved the increase in tempo. The longest he’d ever spent on his knees was a full mark of a candle, pulling everything he had to just be one with the music, but now every move he made was to channel those notes away from him and into the ambassador. At this angle, he could arch his back, offering his whole body to the man. He spread his knees, parted his lips, and fought back the smile when the man groaned, “Enough.” It was an invitation to the next level, and Anspar was just as eager to feed from Bastian’s despair as the ambassador was. Bastian shifted on the cold floor, ready to crawl to the man, head bowed -- not with shame or submission, but as a hunter, marking his prey’s trail. He saw a spark of worry in the man’s eye. At least part of him knew what danger he was in, but his eyes were glazed and his breath already rattled dryly in the back of his throat. Bastian stopped, lowering his head to the floor, reaching down his belly, and grasped his cock. He fucked his fist, as hard as he could, and felt the man jerk as though kissed by a whip. It shut down whatever part worried for his safety, leaving him a hungry, slavering beast.

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But not quite. The song played all around them. It was a funeral dirge, the whistle of a high wind on a low field, the cold, empty crunch of snow on a dark, abandoned street. The man didn’t hear. His tongue slipped out between his lips and stayed there, like he forgot it existed. Bastian smiled, sliding his body up the man’s legs, pulling his robes up as he did so. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice a raw growl. “Yes,” the ambassador hissed. “All of me?” Bastian whispered. He thrust his hips against the man’s chest, riding out his need. “Yes, for gods’ sakes.” “You have me at my word,” Bastian said. “Not to do anything you didn’t tell me.” The man grabbed his own cock, jerking it madly. “Yes! Yes! You must!” Bastian took hold of the man’s hand. He was practically frothing. For a moment their eyes met, and that spark that had tried to warn the man flared again, but it was too late. Bastian opened the man up, the notes piercing his skin like meat hooks and left him gaping. “Take him, if you’re here. This man is yours, I offer him to you,” Bastian called. The ambassador’s eyes flew open, but it was too late. Bastian didn’t try to explain; there were no words for what was about to happen. The dark shadows pulled themselves up from the room, the walls, the palace around them, and poured themselves like a raging river into the ambassador. Bastian wanted to let go; the man’s skin burned his hands like ice, but he had to make sure every ounce of the shadow went in. The fire sputtered, almost going out but then roared back to life, and the flames were bright and orange again. Anspar was gone, and entirely in this man before him. And the ambassador laughed. Of course he would have, Bastian had just given him a god. And the god had just been given a vessel that would become him. God made flesh, and flesh made god. Bastian broke the murky oil’s vial against what had been the ambassador’s skin.

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For a moment, nothing happened. The man knocked the broken glass from his hand, and Bastian let it go rather than risk cutting himself on the glass or exposing himself to the oil. The ambassador, or Anspar, Bastian wasn’t sure who any more, stood up, and then the human that was the god saw. Not just the future -- not with such a direct transfer, oil right on his skin -- Anspar’s past as well. What he’d forced his people to do, and all he was capable of doing. The ambassador began to scream soundlessly at the horror now playing behind his eyes. Bastian stood up from where he’d been knocked to the floor. The god’s vessel was broken, hopelessly so, but he was flesh now. There was no escaping it for him. Not unless the ambassador had broken a vow to him, and there hadn’t been any time to make any.

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Chapter Eleven

Bastian dressed before he left. That was one hurdle. He still felt the sewage in his own veins, tying his life to the protector’s, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t going to let Chivas track Vashi down, in or out of the city, and become one of the flickering images the ambassador was seeing even as Bastian walked down the hall. It made him stronger. A quick death, then his own, and he could rest. The poison in his own veins turned his body thick and clumsy the closer he got to the lord protector’s room, but Bastian forced himself onward. He did close his eyes and wish Vashi were there with him, but at least Vashi would be safe. There was no alarm. There was no screaming. Bastian hadn’t yet killed the protector, but still he felt the filth in his veins trickle out of his fingers like he’d just cleared his throat. Bastian started to run. He was only a couple dozen steps from the protector’s room, and the room wasn’t locked. Nor were there guards posted. Bastian threw the doors open himself. Standing over the protector’s body, his hands shaking, was Niel. Niel wore the silks of a beloved, the fire was burning, and the protector’s emaciated, naked body was on the ground, tossed there as though he were a toy a child had forgotten. “Someone had to do it,” Niel said.

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“There’s no time for that now,” Bastian said. He held out his hand, and Niel ran to it. “Come on. Someone will be bound to notice. How did you --” “The silver flask. I tried to use it to ensnare Erasas, but it was inherited silver, from his father. From there…” Bastian shook his head. They ran and ducked around corners and into empty halls. Halfway to the kitchen, the alarm went off, bringing with it more guards than Bastian had ever seen. But they were able to make it to the kitchen, back down the drain, and into the market by sundown. Niel’s hands were still shaking, but Bastian held them until the ice-cold skin warmed. “We can’t stay here. They can pick apart our minds. They’ll know what I did,” Niel said, eventually. Bastian pulled him closer. The alarms were all across the city now; houses were burning; swords flashed in the alleys and streets. Becca’s army had seized the moment, and fighting on the streets was vicious. Twice, if Bastian hadn’t pulled Niel back, fighting men and women would have taken off his head. Once, Niel returned the favor. The safest thing for them to have done was to find shelter until the fighting finished, for better or worse. But Bastian wanted Vashi. And, of course, Vashi found him. He came out of the smoke from one of the burning wooden buildings, his shape so familiar. For a second Bastian didn’t trust himself because he wanted the shape so badly to be Vashi. He bolted forward, dragging Niel along with him because he forgot to let go of Niel’s hand, and it was Vashi. He smelled of blood and of smoke, but it was him. The blade in his hand was bloody, too, and Bastian was afraid to know whose blade it was and whose blood. “Anyone who got between me and the palace,” Vashi said. “Did you think I would just leave you there?”

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Then Vashi threw them both to the wall, as another group of Camillians ran down the street. They met up with Illians, and the hacking and slashing began. Bastian couldn’t watch. He turned away, just as the door they leaned against opened a crack. “Your Highness,” a soft voice whispered. “Quickly. In here.” The woman who spoke was wide-eyed, and it was obviously terrifying her to open the door even that much. But he nodded and pushed Niel in first, pulling Vashi behind him. It had been a shop, once, a smithy if the huge stone ring in the middle of the room was any indication, but it had long since been abandoned. The woman stared at Vashi, shaking her head, but Bastian pulled Vashi closer to him. “He is with me,” Bastian said. “I can vouch for him.” The worry allayed, if only slightly. “The fighting will go on all night, but this is a safe house,” the woman said. Bastian’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and only then did he see the half dozen families ringed around the wall. The door itself had been fortified, the roof soaked in water. It would not burn. “Where are the soldiers coming from?” he asked. “The mines. The fields, the shops. Does it matter?” She moved to the wall. “Make yourself comfortable, such as you can, Your Highness.” There was no more room against the wall, but there was plenty of room around the abandoned forge. “I should be out there,” Vashi said, but Bastian grabbed his hand. “You have to stay with me. My side will kill you, your side would think you a traitor. Please.” Vashi was tense against his hand for a heartbeat, then relented and let Bastian pull him to the forge. It was comfortable, after a fashion, Bastian leaning against Vashi and Niel against him. Through the muffled screams and ringing of steel coming from just outside the door, Vashi didn’t sleep, of that Bastian was certain, but he stroked Bastian’s hair and held him until morning.

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When he dreamed, he thought for a moment he was seeing what the ambassador must be seeing, but then he recognized Chivas. Bastian was back in that hot, humid place, the feeling of slavering breath on the back of his neck, but the demon was not hunting for him. Instead it was Chivas, naked and terrified, kneeling in a puddle of whatever it was that dripped off the stalactites. He was pleading, but the words here were meaningless, so Bastian didn’t hear them. Still, he knew Chivas was begging, and that satisfied Bastian. The protector was dead, which would have completed Chivas’s bargain, but it was not done by an acolyte, so the death was wasted, like meat left to spoil in the sun. The promise was broken, the deal unfulfilled, and that left the demon free. It devoured Chivas, starting with his face. It met Bastian’s eyes once, as it fed, and smiled, licking its blood-red teeth. It had the look of a man, but with scales to Bastian’s skin, and split tongue to Bastian’s whole. No nose, but flat openings where it breathed, and when it blinked, its lenses closed left to right, not up and down. “We are done,” it said, not so much with its tongue forming the words but by being in Bastian’s head, and Bastian awoke. And, despite the two sides’ best efforts, morning did come. The light pooling in from the high air vents was a blood red. Bastian sat up, damp and stiff from sleeping on the floor, but only he and Vashi were awake. They stood up silently and pulled the dead man latch on the door. It closed, locking back in place the moment they shut the door, and they made sure it would not budge before moving on. They hadn’t come for the dead yet. Bastian couldn’t look at the open, staring faces. Vashi led him through the streets. “I thought you were trained as a killer,” he said, but spoke gently. “A pinch of this, a whispered chant there; it’s not the same thing at all.” The truth was, really, he’d never killed anyone before. Even the ambassador, who deserved death like none other, was still alive, probably whimpering and clutching his head as they spoke.

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The worst part was there was no indication of who had won. Bastian thought he knew; the city felt free to him, like it had exhaled after three generations of holding its breath. Still, he was afraid he was wrong, and that the first patrol they came across would slap him back into chains and drag him back to the lord protector. But he was dead, too, and the first patrol they did find were all wearing the dregs and rags of old uniforms or clothes newly dyed imperial blue. They turned on Bastian, sword drawn, but then recognized him. “Your Highness,” one said, and Bastian saw that he was one of the whores from the brothel. “The lady asked that we bring you to her.” Bastian nodded. That happened to coincide with what he required as well. “It was a victory, then?” “Of a sort,” the whore said. They’d never met, but Bastian remembered him as being the whore with the flogger, when he’d just come to town. “I am Maters. The lady will see you as soon as you are ready.” Bastian nodded. The gates to the palace had been bludgeoned open by a tree the size around of four men strapped together. It had splintered the wooden gates, which had won them victory. The gates now had to be repaired before the Camillians had the chance to recover and invade with a proper army -- which Bastian had no doubt that they would do. After years of being afraid, the Illians were going to fight back, and it was going to be bloody. The dead here had already been gathered, leaving nothing but stained cobblestones where they had been. The men disassembling the gates hardly turned when Bastian walked past them. “She is in the throne room,” Maters said. “Of course she is,” Bastian said. The sun had risen, burning the red glow from the sky, and the warmth in the air told him spring had finally come. He considered leaving Vashi outside the old, abandoned room, knowing that she would be waiting for him alone, but then shook his head. There would be no point to that at all.

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Together they walked into the room. “Ah, Your Highness,” Becca said. The absolute scorn that had tainted her tone when she said those words had been reduced to the lightest taste. And Bastian was wrong, she wasn’t alone. Erasas sat, his arms bound behind his back, at her feet. Becca was not sitting on the throne, as Bastian thought she would, and his opinion of her, poor in general, rose just a little. “Thank you for joining me.” “You’re welcome. Forgive me if I did not receive your invitation until this morning.” “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t want to chance them beating it out of you. If it hadn’t been for my men and women inside the palace, this would not have happened.” “I understand,” Bastian said, though he didn’t, not entirely. “I have a proposition for you, Your Highness. Will you hear me?” Bastian nodded, but was looking at Vashi, who was staring at Erasas. Erasas wasn’t looking at anyone or anything. “Stay and fight with me. Become the banner to draw others to us. I need you, as a symbol for all of us, that the old ways are dead, and we can fight again.” The old ways weren’t dead, but locked inside an insane body, but Bastian didn’t tell her that. Instead, he waited. Becca didn’t continue. “In exchange for?” he asked. “In exchange for nothing. You are our king now.” Bastian felt his ears warm. “I thought I was just your slave.” “You’re not my slave any longer. Your man saw to that.” Bastian turned to Vashi. “What?” he asked. “In the middle of the battle, where the fighting was heaviest, he fought his way to me, and made me an offer for you. He is, technically, your master now.” “How much did you pay for me?” Bastian demanded.

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“An eighth of a silver,” Vashi said. “It was all I had. I’ve already burned your papers. You’re not contracted to anyone anymore.” “Do I have an answer?” Becca asked, her voice raspy with smoke damage. “It’s our country,” Bastian said, finally. “I’ll be pleased to take it back, with you.” She clapped her hands. “I had to know. This man here, I kept him for you. There is something between him and your man. There is much work still to be done; I will see you later,” she said, and left. Bastian took the three steps up to the dais. The silken pillows on the black wood thrones had been allowed to rot where they lay. Bastian swept them onto the floor. He sat down, thinking of how his grandfather must have felt, and then looked down. Vashi and Erasas were having a silent conversation. Bastian wasn’t privy to it, nor did he expect to be. Finally, Vashi walked behind him and cut off the ropes binding him. Erasas didn’t respond, not for a dozen heartbeats, and then he rubbed his wrists. “At least come back with me,” he finally said. “You know I can’t do that,” Vashi said. “They’ll never accept you here.” “They never accepted me there, either. Bastian will promise you safe passage to the Camillian border, but after that, he has no more ties to you.” “And you?” Erasas asked. Vashi hesitated, and Bastian saw pain on his face. “I’ll always love you. You were a brother to me.” “He’s killed my father,” Erasas said. “I said he would, and he did. Please, Vashi.” Vashi didn’t answer, so Bastian continued. “When the city is completely free, you’ll be allowed to return. You would have spared my life, in your own way, and I am grateful for that. No harm will come to you.”

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Erasas glared at him, fury masking the sorrow he had for his father, but no more curses came. “I have your word?” he asked. Bastian nodded. “You do.” “And you,” Erasas said, voice suddenly hopeful. “You’ll come back with me.” “No, Erasas.” Vashi said. Erasas stared at him, like he didn’t hear the words. “No,” he repeated, but gentler this time. “You’re choosing him?” Erasas demanded. “No,” Vashi repeated. “I’ve already chosen him.” “You said you love me,” Erasas howled. “And I do,” Vashi said. Erasas stared at him, unbelievingly, and Vashi touched his head. “He won’t fight,” Vashi told Bastian. “But I think he needs some time alone. Can he not be imprisoned?” “I’ll have it arranged,” Bastian said, not knowing how, but he owed Vashi, and to no small degree, Erasas himself, at least that. “So, that’s that,” Vashi said, finally. Bastian relaxed, momentarily on the throne, and then sat up, a dark smile growing. “Not quite.” “What remains?” Bastian took Vashi’s hand. He didn’t have a room in the palace yet, but they were sure to find some unoccupied space. He kissed Vashi’s cheek. “Oh,” said Vashi.

Angela Fiddler Angela Fiddler was born and raised in Northern Alberta. She began writing smut at a very early (legal) age, and has written more than her share of slash fiction in her life. She wrote Castoffs for a darling friend who requested a birthday present involving hot, gay, kinky vampires. The novel practically wrote itself. When she's not following the exploits of hot vampires, Angela write epic fantasy and has had several short stories published.