The Water Lovers of Sirilon

The Water Lovers of Sirilon

Published by Phaze Books Also by L.E. Bryce Dead to the World My Sun and Stars Ki’iri Becoming The Golden Lotus Concubinage “Artifice” from Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V A Crown of Stars Aneshu

This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children.

www.Phaze.com

The Water Lovers of Sirilon A collection of homoerotic fantasy by

L.E. BRYCE

The Water Lovers of Sirilon copyright 2007-8 by L.E. Bryce All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Phaze Production Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC. To order additional copies of this book, contact: [email protected] www.Phaze.com Cover art © 2008, Debi Lewis Edited by Kathryn Lively eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-089-8 First eBook Edition – September, 2008 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Table of Contents Ki’iri........................................................................... 7 Becoming.................................................................. 81 Still Life.................................................................. 145

Ki’iri

Ki’iri was originally published by Forbidden Fruit Magazine in September, 2004.

Chapter One The storm had been a violent one, wreaking havoc on the docks of Sirilon. During the night, great waves had crashed against the pilings, tearing ships and smaller vessels loose from their moorings and throwing the wreckage ashore. Divine anger it might have seemed, but all knew that a stormy sea was the opposite—the joining of Air and Water in passion. Even among the faithful, there were plenty who snorted at the notion of godly lovemaking, and aired their opinions with the morning fog. “If the Lord Min would have the sense to be gentler with His consort,” grumbled Antáno, “we’d not have to contend with the neighbors’ endless bloody cursing.” Daro listened quietly to his grandfather, nodding occasionally to indicate his attention, if not necessarily his agreement. Their fishermen neighbors complained in fair weather as well as foul, and generally kept their boats in such poor condition that they were likely to fall apart even on a calm sea. “In any case,” Antáno went on, “the storm’s passed and I’ll not have to listen anymore this day to that sot Shias go on about the Lady’s tits. Blasphemous old fart. Were it my wife he was talking about, I’d strike him dead, see if I wouldn’t.” But the Lord of the Winds obviously did not care what mortals might say or think, as Shias had always been free with his colorful epithets. Daro did not expect the old fisherman to be struck by lightning anytime soon.

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Besides, Antáno had said plenty of similar things to and about Daro’s grandmother while she still lived. It was part of the daily banter in Sirilon’s dockside neighborhoods, and no one thought anything of it. “Now I’ve got a bit of business aboard Endine’s sloop and that’ll take a while, see if it doesn’t with his tongue,” Antáno was saying. “I’ll leave it to you to see to the hrill, boy, as they’re like to have come back by now.” “Endine’s ship is still afloat?” asked Daro. Antáno shrugged. “It was bobbing up and down on its moorings as late as yesterday, lad, and I’ve no doubt it weathered last night. He knows how to take care of his boats, that one does. The only thing of Endine’s I’d expect to find in the water is his son after too much ale. Now I promised him a senu’s advice and there’s like to be good coin in it for us. Run along now, and if the hrill ask where I am, tell them the old windbag’ll talk to them later, eh?” Daro ducked back into the cottage to finish his portion of the oatmeal that was warming over the fire, then drew his sealskin long coat on over his clothing as his aunt swept the kitchen hearth. Outside, the air was chill, but already the sun was beginning to peep from behind the clouds that were now far beyond the white cliffs of the city. The day would be brisk and gray, but the last wisps of the storm had already blown inland. Moist gravel crunched under his boots as he moved down the beach toward the quay where he and his grandfather did their work. The senu’s cottage stood in a quiet neighborhood away from the busier wharves and shipyards, but the violence of the storm had reached even the most outlying areas of the harbor. Bits of broken wood and seaweed littered the beach in all directions, while closer to the water, brushed by the drawing and receding surf was a dark, glossy corpse. Daro gave a start, but after

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a moment saw it was a dead seal, not one of the sacred hrill. He quickly made the sign of the Lady and moved on. Even before he reached the end of the quay, he heard the voices begin in his head. Like a gaggle of excited children, the hrill clamored in the water, eager to talk to him. He smiled and leaned over the stout wooden railing, gripping it as he reached out to touch each shiny wet snout that was offered him, and bade them take turns with their news. Some of it was gossip, but unlike men hrill were straightforward with their information, and wasted little time in telling Daro where were the best places to shelter or find mates, and where the most abundant schools of fish could be found. Daro memorized these last bits of information, for they were worth coin among the fishermen. By nature, hrill were a talkative lot. Daro enjoyed their company and on warm days swam with them. Sacred to the Lady of the Waters, they were known to rescue drowning men from shipwrecks. To kill one, either by guile or accident, was a crime, and the fishermen who plied their trade in the bay took pains not to entangle the creatures in their nets. Daro’s head ached by the time the hrill left him. He slowly straightened from his crouching position and rubbed his temples vigorously. So many voices, all wanting to be heard at once, could be maddening. His aunt would have a cup of hot bergamot tea and a cold compress waiting for him, and for the rest of the day Antáno would remind her to speak in whispers. Stretching stiff limbs, he turned to go when he caught a glimpse of silver and sable flashing through the water that lapped against the quay. A rounded snout gently broke the surface, and dark eyes questioned him. What is your name, fair one? asked a voice. His headache forgotten, he bent over the gray water. It was a hrill, but none he had ever seen before. They never

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asked his name, for among them were no names that he might pronounce, and they did not seem to know what such a thing was. “I-I am Daro,” he answered, extending a hand in its fingerless leather glove to touch the hrill’s snout. “I would ask your name, but I know you have none.” The creature made a clicking noise. This was, Daro understood, laughter of a sort for their kind. You are a senu who speaks to the hrill, it said matter-of-factly. I saw you with them before. Hrill did not know what a senu was, only that there were two-legged creatures capable of speaking to them. Daro drew back slightly. “You are not a hrill,” he said. In the water, I am as you see me, one of the Lady’s hrill. I am something else, too, but nothing that would do you harm. Daro cast his gaze over the water, searching for some sign of the pod that had just left. Hrill never swam alone unless they were dying, and then they beached themselves like the seal that had washed up that morning. “What manner of creature are you, then? You are not a changeling who has come to lure me into the water and take my body, are you?” No, I am not a changeling, simply one who is lonely and wishes to talk to someone. You are a senu who can speak to me in this body. Will you speak to me? Loneliness was not something hrill understood, or if they understood it, they never articulated it in such clear terms with him. “I-I…what do you want me to say?” The creature asked if he had brothers and sisters, what he did during his day, and what news there was of the city. These were strange things for a hrill to ask, for they never expressed any curiosity about the world of men. Daro felt a thrill of fear and uneasiness at the thought of what this creature might be, but he also sensed the being’s loneliness, and his sympathy outweighed his apprehension.

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Do I keep you from other labors? it asked. “No,” said Daro. “Speaking to the hrill is my only task. Why don’t you swim with the others? I’ve never heard of a hrill being lonely.” Because I am not one of them and they know it, the creature replied. Perhaps they do not know loneliness, but other beings do. It rose up slightly out of the water to touch with its nose the hand that gripped the edge of the dock. Daro held out his hand, palm facing downward, to accept the contact. The hrill regularly butted their snouts against him, but always the touch was cool. This was warm and smooth, and he felt an exhalation of breath against his palm. I thank you for your company, but I must go now. I will return sometime if I may. Daro did not ask what impelled the creature to leave, or where it would go. He watched it disappear under the water, and then, wincing at his stiff joints, he straightened and limped from the quay, back up the beach to his grandfather’s cottage.

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Chapter Two Antáno questioned him, drawing out all the information that could be sold or bartered. With his aunt’s compress still in his hand, Daro searched his memory for all he had heard. He said nothing about the other conversation he had had, made no mention of the creature. It had been such an unsettling encounter that he had not the words to describe it or the being. He’d tell me it was a changeling, and maybe he would be right. Changelings were treacherous creatures, taking the forms of animals or stolen children, wreaking havoc among those men unlucky enough to cross their path. Daro knew the danger, as did everyone, from the cradle. A changeling could have pulled him into the sea to drown or ensnared him with sorcery. The creature he had encountered that morning had done neither. It had been lonely and wanted only to talk to him. Or perhaps that’s part of the spell, to make me trust it, he thought, chewing his underlip. If I tell Grandfather, he’ll raise the cry and they’ll hunt it down or run it off into deeper waters. “What’s the matter with you, lad?” rumbled Antáno. Daro blinked and, turning his head, focused on his grandfather. “What’s that?” “You’ve been staring off at the wall like a mooncalf. What’s the matter with you, eh?” He swallowed and mumbled that he was all right, only tired. I should say something, but I don’t know. It didn’t hurt me.

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Antáno chuckled. “Wear you out with their chatter, did they? I suppose you ought to go to bed then, eh?” After a fitful night’s sleep, Daro downed another cup of bergamot tea, donned the sealskin coat and leather gloves, and went back to the quay. The hrill did not always speak to him, only when they wanted to socialize or had news, which was perhaps once a week, but a senu was obliged to appear each day at the water’s edge to demonstrate his willingness to listen. The waters were quiet, a small blessing for which Daro was thankful. He waited, occupying his time by watching the fishing sloops head out into the bay. Though brisk, it would be a clear day, good for fishing. But there were no hrill. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and turned to go. Fair one, I am glad to see to you again. He froze at the echo of that voice in his mind. Common sense told him to run, for surely the creature must be a changeling come to do him harm, but he heard only the soft voice—a male voice, he thought—and slowly turned. “You’re not a hrill,” he said stiffly. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.” He sensed the being’s confusion and hurt. Nay, but you knew that yesterday. Do you want me to leave? it asked. “Are you a changeling, come to steal me away?” A clicking sound indicated laughter. Changelings prefer babes, I am told. Nay, I am no changeling. I am one of the Lady’s servants, as you are. The Lady of the Waters had many servants. There were priests and diviners, shipwrights, senu’i and talevé, beautiful young men whom She had taken as lovers. And in the open waters beyond the harbor, the mariners said, there were other creatures sacred to Her, and many strange wonders besides. Daro bit his lip apologetically. “I-I thought….”

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Because you are only accustomed to seeing hrill and I do not speak like one of those, you thought I meant to do you harm. I am no sea creature, though in your eyes I wear the body of one. I am a man like you. “Not like me,” corrected Daro. “Maybe I can speak to the hrill, but I can’t look like one.” Another clicking sound. Aye, that is true. Daro crouched down at the edge of the quay and pressed his hands to the thick rail. “Where do you live?” Nearby, but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not wish to speak of myself. I do not come to bother you, and I will leave if you wish it. It is only that I miss the sights and sounds of ordinary life. Daro felt his throat constrict at the despair the creature exuded. “No, I…I don’t want you to leave. But my life is nothing you’d be interested in. I live in a rickety cottage with my grandfather and aunt, and I spend most of my time here or on the docks, trading information with the neighbors.” Where are your mother and father? You did not speak of them yesterday. “They died of a fever long ago,” replied Daro. I am sorry. I should have known better than to ask. After a time, the creature left and Daro returned to the cottage. His aunt, who sensed by his long absence that he must have encountered some hrill, was waiting with a cup of tea, but he politely refused it. The creature had not taxed his strength as the hrill often did. His grandfather returned in the early afternoon and asked if he was well before taking him on a trip to the market; the storm had blown loose pieces of the cottage’s siding and Antáno had no nails with which to make repairs. They spent the rest of the afternoon replacing the siding. “Did the hrill have anything useful to say this morning, lad?” Antáno asked. “You’ve been quiet all day and your aunt says you wanted none of her tea.”

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Daro fumbled for a quick response. “It tastes awful.” Antáno snorted. “Means it’s good for you, lad.” In the middle of the night, Daro stirred from a sound slumber with a start. “Ki’iri,” he whispered to himself. The word surfaced from the very depths of his memory, a thing he had heard of but had never given any thought to. A ki’iri was a talevé in animal form. Like most, he knew very little about the Lady’s mortal lovers. They lived a life of luxury and seclusion in the Blue House near the Lady’s own House of the Water. No one save the priests of the Water ever saw them, except on holy days when they emerged to take part in the ceremonies. On those occasions, the public clamored to see them, with their pale hair and rich clothes, but the crowds along the shrine route were too thick for Daro’s grandfather to take him, and Antáno hissed that it was a waste of time wanting a glimpse of them anyway. “What do you want to see those simpering ninnies for, eh?” he asked. “Spoiled, they are, and that’s not a good thing for a lad to learn. You just mind your prayers and be a good boy and help your grandfather, eh?” He tried to picture in his mind a beautiful young man with pale hair, what he imagined a talevé must look like in human flesh, but his imagination could not take him any farther than the local tavern owner’s handsome yet pretentious son, whom he despised. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to erase the image from his mind. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. It’s forbidden to talk to a talevé. And yet, the Lady’s lover had come to him, wanted comfort in his solitude, and Daro wondered how such a being could possibly be lonely. He has the Lady, he doesn’t need me. On his narrow cot, with the long night stretching before him, his imagination refused to be still. Talevé were so beautiful, people said, that one wept to look at them. And that morning, he had not merely touched the hrill’s

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snout as was customary, but stroked the creature’s pelt around the eyes and throat, marveling at the sleekness of its body, which did not have the layers of fat so typical of hrill. It was built for speed, and there was a certain sensual quality in the way it moved. Then, he remembered how abashed he had been when the other told him how pleasing his touch was and not to stop, for when he recalled that he was caressing another human he had abruptly pulled his hand away and began to apologize. I touched one of the Lady’s lovers, he thought, clutching the sheets to him. His face burned with shame, and he was grateful for the darkness. I didn’t know, he didn’t tell me. Why didn’t he tell me that it was forbidden? In his ignorance, he could be forgiven his lapse. When morning came, he would go to the nearest shrine to make an offering to the Lady and beseech Her pardon. I won’t touch him again. I won’t even talk to him, if that’s Her will. He breathed a whispered prayer that the ki’iri would not come to him again, that he would not have to swallow his shame and turn his back on it.

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Chapter Three “Are you a ki’iri?” Daro leaned over the railing, blinking against the fine salt spray that misted his face. “Tell me true, are you one of Her lovers?” It was the eighth day since he first saw the creature, and the third time it had come to visit him. He had lain awake every night since he learned of its true nature, wondering why such a being would want to spend time with him and if he had been forgiven his trespass. Now his stomach fluttered waiting for an answer. He thought he heard what might have been a sigh. My name is Arion. Such a lovely name. Daro wanted to utter it aloud, savor it on his tongue, and opened his mouth to repeat it. Half a second later, he stopped himself. You can’t think such things about him. You’re not even supposed to talk to him. And yet, when the silvery-dark face had emerged from the foam among those of the other hrill, he could not bring himself to turn away. “I-I didn’t think you were allowed to…to talk to me.” The answer was indirect. A talevé has a ki’iri spirit inside of him. Mine is a hrill, but a hrill cannot swim on dry land. The priests must let me out sometimes, to feel the sea, or I will die. Of course, they tell me I must not approach or speak to anyone, but I do not always feel like obeying them. Daro took no comfort in that. If the priests said so, then it truly was forbidden to speak to the talevé. “Why did you come to me, if they told you not to?” Are you afraid of me?

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Six days ago, he had taken the requisite salt and water to the Lady’s shrine and knelt to ask Her forgiveness; he had begun to believe it had been granted. Yes, he was afraid, for the Lady’s wrath was a terrible thing, but the words stuck in his throat. He shook his head. You are lying. You are afraid of me. Regret colored Arion’s voice. I should not have told you that I was not a hrill. “I can tell the difference,” said Daro. There is nothing sacred about me, continued Arion. I eat, I sleep, I relieve myself like any another man, and I feel the same ache when I am shut away from the rest of the world. Daro bit back the urge to ask what it was like to be a talevé, to live in such luxury and lie with the Lady of the Waters. Even to think on that last part was blasphemy. Arion, however, seemed to read his curiosity even as Daro had read his. I cannot tell you about Her. I cannot make you understand, I do not have the words; I do not think even the priests have the words. But there are many talevé in many cities throughout the kingdom, and I am lost among them all. I love the Lady as you do, but I would leave the Blue House if I could, if it were allowed. “Where would you go?” I do not know. It does not matter anyway. I am not free to leave and there is no place I could go where I would not be recognized. Such talk unsettled Daro, for the emotion that emanated from Arion was something akin to that senu’i sometimes sensed in hrill who were about to beach themselves. He did not know what to say or how to respond, save to pour his whole being into a silent plea that Arion would not seek to make so bleak an end. Oh, I do not want to die, laughed Arion. I am just lonely, and bored. Arion could not stay but an hour. Always he bobbed nervously in the water, his head moving from side-to-side as if watching for the omnipresent priests. They waited for him on a beach farther along the coast, on the westernmost

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side of the city where the temple quarter faced the sea, he said, but he seemed wary of them nevertheless. They cannot refuse to let me out or I will eventually die or go mad, he explained. He rose up in the bobbing waves, presenting his head and part of his torso for Daro’s touch. Daro lingered over the sleek pelt, his fingers mapping the ki’iri’s firm musculature underneath, until Arion could no longer sustain the position and sank back into the water, launching himself away from the quay. Daro watched the swift movement, the dark shape slicing through the greengray water, until it vanished from sight. He moved to leave when an impatient clicking from below roused him. A trio of hrill, who wanted to speak with him. A storm was coming, they said, and they complained for the better part of an hour about how the choppy waves were driving away schools of their favorite fish. Going back to the cottage, Daro passed the news onto his grandfather then spent the day on the cottage roof clearing the rain gutters. He said little to Antáno or his aunt, giving the impression that talking to the hrill made his head ache. Senu’i were often known for being taciturn, so they did not trouble him. Arion was waiting for him the very next morning. As Daro bent to touch the proffered snout and neck, he asked, “How is it that you can come so often? I thought the priests didn’t want to let you out.” It is winter and the season of storms. The Lady’s restlessness makes us all restless. I tell the priests that the hrill in me must go out. It is not uncommon. There are several in the Blue House who are even now walking about in their ki’iri forms. Are you not pleased to see me? Daro pulled his hand back to the railing as Arion slid back into the water. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with the priests.”

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I do not care what they think. “But they would shut you away and I wouldn’t see you again.” The emotion that accompanied the clicking laughter was a lightness Daro had never experienced with hrill, a certain flirtatiousness he sometimes found among the neighborhood girls. So you enjoy my visits? He blushed furiously. “I…well, I couldn’t help but wonder what…what you’re like in the flesh. I-I mean, what do you really look like?” Ah, so you wish to see me, then, is that it, Daro? It was the first time Arion had spoken his name, and the sound had such a sensual quality to it that Daro was at once embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask. But it’s odd to talk to a creature you know is a man and not a hrill.” It is not possible. It takes so much of my strength to change shape that I could not shed my ki’iri skin for you and then take it up again for the priests. I would like to see you as well. A hrill’s senses are not those of a man. Not less, but…different. But even in a hrill’s flesh, I have the desires of a man. Daro burned with those words, and heard them echoing in his head for the rest of the day. In the middle of the night, he lay awake, staring at the shadowed rafters without seeing them. His mind replayed all that had been said, all he had felt or sensed from the ki’iri. And with a shiver, he understood something he had not grasped before, that the ki’iri did not merely want his company, he wanted him. Not in the way a changeling wanted its victim, but in a way he would want a maid. With a blush and a sudden tightness in his groin, he realized he wanted the same, to see with his own eyes the other’s impossible beauty. He wanted to see Arion as a man, and then… He flushed and clutched the blanket in his fist, wadding the wool in his frustration. Men don’t

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think about other men that way, they don’t. Besides, he belongs to the Lady. His body paid no heed to what his mind told him, and his heart saw no reason to stop his hand from crawling under the blanket, down his chest to linger over his nipples, then moving over his belly to his cock, already stiff and hot against his thigh. Closing his eyes, he pictured the sleek body moving through the waves, imagined the feel of the glossy pelt under his hands and the sound of Arion’s hrill voice saying his name. Even in a hrill’s flesh, I have the desires of a man. His hand was busy under the heavy wool, tracing the tip and underside of his cock until he could no longer stand the teasing and took himself firmly in hand. He was already close, his hips moving, his groin tightening toward release, and he bit down on his lip to stifle the moan rising in his throat. Antáno lay snoring not five feet away; he might wake to the sound as he had on other occasions. Even lost in the throes of his release, Daro had a ready lie, that there was a certain maid he desired. His grandfather had always been frank about such matters and simply would have chuckled and gone back to sleep; there would have been no shame save for the knowledge of the lie, that the thing that made him touch himself and come so hard was shameful. Afterward, he lay breathing hard, spent in both body and spirit. He felt the stickiness of his seed on his belly and hand, but made no effort to go fumbling in the dark for the wash basin or a cloth. The satiation of his body left no energy for movement, and all his being was now concentrated on the tears that streamed down his face onto the pillow, the emptiness that had taken the place of desire.

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Chapter Four “Boy, you are neglecting the hrill.” Startled, Daro looked up from his breakfast. “No, I do my duty,” he protested. “Didn’t I bring you word of that school of marlin?” Antáno lowered his spoon and gave him such a glare that it sent Daro’s aunt scurrying off. “Aye, you did that,” he growled, “after I snapped my fingers in your face to get your attention.” “I-I was distracted, that’s all.” “Aye, you certainly have been distracted, boy. I talk to the hrill, too, in case you’d forgotten, and they tell me you spend all morning ignoring them and talking to some creature that looks like a hrill but most assuredly isn’t.” Trembling, Daro looked away, at his lap, at the porridge in his bowl. This was usually the time when he came clean about whatever it was that angered his grandfather, but now the words stuck in his throat. I can’t tell him the truth, that it’s a ki’iri and that I want him. He took a deep breath and put on the best shocked face he could manage. “It’s not a hrill?” he sputtered. “But it…it told me it was.” His grandfather gave him a curious look, but did not call him on the obvious lie. “It’s some changeling, no doubt. I’ve seen such creatures in the harbor before, and there’s no luck to be had from them.” “I-I didn’t know. It looked like a hrill.” Antáno made a harrumphing noise. “You just stay away from it and keep to the hrill you know.”

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Daro mumbled his agreement and bent his head to his breakfast once more, though he could not manage more than two bites with Antáno looking on the way he was. Once a suitable interval passed, he excused himself, put on his sealskin coat and went out into the chilly morning air. Yes, he had been wrong to neglect the hrill as he had been doing, and that alone was enough to shame him. Taking a deep breath to clear the tremors, he walked across the beach to the quay, telling himself that if the hrill appeared this morning he would apologize to them. The waters were empty, until a silvery-sable head broke the surface and his heart plummeted. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward to stroke Arion’s face and throat, speaking words of greeting in the hope of hearing the ki’iri say his name. Even as his fingers ran over the wet, glossy pelt, a small voice in his head warned him that he should not be doing this. Even if his grandfather did not catch him, the hrill would most definitely notice and tell Antáno that his grandson was still speaking to the strange creature. But his heart was reluctant to obey that voice. How can I tell him that he must go, that it’s forbidden and wrong, when I don’t want to? How can I hurt him more than he’s already been? What is wrong, Daro? “Nothing,” he lied. Do not lie to me. You are sad about something. Will you not tell me what it is? “I-I have been neglecting—” Before he could get the words out, a shout rang out behind him, to the accompaniment of booted feet thudding furiously across the wooden quay. “Be gone, changeling!” Daro turned in terror to see Antáno wielding a crossbow. The bolt was drawn back and cocked, and the old man was lifting it to fire even as he surged forward. “No!” At the last moment, Daro flung himself onto his grandfather, and the arrow went astray into the water. He wanted to turn, to see if there was any red in the water, if 25

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Arion had been injured, but he could not. Antáno flung aside the crossbow and seized him by the arms in a bruising grip as he hauled him bodily off the quay and onto the beach. “You’re possessed by that thing, boy!” his grandfather roared in his face. “That changeling’s got hold of you!” “It’s not a changeling!” he shrieked back. He was sobbing as he struggled, and none of his tears were from the pain or the humiliation of being dragged like a wayward child. “It’s one of the Lady’s servants!” Antáno’s grip loosened slightly. “Eh? What do you mean it’s not a changeling? Speak up, boy!” The first tremors of fear made his voice quaver. Daro wrenched himself free and shoved his grandfather away. “It’s not a changeling!” he screamed. “You tried to kill a ki’iri! He’s one of the Lady’s lovers!” His grandfather’s face lost all color. Shaking his head in disbelief, his mouth dropped open, and suddenly Antáno’s legs could no longer support him. He slumped to his knees, clawing at the pebbled sand and curling over into a sob that wracked his entire body. His lips moved soundlessly, agonizing over what he had just done. Daro turned away from him, running back to the edge of the quay. A smear of red clouded the water. Oh, no…no… Gasping, gripping the rail, he started to throw himself over after the sunken body, but at the last moment he stopped, threw back his head and uttered an ululating cry that drew scores of hrill from throughout the harbor. All at once, they clamored below him, whistling and clicking in their native tongue, pressing against his mind in bewilderment, and all he could do as they overwhelmed him was focus on the image of a hrill corpse sinking in a murky cloud of blood. Fed by this image and its urgency, they ducked back under the water as he clutched the edge of the quay. He

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was still sobbing, gulping air into his aching lungs. He could no longer stand, but let his knees fold under him until he sagged against the planks like a dying man. Lying with his cheek to the weathered wood, aware of only the crashing surf, the distant mewling of gulls and his own heartache, he barely heard when the hrill resurfaced to tell him there was no sign of the creature.

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Chapter Five “Lad, when are you going to open your eyes and talk to me, eh? You can’t lie there forever.” The words came to him through a thick haze, floating past him without his acknowledgement, as all other words had. He knew his grandfather was speaking to him, nudging him with hands that tried to be gentle, yet so distant was he that Antáno might have been murmuring to and stroking the shoulder of another. His last clear memory, when he cared to revisit it, was of his grandfather standing over him, prying him from the railing and carrying him back to the cottage. There was a dim, half-remembered image of his aunt bending over him with a cool cloth and a cup of something hot that he refused to drink, but beyond this all other words and forms receded into the shadows and time lost its shape. Antáno sat on a stool beside his bed, twisting his leather cap in both hands. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t know,” he mumbled. He waited a few moments for Daro to answer, or to at least turn his face away from the wall, but when he realized his grandson would not respond, he continued, “I-I went up to the House of the Water today. Not one of the shrines, but the Lady’s House proper, and took some coin and a good seabird, the best I could get. I told the priests what happened and I gave them the offering.” He was shaking so hard he could scarcely get the words out. “They were…they were angry, but I paid the fine and then…well, then one of them took me aside and

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said the talevé wasn’t dead.” Those words cut through Daro’s haze, enough that he stirred and turned slightly on his side. “He’s not dead?” he whispered. Speaking took more effort than he could manage. Antáno hung his head. “For all my foolish efforts, he’s not. Just injured, the priest said, but he wouldn’t tell me more. It wasn’t proper, he said, and sent me on my way.” Closing his eyes, Daro sank back into welcome lassitude. Arion was injured, yes, but he lived. His heart should have rejoiced at the news, yet where his heart was there was only an aching void. Dead or alive, it did not matter anymore. He would never see Arion again. A hand closed on his shoulder, a solid weight silently urging him to turn around. When he did not, he heard the creak of a chair, then felt the sagging of his mattress as his grandfather sat next to him. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you, and not even seeing him in the flesh?” There was no condemnation in Antáno’s voice, or harshness in the hand that brushed his tangled hair away from his face. “Did you know his name?” “Arion,” Daro whispered. Hearing the name spoken aloud hurt more than he thought it would. He swallowed hard, wishing he had lied and said he did not know. Antáno patted his hand where it peeped out from beneath the blanket. “I don’t blame you for that, lad,” he said. “I…well, that is to say, it’s a shameful thing, aye, and I’d be angry if it wasn’t a talevé, but I know what they can do to a good man’s senses. I once did as you did. Fell in love with one, I mean.” Daro opened his eyes and looked up at his grandfather. He was not certain what he had heard, or if he had heard it at all. Antáno took his grandson’s unfocused gaze for interest and continued, nervously chewing his lip as he did so. “Not one, really, but all of them, I’d say. And that’s a

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hard thing to say, lad, knowing as how folks wouldn’t approve. I saw them on one of the holy days, when the priests bring them out to visit the shrines. I was maybe a bit older than you, and newly married to your grandmother, and I was as happy as a married man could be. “Now I’d never seen much of the parades and that sort of thing—you know how I think they’re a waste of time—but there I was in the crowd that day, just there watching, and along come the priests in their robes with their banners and behind them… I’d never seen anything like those young men. Never seen anything that beautiful, and before I knew it, well, I’d be embarrassed to tell except to say I’d’ve taken any one of them if they’d offered.” He gazed at the floor, wringing his leather cap in both hands and breathing hard. “I went home and that night, with your grandmother in my arms and us making love, all I could think about was them. Of course, I loved your grandmother, but I don’t know what came over me. I’d heard whispers that it wasn’t unusual to want to…well, to want a talevé in that way, even if you were a man. That’s why they’re kept locked up in the Blue House, I suppose.” Daro understood his grandfather was making amends in the best way he knew how, and that he was wrong not to respond, but he was too far removed from himself for empathy. “Lad,” Antáno said, “if I’d known what he was, I never would’ve done what I did, and not just because it’s forbidden to harm a ki’iri. I’d’ve let you be.” But it would not have mattered in the end, save that Arion had left him sooner rather than later. It was foolish from the beginning. I shouldn’t have spoken to him at all, except I couldn’t help it. After a few moments, Antáno gave up waiting for a response and patted his grandson’s hand before covering it with the edge of the blanket. “When you’re feeling

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better, lad, and I’ve enough coin saved, I’ll take you to The Red Apple. There’s some nice girls there, clean and sweet as you’d want them, and then maybe next year I’ll see about finding you a wife. Maybe that’s what you need: a good, pretty young wife to make you forget your troubles. Aye, I’ll ask around and see what I can find you and you just forget about this business. It’s for the best, lad, it is.” Once his grandfather withdrew, he slept again, but rest did not come as easily as it had before. No longer could he escape the images of blood clouding the sea, only now he was naked in the water with the misfired arrow piercing his heart and he was drowning…. He woke damp and shivering, blinking at the watery light that filled the window slats. Clutching at the sheets to pull them up and shut out the morning glare, he realized they were soaking wet. His hand dropped to the mattress, feeling wetness all around him, in the straw, on his skin and in his hair. He ached all over, and was too exhausted to do more than ignore the chills that wracked him, though he knew that he could not continue to lie amidst the wet bedding. Nausea gripped him and made him lurch sideways as he tried to get up; he clutched at the bedpost for support. He stumbled forward a few feet, reaching for the dry cloth on the chair; he would have to put on dry clothes and when his stomach settled enough and he had mustered enough energy to move, take the wet bedding out to hang by the hearth. The scrape of house slippers on the wooden floor told him his aunt had come in with his breakfast. He did not think he could stomach the taste of food. “Oh, lad, you’re—” Her cheery greeting suddenly became the sound of shattering crockery. Daro looked up just in time to see her clap a hand over her mouth and flee the room. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the

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words never came. Another wave of nausea left him speechless. Shivering, he slumped to the floor beside the chair and dragged the cloth off the back to cover his nakedness and warm himself. The next thing he heard, above his own heartbeat and ragged breathing, were footfalls by the door. Light streamed in as the curtained partition was pulled aside and his grandfather came storming in. “Now stop your whimpering, woman, and tell me— oh, merciful Lady!” Daro, doubled over and shivering, read enough into Antáno’s gasp to be frightened. “What’s…wrong, t-tell me….” “It’s surely some sign if ever I’ve seen one.” A heavy blanket fell around his shoulders and he was being lifted, not into his own bed but into his grandfather’s where it was dry. Fingers combed through his damp tangles. “Woman, bring me a mirror and be quick about it.” “I-I don’t feel well,” Daro gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his aunt fumbling about in a drawer. “Hold on there, your aunt will get you something to warm you.” Then Antáno was turning him, carefully propping him up against his shoulder so he could see himself in the little hand mirror. Focused on the glass Antáno held up for him, he started at the pale haired stranger whose red-rimmed eyes stared back at him. With a shaking hand, he pulled forward a strand of his hair, whimpering in terror and disbelief when he saw that what had been dark brown had somehow turned white. “It’s all right, lad,” his grandfather was saying. “I’ll go get one of the priests. I’ll—” Daro did not hear him. Wrenching his eyes away from the mirror, he looked toward his bed where his aunt had begun stripping the soaked linens. White as the foam on the Lady’s breast, and Hers forever. But if She had come to him,

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he did not remember it, did not know anything but terror and the hot ache that made him shiver until his teeth rattled. He did not think a talevé was supposed to be this sick. And somewhere beyond the fever and chills was the realization that he would have to leave, that the priests would come and lock him away among strangers, and that he would never again have the freedom to walk among ordinary men. He grasped at Arion’s name, seeking comfort from the thought that he might at last be able to see the one he loved, but in the same breath memories of Arion’s loneliness came to him, and the fear of it crashed against him in a surge of nausea. “Easy, lad,” Antáno was saying. “Now let’s put you to bed and get you some—” Before he could finish, Daro pulled away from him, leaned over and vomited.

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Chapter Six Daro was awake when the priest came to the house. Leaving him in the care of his aunt, his grandfather made haste to the House of the Water and two hours later brought back a dour priest who peered once through the curtain but was disinclined to hear anything Antáno had to say. Daro lay shivering under the covers, wishing his aunt would draw the curtain closed so he would not have to listen to them arguing over him. Antáno urged the priest to look in on his grandson; the other man, his voice thick with scorn, refused. Daro’s head ached too much for him to follow all that was said, but it seemed the priest did not believe the Lady had visited him during the night. He heard the word fraud, then heard his grandfather roar his outrage. A door slammed, a stool was flung hard across the room, and Antáno bellowed for his daughter to bring him a drink. After a while, after his temper subsided and he remembered his sick grandson lying in the sleeping cubicle, Antáno’s voice softened and he asked if Daro was any better. A moment later, the curtain parted and he entered, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Well, I suppose you heard that, lad. The old fart doesn’t believe me, of course. Says I’m just stirring more trouble, trying to get in their favor by having you pretend all this, and he won’t even go to the trouble of looking at you. Doesn’t want the plague, he says, or whatever else you have that he doesn’t want to catch. Ah, well, piss on him.” Antáno felt his forehead, then reached for the cool

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rag Daro’s aunt had left at the bedside. “There’s no saying that I’ve not made plenty of trouble. If I hadn’t been such a fool they might have believed me. I’m sorry, lad, I am.” Daro did not care what the priests said or thought. He drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to keep down more than a spoonful of broth at a time. Sometimes he heard Antáno wondering aloud why he was so ill, and urging his daughter to try some other remedy. In his more lucid moments, Daro was frightened by the change that had come over him. He did not want to see his reflection in the little mirror, for it was no longer his reflection, and he did not feel particularly relieved when his aunt sat by him and murmured that he must have pleased the Lady very greatly to be so honored. From the common room, Antano overheard and snorted. “Hmmph! Pleased the Lady, eh? Oh, pleased Her so much, he did, that Her priests won’t even take him. They won’t even look at him. Ah, but it’s all right, lad, you don’t need those pissheads fawning all over you. You’ll stay here with your own people and talk to the hrill like you always do. They’re Her creatures, just as you are, and maybe that’s what She wants for you, eh?” Slowly, Daro began to mend, shakily rising from his bed to attend to small duties about the house, but he was reluctant to leave the cottage. People would look strangely on him; even now, his aunt and grandfather did not look at him as they once had. Although his grandfather had not repeated his conversation with the priest to him, Daro understood what the position of the House of the Water was. They regarded him as one of the many fraudulent talevé who approached the priests each year hoping to dissemble their way into the comforts of the Blue House. People had only to look at him and see that he was still living in his grandfather’s household to know the priests had rejected him; they would accuse him of fraud or worse wherever he appeared.

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He asked his aunt if perhaps she had something with which he could color his hair and eyebrows, but she only looked at him and shook her head. She had no such dyes and was horrified at the suggestion that he would want to disguise the marks of the Lady’s favor. For once, Antáno agreed with his daughter. “What’s the matter with you, lad? You’ve not done anything wrong, why should you hide yourself? It’s those idiot priests that ought to be ashamed. You’ve been honored by Her and you’re not going to hide it.” Daro was beginning to weary of his grandfather’s grumbling. He felt like shouting back that he did not want to be so honored. Instead of anger, apathy took him. His desire had been foolish and he had been punished for it in the most terrible fashion. Now he left the house only out of necessity, visiting neighbors and going to the market when Antáno demanded it, but never alone; he would only go in his grandfather’s company, even though it meant listening to Antáno publicly fume over the injustice done to his family by the priests. Daro had nothing to say in his own defense. He was content to let his grandfather speak for him, though he would have preferred that Antáno not say anything at all. Shame made him hold his tongue; to have answered the questions his neighbors flung at him would have been to admit he did not remember the Lady’s touch, and that he had fallen in love with one who, even though he was a talevé, was still another male. It was as he expected, and worse. Some did not believe the priests would have turned away a genuine talevé and still others wanted to touch him, to run their fingers through his hair to see for themselves that it truly was the marvel they called the Lady’s bridal veil. They had never been so close to a talevé, they said, their honeyed

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voices suggesting they wanted to do more than merely satisfy their curiosity. At such times, Daro wanted to snap at them that he was not an object to be pawed and passed about, and that the women in particular had no business putting their hands on him when it was expressly forbidden. Instead, he murmured some polite excuse and left. He returned to his duties among the hrill out of desperation, finding in the work a solace that he had not known before. Hrill did not recognize a senu based on his appearance and paid no attention to physical beauty or defects; they knew only his scent and the touch of his mind, which had, they said, changed subtly while he was away. They understood he had been ill, but of deities and priests and the petty lusts and suspicions of human beings, they knew nothing. His transformation brought mixed blessings. While he took to hiding his white hair under one of his grandfather’s leather caps, he reveled in the newfound clarity with which he could hear and sense the hrill, to the point where he was amazed that he had been able to perform his job before; he felt like a man who, once deaf and blind, had suddenly had his senses restored to him. There was no more of the exhaustion or headaches his work typically brought on. Because of this, he was able to spend far more time with the hrill than a senu usually did, which delighted them and eased his spirits. Sometimes he caught himself looking out to sea, his gaze crossing the bay to the heights where the House of the Water with its gardens and attendant outbuildings overlooked the sea, or out to deeper waters in the thin hope that one of the dark bodies that swam toward him was Arion. His thoughts drifted, recalling the ki’iri’s visits, wishing there could have been more, until the hrill butted against him or clicked in protest that he was ignoring them.

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Antáno watched him, sometimes opening his mouth as if to ask why his grandson was so distant and forlorn when he returned from the beach, but always bit back whatever question was on his lips.

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Chapter Seven Winter began to turn toward spring. Antáno still spoke sometimes of finding Daro a bride, but it was a dead hope and they both knew it. Whether the priests acknowledged him or not, whether the Lady wanted him or not, a talevé belonged solely to Her. No mortal woman would risk tempting Her wrath by lying with him now. “It was all so simple,” Antáno said. “When your father died, it was as simple as raising you as my own, and then when you were old enough and showed the senu gift, well, I knew I’d have somebody to pass the trade to. And I’d been hoping you’d have a wife of your own and little ones, and that one of them would have the gift, too. But now—” He contemplated his ale with heavy eyes before drinking. “Now I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Daro, who had no answer to give, remained silent by the hearth. His world had narrowed, encompassing only the cottage, beach and quay; he no longer went to the market and he retreated to the back room whenever visitors came for his grandfather. Sometimes he peered out at them through the partition curtain, noting how their eyes roamed the house in search of him. Once, when Endine visited with his son, Seril’s questing gaze caught him. The young man’s face changed, his eyes hardening with lust. Catching his breath in terror, Daro abruptly wrenched the curtain into place and retreated; he heard Endine snap at his son to pay attention, but in his mind’s eye Seril’s eyes were still following him.

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The next day, a pair of hands seized him unseen and dragged him behind the woodshed. Daro struggled to see who it was, but he was crushed close against another body. Rough fingers tore away his leather cap and entangled themselves in his hair to wrench his head up, and a hard mouth pressed against his before he could cry out. The hand that was not grasping his hair fumbled at his tunic, wrenching away the cord he used as a belt and groping at his chest. Harsh fingers pinched his nipples. “That’s it,” breathed a man’s voice. “You know you like this.” Seril! Before Daro could protest, a tongue thrust into his mouth, wanting to taste him, and the pinching, prodding fingers reached down to squeeze his buttocks and, coming around to his front, seized his hand and pressed it against the hard bulge that was digging into his thigh. At the feel of the other man’s erection, Daro stopped caring about the pain in his scalp. He bit down on the tongue in his mouth, tasting blood even as he kicked out and felt his boot strike Seril’s shin. With a cry of pain, Seril released him, shoving him back so hard that he stumbled. He seized hold of a post before he could fall and steadied himself in the same breath that he snatched a piece of wood off the pile and brandished it before him as a weapon. Furious eyes met his. Gasping in pain, Seril shook his head as though coming out of a trance, and spat out a mouthful of blood. “You unnatural thing!” he growled. He stared at the blood on his hands, then at the cord he still held and Daro’s rumpled clothing; he let the cord drop. “What have you done to me?” Holding the wood out before him in warning, Daro hissed, “Don’t touch me again.” “They should lock you away or kill you,” said Seril.

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Blood streamed down his chin, running down his neck to saturate the collar of his tunic, and tears of pain stood out in his eyes. Clutching a hand to his mouth, he turned and stumbled away. Daro stayed frozen in place long after he left, unable to face his aunt or anyone else in his shame. And he did not know that his attacker was truly gone. Seril could return and seize him as he had done before, or bring others to do to him what he had tried to do alone. The thought of others forcing him drove Daro into a panic that told him the only safety was behind a locked door. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers from the piece of wood in his hand and straightened his clothing. He took a deep breath before cautiously edging his way out from behind the woodshed, where no one was waiting to ambush him, and went inside. As he feared, his aunt all but pounced on him with a cheery countenance. “You’re back so early! Now, you’ve not been taxing yourself, have you? You know what your grandfather said about that.” Daro, fearing to say too much, shook his head and told her that it was only a senu’s headache. “I thought you didn’t get those anymore, dear. Do you want some tea?” He waved away the offer and moved past her toward his cubicle, where he promptly drew the curtain and curled up in a corner of the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest as he used to do when he was a child. With both hands, he covered his face and wondered what terrible thing he had become that he could drive another into such a frenzy of lust. And to think I wanted Arion to touch me like that, to put his hands on me and… He could no longer picture it without revulsion, could not get Seril’s taste out of his mouth or the feel of those hands pulling his hair, grasping between his legs and wanting him to do the same.

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Curling even more tightly into himself, he tried to hold back his tears. He told himself he would not cry, that he was too old to cry and had not done anything that deserved tears, but still they came. Perhaps Seril’s right and I am a changeling, or something else unnatural and terrible. Perhaps I should be locked up or killed, just as he says. His aunt, peeking in through the curtain, saw him weeping. “Oh, now, lad, what’s the matter? Does your head hurt that bad? You’re just like your grandfather, too much of a man to say so.” He heard her come around to his side of the bed and felt her weight as she sat down on the edge of the mattress beside him. Gentle hands stroked his hair as she had done when he was little, then froze as they traced the throbbing patches of his scalp. “Who did this to you?” she asked coldly. He shook his head and refused to answer, but she persisted. “Who attacked you, lad? Daro, if you won’t tell me, then when your grandfather comes home you—” “Leave me alone,” he groaned, shaking off her probing hands. “Please, you’re not even supposed to touch me. She withdrew her hand but did not leave. “Daro, did they try to—?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, as if fearing to say the word aloud. A finger hovered near his mouth, not quite touching him. “There’s blood on your mouth. Did they—?” “It’s not mine,” he said. “Please, leave me alone.” He struggled to hold his emotions in check, but if she did not stop hovering over him he knew he would burst. Reluctantly, she withdrew and closed the curtain, yet he felt her constant presence nearby, worrying at him. An hour passed, then Antáno came home, and Daro knew it was he even before his familiar footfalls crossed the threshold from the way his aunt flew to the door and opened it. Snatches of her frantic conversation reached his ears, including the word he dreaded. Someone had raped

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him, she said. Daro put his face in his hands and groaned. No, that’s not true! he wanted to shout. His grandfather had a ready answer. “Yes, I already know what happened. It was Endine’s brat, and no, Seril didn’t force him. Tried to, is more like it. The fool boy’s tongue is nearly bitten in two, and he won’t say as to how it got that way except to mutter on about some unnatural creature. I don’t need to hear the rest of it.” Antano drew back the curtain and quietly sat down beside him. Fingers probed his scalp, pulling back when Daro winced. “He pulled some of it out, the bastard, but it’ll heal.” “He…he didn’t,” Daro croaked. “No, I know he didn’t. That’s just your worrisome aunt talking,” said Antáno. “You gave better than you got. He’ll think twice about laying a hand on you again, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t worry. People have been muttering, you know they have, and now this happens. He can’t hide what he tried to do, but already he’s going around telling anybody who’ll listen that you drove him to it, that you’re a changeling who drives men mad with unnatural lust. It’s not your fault, lad, it’s not, but some of them are going to pay heed to that fool.” Paralyzed by fear and shame, Daro could do no more than listen. Whatever his fate was, it would be terrible, and death was the least of it. Had there been anything in his stomach, he would have retched at the thought of Seril laying hands on him again. Antano saw him bite his lip. “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing while that boy gathers a mob. There’re other Blue Houses in other cities, and other priests. If the idiots here don’t have the sense to take you, I’ll find somebody who will.” Daro did not tell him that he did not want to go to another city, or be parted from the sea. He did not want to be locked away with no hope of ever seeing Arion again;

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until now, there had always been that thin hope. I asked Her to forgive me. I didn’t mean to want one of Her lovers, to think of him like that, but… For a time, he had thought he was forgiven, yet understood now that what seemed like a gift could just as easily become a curse when no one else acknowledged it. I would rather die than be driven away, he thought, but did not have the heart to tell his grandfather. Antáno had no other hope for him; he could not inflict upon him the pain of watching others slaughter him for a changeling. Numbly, he nodded his agreement. “Good lad,” said Antáno, stroking his hair. “I’ll start asking first thing tomorrow. Until then, you don’t go out except to see the hrill, and if it gets ugly then you don’t go out at all.” Drawing a blanket over him, his grandfather got up and pulled the curtain closed behind him. Daro lay quietly for a time, silent tears running down his face as he watched the shadows grow close in the room. Afternoon had turned toward sunset when he got up again. His aunt saw him emerge from the cubicle and smiled, offering him tea, which he refused. Antáno was nowhere in sight, but outside he heard the knock of an axe against wood and knew his grandfather was splitting kindling for the hearth. “Well, lad,” his aunt said, “if you don’t want tea, would you like a bit of something to eat? You’ve not been eating enough.” He shook his head as he went to sit on the bench by the window. It was slightly open, carrying the sharp chill of spring into the house. Reaching up, he moved to close the pane and fasten the latch, pausing when the breeze suddenly carried to him the sound and scent of hrill. “You want to go out, lad?” He had not seen his grandfather enter the house under an armload of kindling.

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“I sense hrill out there, but you be careful. High tide will come soon and you don’t know what else is lurking.” Daro stepped outside. Already the sun was low on the horizon, gilding the waters of the bay. Pebbles scraped against his shoes as he took the familiar path down to the quay and then stopped. The breeze stirred his hair and stung a face stiff with dried tears. A terrible sadness seized him, overflowing and shattering the bonds of his apathy. He had known love, and then it had turned back on him and cursed him nine fold. If he lived, if anyone ever looked at him with desire again, it would be with the kind of lust that cared nothing about his spirit. The hrill were calling to him, and somewhere past their clicks and squeals he sensed the music of the depths that cradled both life and death. Men drew their livelihood from the sea and were offered up to it when they died. Throwing back his head, he returned the call of the sea with a shriek that was not the cry with which he called the hrill but a formless utterance of anguish. And then, driven by some madness, by a mindless need he did not understand, he was sprinting forward, tearing at his clothing, flinging the shreds behind him. Below, the hrill whistled in distress. He gave the dark shapes bobbing in the water only a cursory glance as he clambered over the railing and flung himself into the cold, pungent embrace of the sea. He did not see his grandfather racing to the edge of the quay, breathlessly clutching the torn clothes to him as he looked out to sea for a body that did not surface.

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Chapter Eight Muffled in cloaks and blankets, carried between several people, Daro found land again in the form of a rough mattress. He felt the straw ticking jab his skin, then callused fingers prying open his jaw to pour liquid down his throat. He choked and retched on the burning, bitter spirits, deaf to the consoling noises above him as he lost consciousness once more. Opening his eyes to weak candlelight, he saw strange faces shrouded in blue hovering over him. Someone was examining him, prodding him and turning him this way and that until he moaned. Murmuring greeted the sound and the hands withdrew. One blue figure, a beardless middle-aged man, bent to his ear and asked his name. He did not remember giving it. His hands fumbled weakly at the mattress, but instead of rough straw or sea grass a cloud of silk and air supported his body. Bewilderment was swiftly smothered by apathy; he was exhausted and empty, not caring where he lay even as he mumbled for his grandfather and was told he would not be permitted to see anyone except priests, servants or other talevé. Apathy did not recognize titles, or wonder at the strangely androgynous servants who wiped his brow with a cool cloth. A pair of white-haired figures hovered in the doorway like ghosts, until a gesture and a word dispersed them. “You have been ill a long time,” said a voice. Opening his eyes, Daro realized with some amazement that he did

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not recognize the room in which he lay, and that it was more richly appointed than anyplace he had ever been. Slowly turning his head to the side, he saw the beardless man again. His lips were moving; it took Daro a moment to realize that sound and movement were connected and that the priest sitting beside him was talking to him, picking up the thread of speech as if Daro had been listening the entire time, “This is not uncommon when talevé manifest their ki’iri gift for the first time.” Daro heard the words but did not comprehend them. Seeing this, the priest bent forward and lifted a finger before Daro’s eyes, moving it slightly back and forth to measure how Daro’s eyes followed it. He seemed pleased. “You are awake and somewhat attentive,” he said. “That is a good sign for one who has been neglected for so long. You were not at all trained in the use of your gift. The results could have been disastrous, but we will not speak of that now.” Daro blinked to show his alertness, yet did not speak. His throat felt dry from disuse. “My name is Aglarin,” said the priest. “I am the ki’iri master, the one who trains the talevé in the use of their gift. You will be seeing much more of me in the weeks and months to come.” At last, Daro found his voice. “What did I do?” Aglarin lifted a questioning eyebrow. “You do not remember? You transformed yourself into a hrill, and somehow managed to get yourself out of that form as well. Beyond that, I cannot say what you did.” The priest gave him a moment to absorb this information before speaking again. “I have heard something about you, young man. You are the one whose grandfather has kept insisting is a genuine talevé. It is now quite obvious that you are.”

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“You did not believe my grandfather before,” Daro said. Despite his weakness, his voice managed to convey some of his bitterness. “Why do you believe him now?” “Because five witnesses saw a hrill beach itself and turn into a man before their eyes. One of them was a senu.” “My grandfather is a senu.” Aglarin had the decency to look apologetic. “Yes, I know. All I can say is that if I had answered the summons in place of Elhan, perhaps this would not have happened. But no matter now, you are here and you are safe, and I will educate you in the further use of your gifts.” A tall, white-haired young man came in with a tray of food that he set down on the table beside the bed. His gaze lingered on Daro for a moment before he gave a little smile, bowed and left the room. Daro gave a little start. “Who was that? I’ve never seen a talevé so close.” “That was Olveru. He assists the healers sometimes, so you will see him again shortly,” answered Aglarin. “There are sixteen talevé residing here in the Blue House, but you will not meet the others until you are well enough. For now, you are to stay here and rest.” Once the priest left, gently closing the door behind him, Daro was content to remain bundled under the soft bedcovers and let his gaze drift about the room. It was easily five times the size of his cubicle in his grandfather’s cottage. The walls were freshly whitewashed and hung with tapestries, while his bed was hung with heavy velvet curtains. A fireplace poured warmth into the room, and carpets insulated the floor. By the window, cushions were strewn atop a long chest intended to hold clothing and linens. His window faced west, and he marveled at the luxury of real glass as he watched the sunset turn the diamond-cut panes to molten red and gold. As the growing twilight cast long shadows across the room, he

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heard from below the subtle evening noises of the Blue House. His gaze passed over the tray of food Olveru had left for him; he was not hungry enough to see what the covered dishes contained. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off into slumber once more. Dreams came to him, tempting him with the shadowdark depths of the sea where other bodies like his own came swimming toward him; they regarded him with recognition and bewilderment, for the shape he wore was not the one they had known, yet they swam with him for a time, showing him the best places to find food. He darted with them into a school of fish, opening his mouth to let the teeming bodies pour down his throat, listening to the clicks of delight all around him. And then, exhaustion pulled him toward land, through the crashing surf onto the wet sand where he lay too boneless even to cover his own nakedness.

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Chapter Nine Arion is here, he must be. Daro turned the thought over in his mind, wondering at his lack of excitement. What he had wanted for so long was near, perhaps as close as the next room, and yet he was dead to anticipation. There was still the matter of Arion’s near-fatal encounter with Antáno’s crossbow. That Arion had not come to see him suggested to Daro that he might not want anything more to do with the young senu who had nearly been the cause of his death. Such thoughts poisoned Daro’s mood. If he turns me away, what will I do then? I can’t live the rest of my life with him hating me. Aglarin misconstrued his sadness as longing for the family and life he had left behind. “Your homesickness will pass,” he said consolingly. “I will send word to your grandfather that you are well. From what you have told me, no doubt he has been worried about you.” At twilight, after the evening meal, the priest returned to him. A troubled look creased his brow. “You did not tell us how others treated you in your time outside the Blue House,” he said sternly. “You certainly did not tell us you had been attacked.” Daro caught his breath at the reference to Seril, whom he had nearly forgotten. The humiliation that came with recollection made him bite his lip. “It is nothing,” he croaked. “To lay violent hands upon a talevé is death, to rape him or attempt to do so is death. That is the law,” said

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Aglarin. “The young man was seized by guards of the temple this afternoon and is now in custody.” Blasphemers who actively defiled the property or images of the gods could be put to death, usually in a manner befitting the god they had insulted. Those who offended Min were thrown from a cliff, while those who committed crimes against the Lady of the Waters were weighted, taken onto the open sea and drowned, but Daro had never considered Seril’s actions an act of blasphemy. The thought had not even occurred to him until this moment. “We know what he did,” continued Aglarin. “Your grandfather has told us as much and the young man has admitted it, though he seems to have little recollection of the incident. Why did you not say anything? You have the right to bring charges against him.” Trembling slightly, Daro turned his gaze out the window, which afforded him a view of the House of the Water’s rooftop, the blue haze of the sea and the white cliffs curving into the distance. “It wasn’t his fault,” he said. “I hate what he did, but it wasn’t his fault. He’s not the kind who…who likes males that way. He didn’t know what he was doing. He said I must be a changeling to do that to him. After all, if you wouldn’t take me, then I must have been a changeling. How was he to know any better?” As much as Aglarin sympathized with him, he informed Daro that the law of the temple must be obeyed. He ended by telling Daro that once he was well enough, he would be taught his letters and educated in the laws and customs of the temple. He would learn the etiquette and other refinements expected of a talevé, which included dropping all contractions and all other colloquial forms from his speech. “The other priests will tell you that talevé do not speak like commoners, even if they were born as such.”

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“I’m not ashamed of the way I speak,” Daro said stiffly. “You do this to please the Lady.” “If I didn’t already please the Lady, I wouldn’t be here.” Aglarin paused then conceded the point with a smile. “Yes, that is true. Still, talevé are considered nobility, and as such they must behave accordingly. Some become priests, and priests are not allowed to speak like peasants.” “I already know how to read and write,” said Daro, though he did not add that his abilities were rather limited. He knew how to write his name and read such documents as one might find on the waterfront; he had never had need for more. One look from Aglarin told him the priest saw through his answer. “I have nothing to do with tutoring you in that art; you will have to debate the issue with those who do. However, in the matter of your ki’iri training, you did not tell me you were also a senu. This would explain why you were able to take hrill form so easily; you had studied them a very long time and knew their ways intimately.” “When will I be able to see them again?” “Do you have a need to go out? It is rather soon for the hrill spirit to call to you again.” Daro shook his head. “No, I don’t need to change. It’s just that I’m used to getting up everyday and going to talk to the hrill. It feels strange not to.” Aglarin nodded and stroked his chin. “A talevé who is also a senu is a very rare thing; that you are also a hrill is considered a threefold blessing. Now normally a talevé is not permitted to continue the trade he practiced before coming here, but a senu is also one of the Lady’s servants. I will look into the possibility of your continuing that work, but you must be obedient and attend to your lessons,” he

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said. He winked, then added, “Even those you do not believe you require.” A day later, Daro was able to get up and leave his room for the first time. Olveru showed him the bathing room and lavatory down the corridor, and helped him to dress in the clothing the servants brought. Of fine wool and linen, the tunic, leggings and light robe were of better make than even his holy day clothes, although the shoes were borrowed and did not quite fit. “These clothes are too good for me,” Daro protested. Olveru assured him that what he wore was everyday attire in the Blue House. As for ceremonial clothing, someone would come to take his measurements for robes. A cobbler and a jeweler would also be summoned. A servant brought in two basins of water; one was set on the washstand, the other on a table by the window. Daro’s eyes followed the man, but waited until he was gone to comment. “They’re very strange, the servants.” “They are eunuchs,” Olveru explained, “brought here from the slave markets of Tajhaan in the east. Of course, we do not keep them as slaves. They are honored members of our household.” Daro did not know what a eunuch was until Olveru told him. The answer horrified him, even when the other talevé clarified the matter. “We do not do that to them; they come to us already castrated. Women are forbidden to serve in the Blue House. Those who prepare our food and launder our clothing are men, but even they find it difficult to bear our presence sometimes. Eunuchs are the only kind of men who could serve us without being affected. They are gentle creatures. You will soon get used to them.” As Daro dressed, two other talevé peered through the doorway, wanting to be introduced; neither of them was Arion. Daro bit his lip in the presence of these beautiful, inquisitive creatures who fussed over him and asked more questions than he wished to answer. He wanted to ask

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about Arion, yet fell silent before he could pluck up his courage. He doesn’t want to see me. That could be the only explanation for Arion’s continued absence. The healers judged he was not yet strong enough to go downstairs to take his meals in the communal dining hall or to join in the daily exercises, so Daro was confined to the upper floor. This left him with little to do, for most of the activity of the House took place on the lower level. Some of the eunuchs went from room to room, bundling dirty linens and clothing for laundering. Daro offered to help them, but at once they backed away from him with short, nervous bows and would not continue until he left. He spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of profound boredom that was slightly relieved by the arrival of a cobbler. Measurements were taken for soft leather house slippers as well as sturdier shoes for outdoor wear; the former would be ready and delivered to him within two days. That evening, as he took supper by the open window, the sounds of a row broke the twilight stillness. An angry male voice drifted toward him from somewhere within the House. You idiot! I am fully aware of the charges brought against that man. He could have been raped or killed. What do you think you were doing? Daro froze over his next mouthful of soup. Whoever it was, he realized, they were arguing over him. He could not hear the reply, but the first voice answered in the same venomous tone as before. The man’s rage echoed across the rooftops. And when he learns the law, he can bring charges against you for your stupidity. Get out of my sight, Elhan! If I ever lay eyes on you again, I will… A door slammed, followed a moment or two later by a second. 54

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Late the next morning, Aglarin and another priest came to him and informed him that the House of the Water had declared its verdict. Even as they spoke, Seril was being taken in chains aboard the ship that would bear him to his execution. The blood drained from Daro’s limbs into the pit of his stomach. He felt like vomiting. “They decided so soon?” Aglarin came to stand beside him at the window. “There was little to debate. It should have been quite obvious to the young man that you were not a changeling. You clearly bore the marks of Her favor. Therefore he had no right to touch you.” “Marks you ignored!” “Elhan has been punished for his role in this. Already he has been banished from this House, but I think you and many others heard that row, so I do not need to tell you about it.” Daro’s curiosity over who had so publicly evicted Elhan last night was smothered by the desperation of the moment. “Seril’s his father’s only son. You can’t do this.” “The law is the law,” said the other priest, who stood by the door. Daro marveled that the two of them could be so nonchalant at such a moment. Rather than argue, Daro looked out the window. Somewhere on the water, slowly making its way beyond the cliffs that formed Sirilon’s natural harbor, was a little boat carrying a condemned man. “It is too late now, even if we might act,” Aglarin told him. “Then why did you come here to tell me?” Daro flung at him. “Did you think I’d be happy to hear the news?” “No, of course not,” Aglarin replied, “but it was our duty to inform you.” Both priests bowed to him before leaving and closing the door. Trembling with rage, Daro waited a space, then

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snatched a cushion off the clothes chest and flung it hard at the door. A second cushion followed. He seized a candlestick off a table, but then stopped. Still shaking, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Neither rage nor tears were of any use now; a hollow grief took their place. He hated what Seril had done to him, but did not hate him or Endine enough to want Seril’s death. There was a knock on the door. Olveru waited a moment, carefully edging the door open and peering in when there was no answer. He noted the two cushions on the floor. “You are troubled,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to go down and visit the Lady’s shrine? It is a good place to sit and think.” Too numb to argue, Daro let Olveru lead him downstairs, across a short colonnade and through an enclosed garden whose flower beds and trees were tended by talevé who paused to look up as the newcomer passed. Olveru stopped to introduce them, cutting the conversation short only when he realized Daro was in no mood to socialize. At the end of the garden, they came to a pair of doors set with panels of greened copper; the symbol of the Lady upon them marked this as Her shrine. “There was some unease from within recently,” said Olveru, “but that is not unusual when She stirs. It has been calm now for many days.” He placed his hand upon the latch and lifted it, swinging one of the doors inward. The circular shrine was open to the sky, and the air within was cooler and moister than that outside. A copper statue of the Lady occupied a niche at the far end, but the centerpiece of the shrine was a shallow pond called a yanati pool. In a low voice, Olveru explained that this was Her home within the Blue House. “I will be in one of the back rooms distilling herbs,” he said, “but Alanáro is outside and will know where to find me if you need anything.”

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A narrow stone bench stood against one wall. Daro sat down and contemplated the faint steam rising off the pool. Perhaps if he said a prayer to the Lady, if there was time enough, She might yet spare Seril’s life. “Lady,” he whispered, “don’t let them kill Seril. He didn’t mean to do it. Endine’s a good man; he can’t lose his only son. Please, they didn’t ask me if I wanted him punished. If he has to suffer, let him be whipped or kept in the prison for a little while, but don’t let them drown him. He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t mean to do it. He doesn’t even like men…well, doesn’t like them that way.” In this contained space, even a whisper became an echo. Daro heard his prayer magnified against the walls, but from the pool there was no answer. Like the priests, the Lady had turned a deaf ear to him. After a moment, he slumped where he sat, hopeless. With a soft creak, one of the doors opened and a young man entered. It was not Olveru, for this man was taller and broader in the shoulder, with full lips and hair that fell past his waist. Daro wondered if Alanáro had come looking for him until the other talevé sat down beside him, very close, and lifted a hand to touch his face. In the coolness of the shrine, Daro felt the warmth radiating from him and was entranced. A thumb gently traced his lips, lingering. This was no innocent touch, and he knew it and did not care. He did not note the exact moment when the fingers were replaced by soft lips; he shed all thought of time and place and opened himself to that first, tentative kiss. “Arion?” he murmured. It could not possibly be anyone else. His would-be lover pulled away long enough to breathe in his ear that it was he. Daro drew back to look at him, his hand coming up to touch the other’s smooth cheek. Arion was even more

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radiant than he had imagined, more beautiful than any man had a right to be. “I thought you were dead. The priests said you weren’t, but that day when I saw the blood in the water, I thought you were dead.” Abashed, Daro buried his face in the silky wool of Arion’s robe, clutching the other’s body to him. “Why did you wait so long to see me?” A hand stroked his hair. “Because the healers told me you were not well enough for company,” said Arion. “Hush, do not worry now. The arrow grazed my side, but it did not pierce me. I was not badly injured.” “I’m sorry,” Daro said. “My grandfather is sorry, he didn’t know. I should’ve told him. I’m sorry.” Arms wound around him, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, running his hands along the smooth fabric of Arion’s tunic, up his arms, feeling the play of muscles there, and up across his back. He felt a hand reach down to cup his buttocks and another slide up to stroke his neck; he let his head fall back, welcoming the lips that pressed against his pulsing artery, the tongue that slid hotly into his ear. “Come with me.” Arion’s invitation was a hot breath across his cheek. “The Lady would not mind if we stayed here, but there are better places.” Placing his hand in Arion’s, Daro rose and followed him out of the shrine. The talevé in the garden marked their passing with furtive smiles that indicated their approval. Earlier in the week, from one of the upper story windows, Daro had seen two of them sitting under an eave of the garden, their arms wrapped around each other as they kissed passionately. Unable to tear his eyes away and aroused more than was proper, Daro had watched until Olveru surprised him. He blushed and tried to divert attention away from his voyeurism, but Olveru merely nodded and explained that his reaction was quite natural. Although talevé were denied

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the love of mortal women, they were not expected to remain celibate. The law of the House of the Water allowed them to love each other; Daro was stunned to learn the priests actually encouraged this, for in the world outside such activity would have been condemned as a perversion of nature. Arion led him up the stairs to the upper level where the talevé had their living quarters. Only once did Daro hesitate, and only because he did not know what he would do once they reached their destination. His body wanted the pleasure he knew was coming, though his nerves told him he did not know how to reciprocate. He had never given pleasure to a male, and did not know if his touches would please his lover or leave him frustrated. By one of the corner tables, Arion paused to light a candle from one of the sconces, then they moved into Daro’s room. The door softly shut behind him and the candlestick was carefully set down on a nearby table. Feeling Arion’s presence behind him, Daro started to turn, when he felt a warm, firm body press up against his back. Arms came around to embrace him, one hand sliding up his chest while the other gently pulled his hair away from the nape of his neck. Lips traced the line of his throat, moving up to his jaw, and when Daro turned slightly, the lips fastened on his, drinking in the soft moan that escaped him as Arion’s other hand brushed a nipple through the fabric of his tunic. “I’ve never… Please, I-I don’t know how to do this.” The caressing hands stopped. “If you do not want to do this, I will not force you. I know another tried, but I will not force you.” Daro turned in his arms. “No, I-I want to, but I don’t know how.” Arion smiled into the kiss. “Have you ever been with a woman?” “A few times, yes, but—”

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“It is not much different than that.” Arion gently grasped one of his hands and slid it between their bodies, brushing it across the hard bulge in his groin. “Touch me the way you would want me to touch you.” Seril had done that with him, placed his hand there and wanted him to stroke his hardness, but then the mere thought of touching another man in this way had sickened him. Daro kissed Arion back, letting the other’s tongue into his mouth, and stroked where the other wanted him to stroke, reveling in the way Arion moaned into the kiss. When a hand slid between his legs, mimicking his own caresses, Daro thought he would come through his leggings. It had been so long since anyone had done that for him. Then, just as suddenly, the stroking hand stopped and began to unfasten the buttons of his tunic. A teasing tongue outlined his collarbone, then slid lower, circling and flicking one of his nipples. Daro felt his knees turn to water when Arion’s lips captured the tiny nub and began to suckle gently. “Oh, Lady…” Pausing, Arion slid back up his body to whisper in his ear, “Be careful. She is listening.” His gaze indicated the basin of water by the window, the mysterious second basin the servants had brought and instructed him not to touch. Arion undid the remaining buttons, but when he tried to push the tunic off Daro’s shoulders, Daro stopped him with nervous hands. “Please, I don’t—” “I want to see you,” Arion said huskily. His fingers were already unbuttoning his own tunic, sliding the watery fabric off firm shoulders. Daro did not have to see the rest of his body to know he was perfect. “But the healers say I’m too thin. I—” Arion silenced him with a kiss. “Then we will simply make you eat more. Here, take this off. I want to touch you.”

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The feel of a naked torso against his own was intoxicating, and Daro did not protest when those same insistent fingers began unlacing his trousers. All he cared about now was finding release. When Arion did not seem to undo the lacings quickly enough, Daro impatiently reached down to help, his fingers tangling with his lover’s until he batted them away and pulled down his leggings, frantically kicking off his shoes when they got in the way. “I cannot wait for you either,” said Arion, chuckling. He was already settling onto the bed, holding out his arms for Daro to join him. The candlelight played off his sculpted contours. His long hair just brushed his buttocks, pale silk teasing firm flesh. The sight of his naked body made Daro pause and gape, and he was suddenly reminded how inadequate he was. Seeing his hesitation, Arion reached over, took him by the hand and tugged him down. “If you think I am impressive,” he whispered in Daro’s ear, “then you have not seen Enedhil. He has a cock that would put a horse to shame.” Embarrassment dissolved into laughter. Daro slid his hands up his lover’s flanks, conscious of the erect cock brushing against his own. Whispering words of encouragement in his ear, Arion kissed his neck. “It will take time for your body to change,” he said. “After you received the marks of Her favor, you were ill, yes?” Daro, too busy exploring his lover’s back, mumbled yes. “That was your body beginning to change—” A tongue slid into his ear “—to become more fluid, so you can—” Teeth gently grazed his earlobe “—change your shape when She wills it. You are still mortal, but—” Arion began kissing his way down Daro’s neck, his fingers teasing the nipple he had suckled earlier. “Mortal, but…hmm, not quite now.”

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Warm lips closed over the nipple, while Arion’s fingers wandered across Daro’s chest in search of its twin. Daro moaned, forgetting the question he had been about to ask, then forgot to breathe altogether when Arion abandoned the tiny nubs to run his lips farther down his torso. Is he going to—? His answer came in the form of a tongue that firmly traced the underside of his cock before circling the crown and delving into the slit at the top. Daro gasped and was reduced to incoherent moaning as the teasing tongue was replaced by a warm mouth that drew him in and out with increasing speed and suction. The sensation was beyond belief. He had heard that men liked having their cocks stimulated like this, but neither of the women he had been with previously had ever done it for him. “I…oh…I’m going to…” He could not get out the rest of it, could not do more than tangle his fingers in his lover’s hair; Arion had an arm firmly braced against his hips to keep him from bucking. All at once, he wanted to thrust into Arion’s mouth, yet he also wanted to pull out before he came. Release took him harder than it had ever taken him before. Arching his back, he emptied himself in an intense spasm that gripped his body and would not stop. The line between pleasure and pain blurred, leaving him breathless and trembling. “Did you like that?” a voice murmured in his ear. Before he could recover his breath to answer, Arion was kissing him again. This time, however, the kiss tasted salty and slightly bitter, and with some embarrassment Daro realized why. “You…I…in your mouth?” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to.” Arion nuzzled his neck. “Oh, but I wanted you to,” he said, “and I enjoyed it very much.”

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A hand clasped his, guiding him to the erection that prodded his thigh. Still trying to catch his breath, Daro began to stroke up and down, the way he liked to stroke himself. He bent to kiss Arion’s collarbone and the hollow of his throat, while Arion caressed his back and murmured encouragements into his hair. He felt Arion shift slightly under him and lean forward to whisper in his ear, “Try it in your mouth.” Daro hesitated. “I’ve never done that before.” “You might enjoy it. Do not worry about swallowing; I will let you know before I come.” Still stroking Arion’s erection, trying to remember everything his lover had done, he tentatively worked his way down Arion’s body until he brushed his lips across the tip. It felt hot and dry. Moistening his mouth, he ran his tongue down the length then back up, exploring the head with small circular motions that elicited a moan from Arion. A hand cupped the back of his head, guiding him. He could not get very much into his mouth, and when he tried to work the shaft in and out between his lips, his efforts earned him a soft hiss of pain. “Teeth—” Arion gasped. “Cover them…with your lips.” Daro tried again, doing his best to apply the suction he had enjoyed so much. His jaw began to ache from the unfamiliar position, and it did not help that his lover decided to run a hand over and between his proffered buttocks, stroking a thumb over his opening. The stimulation was not enough to make him hard again, but it felt good enough to distract him. Then Arion was pulling him up and kissing him hard. “Stroke me,” he growled, and when Daro slid his hand over the wet cock he felt Arion’s hand join his. Stroking in tandem, it took them less than a moment to bring Arion to release. Moaning, thrusting his tongue into Daro’s mouth,

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he came between their bodies and then fell back against the pillow, panting for breath. Daro lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was some time before he realized his fingers were sticky with seed. He sat up, looking for someplace to wipe his hand clean. The candle had burned low. In the late afternoon shadows, it was difficult to make out the washbasin and towel from across the room, and he really did not feel like leaving the bed to clean himself. Behind him, Arion also sat up and laid a hand over his back. “I will show you something.” He wiped his hand over his belly, collecting the seed there, and went over to the Lady’s basin. Kneeling before it, he dipped his hand into the water. As Daro watched, the surface of the water began to ripple and a soft, tinkling sound of delight sighed through the room. “The water is here that She may come to us whenever She wishes,” said Arion. “It does not displease Her that we make love, as long as this water is left uncovered and we make some offering. Sometimes it is salt, sometimes it is our own seed.” Daro climbed out of the bed and knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist. “Then She approves?” Turning, Arion kissed his forehead. “My love, if She did not approve, you would not be here.” “My grandfather tried to kill you.” Running his hands down his lover’s side, Daro’s fingers encountered a small scar he had not noticed in the heat of his arousal. Arion winced at the touch and he pulled his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “How could She forgive me when I almost got you killed?” Gentle fingers tilted his chin up and then Arion’s mouth was on his, smothering his protests. “I wanted you,” Arion breathed between kisses, “and this pleased Her also, to favor you and give me joy.”

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“How long have you been here?” asked Daro. “Two years, long enough to learn what solitude is.” Arion smiled. “The others, they are beautiful enough and willing, but a night’s pleasure with them is not the same as love.” Love seemed so potent a word, Daro had not expected to hear it quite so soon. “We’ve only just met.” “We have known each other a long time,” said Arion. “True, you had never seen me before today, but you knew me when I sat down beside you and kissed you. I do not think you would have let a stranger go that far.” Daro nodded, for once pleased to be wrong. Their mouths met again, and as they kissed they remained oblivious to the soundless rippling in the basin beside them.

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Chapter Ten Summer came to the city and, with the passing of the storm season, calm descended upon the Blue House. The restlessness that had plagued the talevé in the season of Her passion subsided, enabling them to return to an easier rhythm of life. One morning, as he went out into the garden with his tools, Daro was surprised to find himself face to face with an immense, tawny-colored feline lolling in the sun. He froze on the path, his heart leaping to his throat as he waited for the cat to pounce, but it had merely yawned at him and gone back to sleep on the grass. Aglarin came over to him with someone’s discarded robe draped over one arm. “That is Alanáro,” he said. “He could not hold back any longer. If it pleases him, you may stroke him; under the chin or behind the ears is best. You will never see a moorcat so close without danger.” Apparently, Alanáro was in a self-indulgent mood, and allowed the contact. Daro, ignoring the warm muzzle digging into his thigh, rubbed his ears until Aglarin told him he could stop. “He is spoiled enough as a human. You should not encourage him.” Arion appeared a half-hour later. Grinning, tugging at Daro’s hand, he drew him up from his work and pulled him against his body, kissing him soundly. A hand cupped his buttocks, while in front Daro felt an already prominent erection rub up against his groin.

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Daro flushed a little at his lover’s public ardor; Arion could never seem to get enough of him. “Aglarin is wa—” His protests were quickly swallowed by the tongue that sought entrance into his mouth, and he did not struggle very hard before giving in. It would not have been the first time the ki’iri master had seen them kiss. “Hmm, you have been busy today,” said Arion. “First in the library, Talit says, then when I do not find you there I—ah, such lovely manners, ‘Náro. Must you be so free with your furry carcass while I am ravishing my lover?” Alanáro chuffed at them from the bench he was spraymarking. “Let us be gone from here,” Arion murmured into Daro’s ear, nibbling on the lobe for emphasis, “before he decides to mark you for himself.” Daro knew exactly what he intended, for by this time he wanted it just as badly. “I’m hot and dirty from gardening, you know.” Insistent lips grazed his neck. “Hot, I do not mind, but if you want a bath I will join you.” “Only if you behave yourself,” said Daro. Arion laughed. “Behave myself is the last thing I intend to do.” “You’ll have to, whether you like it or not.” Daro pulled away long enough to begin gathering up his tools. “There’re likely to be others in the pool at this hour.” In the presence of the three other talevé who were also bathing, they were able to keep their hands off each other long enough for a quick soak, but once out of the pool they gathered up their clothes and all but ran back to Arion’s room, kissing and teasing as they went. Once the door was closed and locked behind them, they dumped their bundles, shrugged off their loose robes and pressed their naked, still-damp bodies together, devouring each other

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with their mouths as Arion maneuvered them toward the bed. “One of these days,” said Arion, running his tongue around the hollow of Daro’s navel, “I shall get you alone in the bath, and then…” Daro could scarcely keep from squirming as his lover’s tongue quested lower. “But you…have me alone…now.” “Hmm, yes, and no one wanting you for lessons or work until later. Such a rare treat.” Arion emphasized the last word with a long, firm lick up the side of his lover’s shaft. Nimble fingers slid between Daro’s thighs, teasing his opening as Arion’s lips and tongue continued to slide up and down his flesh. Daro tensed with his approaching climax, then pounded his fist into the mattress and sputtered a long string of expletives as Arion abruptly stopped and sat up. “That is hardly a polite thing to say to someone who has just had you in his mouth as I have,” said Arion. “And not finished the job properly!” Arion batted aside the pillow aimed at his head and flung himself on top of Daro, playfully wrestling him to the mattress until the friction of their bodies sliding together turned exasperated grunts into impassioned groans. “Who says—” Arion nibbled at the throbbing artery in Daro’s neck “—that I was finished with you?” He rolled his hips, pressing his erection more firmly against his lover’s. “If you would but turn over and show me that delectable ass of yours, there are other parts of you I want to savor.” Daro growled and swatted Arion’s arm with the towel the other gave him to spread under his belly. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Grabbing his hips, Arion roughly flipped him over, parted his thighs and held them apart as his tongue slid

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down the cleft between Daro’s buttocks. Daro squirmed at the first teasing swipe across his opening, then seized a pillow and quietly moaned into it as the tongue began to delve deeper, circling and licking. An oiled finger probed his entrance and then pushed inside. He whimpered and bit the pillow when the finger grazed his prostate. In and out it went like a miniature cock, soon to be joined by two fingers while Arion’s thumb caressed the cleft above his opening. An arm braced his hips firmly against the mattress to keep him from thrusting and spending too soon; he groaned in frustration at being denied orgasm, then groaned again, louder, when the fingers withdrew. Hands tugged at his hips, urging him to his hands and knees. As he complied, the tip of something warm and firm brushed up against his entrance. He willed himself to relax, forcing the air out of his lungs as Arion’s oil-slicked cock breached the ring of muscle and slid inside. Arion gave him a moment to accept the intrusion, then began to thrust slowly, adjusting his angle to stimulate his lover’s prostate. In the beginning, Daro had been squeamish about this form of lovemaking, finding it unnatural and painful. Arion had been patient with him, even having Daro take him so he might see for himself how pleasurable it could be for the bottom. Slowly, with much encouragement, Daro had learned to relax and enjoy the sensation of being filled, and since then he and Arion had made love in every conceivable position, on every piece of furniture in both their rooms. Now he was undulating his hips, pushing back to meet Arion’s thrusts. Bracing himself on one hand, he reached down and began to stroke himself with the other. It did not take long for him to reach his peak. He gave a strangled cry as his seed spurted onto his hands and the cloth under him. His passage contracted with the spasms;

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Arion groaned and quickened his pace in response. Daro hoped he would hurry up, as he was too spent, too boneless to support himself for very much longer. Whenever he neared orgasm, Arion’s sensual pillow talk was reduced to a series of incoherent moans and grunts. Growling, hissing between his teeth, he tightened his grip on Daro’s flanks and thrust in once, twice more before emptying himself. Once his spasms subsided, he carefully pulled out, leaving Daro free to slump against the mattress. They lay still, a tangle of splayed limbs across the bed, waiting for their breath to return, until Daro began to protest at the weight across his back. Arion gave a tired laugh, but shifted to the side. They stirred only long enough to clean up, and returned to the bed to lie close in the drowsy heat of the afternoon. “How is it I found you in the garden?” asked Arion. “I did not think you liked such work.” “No, and I’m not very good at it.” Daro spoke with his eyes closed, wishing his lover would save his questions for later. “But there’s nothing else to do. Aglarin’s tried to get permission for me to talk to the hrill, but the other priests don’t want me doing a senu’s work.” Arion’s laughter was hardly above a whisper. “You must have patience, love.” He ran his fingertips lightly along Daro’s flanks, kissing his shoulders. “You have only been here a few months. After a few years, you might be eligible for the priesthood. You could ask then.” Daro, opening his eyes, rolled over to face him. “You don’t understand. I need to speak to the hrill.” There were no more words. They lay in bed the rest of the afternoon, drifting between casual touches and light slumber, until a bell stirred them from their lethargy and called them down to the evening meal. Even then, they were too drowsy to answer until Daro’s stomach betrayed him with an embarrassing rumble.

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Arion smiled and sat up. “No matter, we shall eat and then come back here where I shall have dessert.” He bent over and lightly nibbled on Daro’s collarbone to emphasize exactly what manner of confection he had planned. Dressing in light clothing, they went downstairs to the communal dining room. Most of the priests had already left the Blue House for the day, but Aglarin and two others remained on hand to dine with the talevé. The ki’iri master regarded the pair sitting across from him, reminding Daro with a frown that he had missed the afternoon’s lesson. “Clearly you have forgotten your duty,” Aglarin said, spearing a vegetable on his fork and glaring at Arion in warning as Arion’s hand began to creep under the table to slide up Daro’s thigh. Arion’s hand stopped at once. Aglarin cleared his throat and continued, “As I was about to say, Daro, tomorrow you will report to me after the morning meal. I will rearrange your schedule to accommodate the additional lesson.” After the meal, Daro and Arion lingered in the atrium with some of the other talevé before going up to bed. Their lovemaking this time was slow and leisurely, and it was late before they fell asleep. Dawn was yet an hour away when Daro awoke, his body already arching in a painful spasm. Not wanting to alarm Arion, he bit his lip to stifle his outcry, but when he saw his lover’s face anxiously hovering over him, he gasped and moaned aloud. A hand felt his brow, his cheeks, and finally his pulse. “What is wrong?” “I-I don’t know,” Daro groaned. “I feel my skin crawling, it hurts so much.” “Do you feel like you are about to burst?” Unable to speak, Daro nodded weakly. Arion grasped his hand and stroked it. “It is all right,”

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he said. “You are not ill and not dying. It is simply the ki’iri spirit wanting release. If you were not a hrill, you could do it here, but you need to go out. It is too early for the priests to arrive. I will wake one of the servants.” Daro did not remember being left alone; he drifted in and out of consciousness, tortured by the sensation that his limbs were somehow stretching or bending. The next thing he knew, Aglarin was standing over him, pulling back his eyelids to peer into his eyes. “It is beginning,” the ki’iri master said to Arion, who stood by his shoulder. “We must get him into the ocean. I will send for a litter.” Voices came from the corridor; Daro heard Aglarin giving instructions to someone, then rapidly receding footfalls as the servant departed. When Aglarin came back into the room, he ordered Arion to dress Daro in a robe and prepare to carry him downstairs. Daro felt Arion lift him into a sitting position and wrap his woolen robe about his shoulders; it felt too hot, too dry, and he tried to shove it off. He needed to feel the coolness of foam and water against his skin. “No, you must wear this for now,” said Arion. “I cannot carry you out of here naked.” He lapsed into senselessness, stirring in the midst of a burgeoning argument between Arion and Aglarin. “Talevé are not permitted to go out together,” said Aglarin. “You know this.” “What do you fear?” asked Arion. “Do you think that we will swim away together to some distant shore? We do not have the stamina to swim so far, and why should we want to leave the comforts of the Blue House for the outside? Daro knows well enough what life outside is like for a talevé; he would not want to return to it. I will swim with him and tell him what to do in the water.” “He has done it once already without aid.” “You cannot refuse me the request.”

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“I have no wish to refuse you,” answered Aglarin, “but the other priests are not likely to agree.” “I am not interested in what they think.” Daro did not hear the rest of it. When he came to himself, he lay in someone’s arms on a narrow bed that rocked back and forth. Heavy silk curtains shut out most of the light, but through them he could smell the sea and thought he could hear the crashing of waves. Struggling, he tried to sit up, but the arms held him fast, soothing and stroking him though all he wanted to do was tear free of them and rush headlong into the ocean. Arion’s voice murmured in his ear, gently hushing him. “The road we are taking leads down the cliff just behind the House of the Water; if you leap out now, you will fall over the edge.” “How much farther?” whispered Daro. “The path turns on itself three times; there is a small beach at the bottom. We are nearly there. The priests will tell us when it is safe for us to come out.” Daro tried to be patient, but the smell of salt and sand grew stronger, more intoxicating. He did not need to feel when the litter-bearers stepped from the gravel path onto the beach to know the water was close; he could hear the crashing and hissing of the surf. Arion’s hold on him tightened, even when a hand pulled back the curtain and light flooded into the litter. Aglarin’s head filled the opening. “Help him out, Arion,” he said. “Daro, be patient a few moments longer. I know you are very uncomfortable, but the other priests will want to give you instructions. Listen to them, nod your head and then you may go.” With Arion behind him to support him, Daro leaned out of the litter; when his feet touched cool, moist sand, he realized he was barefoot, dressed only in a light robe. Arion helped him wobble over to the two priests who waited with Aglarin at the water’s edge.

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They wanted him to pray to the Lady. Trembling, impatient with need and hating the redundancy of having to invoke a goddess who had already summoned him, Daro stumbled over the words as best he could. Aglarin whispered something to the priests; with disapproving looks they also addressed Arion, who quickly repeated both prayer and oath back to them. Daro knew this was important, that something unusual was happening, but his mind was already in the deep with the hrill, swimming among them. He could feel their presence just offshore. Lifting an arm, he saw his flesh begin to mottle before his eyes. The transformation was happening, whether he wanted it or not, whether the priests decided to hold him back or not. Aglarin saw, and gestured to Arion to help him into the surf. Trembling ankle-deep in the surf, Daro felt Arion’s fingers tug at the ties of his robe. As the wool slid from his shoulders, as he felt the first droplets of sea spray on his skin, he turned in the other’s arms, suddenly uncertain of the ocean rolling and retreating before him. Never before had he felt such apprehension in the presence of the sea, yet now it called to him with a voice he had known only once, in a moment of fear and overwhelming despair. “It will be all right, love.” The arms that held him were clad only in a wisp of silk that was quickly cast aside. Arion stood naked in his arms and he suddenly understood. “Are you coming with me?” Arion’s lips lightly grazed his cheek, his hands caressing the dark patches of hrill flesh blossoming along Daro’s flanks. “This once, yes,” he said. “Come, you cannot wait any longer.” The water was cold, hissing around their ankles as the surf frothed around them, but Daro’s body suddenly felt too heavy to endure land. Panting for breath, he clambered

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through the waves toward deeper water, craving the buoyancy only the sea could give him. With the first plunge into the sea, he felt his arms fuse against his sides, his legs lock together and his toes splay out into a tail. Flippers sprouted from his elbows. Another being might have felt trapped in such an alien form, but he had known the hrill since he was old enough to walk, and experienced only the exhilaration and power of being released into its body. A joyous clicking told him that Arion was next to him, and somewhere, out in the near deep, a pod of hrill answered their calls. Propelled by curiosity about the newcomers, the hrill were swimming toward them. The males came first, whistling in recognition of Arion and touching noses with him, assuring themselves that he was no threat to their females or calves. Daro knew these hrill, had swum with him before, but it was beyond their understanding that he was merely a human who had changed his shape. They sensed a difference about him, but also remembered him from before, so they invited both hrill to swim with them. Arion at once had a warning for him. Take care. There are predators in the deeper waters. You worry too much, replied Daro. Come with me. You gave your word to the priests. Daro did not remind Arion that he had also given his word, and had broken it many times to visit him on the quay. Turning his head toward shore, he noted the tiny figures of the priests and litter bearers waiting on the beach, and he whistled in derision. He did not need those puny two-legged figures who would only imprison him once more behind walls too far from the sea. He was a hrill and could swim far away from them. Arion read his thoughts and lightly butted him with his nose to get his attention. When you get tired, you will begin to return to your human form. We could not swim away

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from here even if I would let you. We will keep to the shallower waters of the harbor and that is all. They swam out into the harbor, plumbing the depths near old shipwrecks, but when the hrill invited the pair to feed with them, Arion cautioned against it, explaining that when Daro returned to human form, his stomach would not be able to hold the raw fish he might eat as a hrill. I have not eaten anything since last night, Daro protested. That is why you should not venture too far out. You will not have the strength to swim back. Sullenly, he obeyed Arion, keeping to shallow waters until he heard the unmistakable call of a senu. When the pod turned, whistling happily at the prospect of human contact, he turned with them. Briefly, he registered Arion’s apprehension, but he knew that senu’s voice and, ignoring Arion’s warning whistle, raced on ahead with the pod. Through the watery glass of foam and seawater, he saw a graying figure stooped over the railing of a wooden quay. A human voice greeted the hrill, welcoming their chatter about schools of fish and deep-water currents as he gazed out over the dark bodies that bobbed up and down in the gray-green water. As his gaze roved, he paused over the pair of hrill-like beings that surfaced with the pod, beings whose thoughts were too human to belong to the sea. His face darkened. Making the sign of the Lady with frantic gestures, he took half a step back from the railing. Grandfather! cried Daro. Antáno stopped, his eyes widening at the sound of a familiar voice in his head, then he leaned back over the railing. “Daro, lad!” he cried. “Is that you?” Daro slapped his flipper against the water and clicked. I had to go out this morning and I heard you calling the hrill. I knew it was you.

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A hand reached down to touch his nose. Daro leaned into the touch, irritably butting aside the hrill who tried to monopolize his grandfather’s attention. “Ah, lad,” said Antáno. “I had such a scare when you jumped into the sea like that. The hrill went searching for you, but they found no sign and I thought for certain you’d drowned. Your poor aunt, she was in tears all that night and the better part of the next day, even when the priests came and told us they’d found you and taken you to the Blue House.” Arion chose that moment to surface beside Daro. The movement drew Antáno’s attention, and he turned questioning eyes on his grandson. “Who is this you’ve brought with you, lad?” His apprehension grew when Daro introduced his companion. Once again, Antáno drew back and made the sign of the Lady. “Oh, you’re the one I tried to—” The soft whistling sounds Arion made reassured him somewhat, and he spoke gently to the senu, but Antáno did not relax until Arion, giving up the effort, ducked back under the water to sport with a pair of frolicsome juvenile hrill. Antáno waited until the dark head vanished under the waves to speak again. “Daro, lad, tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, “you’d told me that you loved him. I know it’s none of my affair asking, but is he…well, that is to ask, do you love him as well in the flesh?” Oh, yes. He is—I couldn’t tell you how much he—I mean— Daro’s flipper slapped the water in frustration. Some things he simply could not articulate. “Things have been different since you’ve been gone, lad,” admitted Antáno. “It’s not the same around the cottage, but it’s for the best you’re where you are. After you left, the temple guards came and took Endine’s son away and…well, I shouldn’t say anything more about that

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matter.” Grandfather, I didn’t want them to punish him the way they did, but the priests didn’t tell me he was going to die until it was too late. I’m sorry, it wasn’t his fault. Tell Endine I’m sorry for everything. Antáno shook his head. “Endine knows it wasn’t your fault, and it isn’t. If that priest hadn’t been so thickheaded, none of this would’ve happened.” The only consolation Daro could give him was to tell him that the priest in question had been evicted from the Blue House. “He loves you, lad. That’s plain to see,” said Antáno. He swallowed hard, quickly wiping something he pretended was sea spray from his face. “I’d hoped one day you’d find a good woman to warm your bed, but if you’re happy I’ve no business complaining about your lot. It’s only that, well, I sometimes wish things were as before.” Daro thought it wiser not to admit that if he had to choose, he would not return to that time, not if it meant leaving Arion to wither in solitude. In the months since his arrival, several talevé and a few priests had taken him aside to tell him that they had never seen Arion so exuberant. “I shouldn’t say such things,” said Antáno. He opened his mouth to add something, but when his head came up he seemed to be concentrating on something faraway. “Lad, I sense that he’s worried about you.” It distressed Daro somewhat that his grandfather had heard Arion’s call before he had. We’re not supposed to come out this far, and it’s my first time out since…that time. He’s afraid I won’t have the strength to swim back. “If that’s true then you’ve got to go.” Antáno leaned out over the railing as far as his balance would permit and reached down to stroke his grandson’s nose. “Go, lad, and may the Lady’s grace be upon you and the Lord Min’s breath fill your sails.” Daro ducked under the water to find Arion already at

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his side, nudging him with an insistent nose. Leaving the pod and quay behind, they began the swim back, the stronger Arion urging an increasingly weary Daro onward. Already, Daro felt the ki’iri spirit draining from his body and they were not yet near the shore. Through the spray, he could see the cliffs looming above a thin ribbon of beach, but he was still too far away to discern the three priests who would be waiting for him. Fear that he would not make it out of the water before transforming clenched his heart, for while he could swim as a man, his human body had none of the power or speed of a hrill’s. The flippers that propelled him were beginning to shrink in upon themselves, and his tail was shortening, the bulk of it splitting into legs that could not kick up enough momentum to drive him forward. Frantically, he sought out Arion, but his whistle was choked away by human sputtering as seawater flooded his open mouth. He reached out to his lover with a senu’s voice as his every instinct urged him to fight to keep his head above the water. The waves tossed him between foamy troughs, sweeping him under their folds. When he could no longer fight the sea, arms suddenly went around his middle, dragging him up and out of the water. He felt wet sand scrape against his thighs, then found himself lying on his back in the surf, gulping down air. The salt stung his eyes. He heard footfalls through the sand, coming toward him. A breeze stirred his damp hair and, to his shame, he realized he was naked. He wanted to get up, to roll over in the sand and cover himself, yet his limbs felt too leaden for movement. An incoming wave teased his thighs. Arms wrapped around his torso, sliding up his back, then a mouth came down on his, breathing warmth and life into him. Blindly, he reached for Arion, opening his mouth to twine his

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tongue with his lover’s, and forgot about the priests who were now standing over them. “Hmm, love,” Arion whispered in his ear, “do you not think we should return to the Blue House to do this? Half the harbor will see, and it is bad enough for them when we are fully clothed.” Blushing at his momentary lack of discretion, Daro allowed Arion to cover him with his robe and help him to his feet; it was only when they were both standing that he felt how hard Arion was trembling. “What is wrong?” he whispered. Arion bent his head so his lips were touching Daro’s earlobe, but a moment passed before he could speak. “I was afraid I had lost you.” Tightening his arms, he let his embrace and the caress of his lips say what emotion threatened to choke away. Daro did not have the words to tell him how, in the rough play of the sea, he had known the same terror of being parted. “You will not lose me,” he said. Exhaustion was quickly overtaking him. He needed to get to the litter before he collapsed, but all he could do now was cling to the arms that held him and find solace in Arion’s solid warmth. “I only wanted to say good-bye to my grandfather. I never said it before I left that first time.” Forgiving hands stroked his damp hair. “Come with me,” Arion replied, letting his lips graze Daro’s cheek. “Let us go home, love.”

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Becoming

What we are to be, we are now becoming -Carl Rogers

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A slightly abridged version of “Becoming” was first published by Forbidden Fruit Magazine in January, 2005.

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Chapter One The sloop turned toward the deeper water of the harbor, where the sea began to roughen. Unused to boats, the young man grimaced as nausea threatened to overcome him. He managed to hold his stomach. The fisherman and his crew noted his pallor with disdain, but his coin was good and, as long as he stayed out of their way, they would not bother him. Waves frothed in the wake of the boat as the wind caught the sails, and it picked up speed. Among the whitecaps he saw the sleek, darting bodies that could only be hrill. On the port side, the fishermen paused over their nets to call out to them, to the dolphins frolicking among the seal-like creatures to compete for attention, and the fish heads the men would eventually toss back into the waves. Swaying with the movement of the boat and his own unsteadiness, the young man stepped up to the stern, ostensibly to get a better look at the hrill. His breath caught at the dark heads that emerged from the waves to regard him; all his life he had heard of these sacred, intelligent creatures but had never seen one. The waterfront neighborhoods were too rough for well-bred youths, said his father, and his mother complained that such places always smelled unpleasant. From his bedchamber window the young man could see the ocean, and drink in the salty tang of the air that blew inland to cool warm summer afternoons. Until now, that was all he ever knew of the sea. “You are very beautiful,” he murmured to the hrill. With trembling hands, he gripped the rail to lean out and watch them. Time pressed down upon him. Urgency and fear made his heart race. If he was to do it, now was the time. There would not be a second chance. “What are you doing?” 83

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The boy’s voice cut through the breeze, an arrow of annoyance that made him start. Forcing a smile, the young man turned to see about getting rid of the child. “Can you read?” Curious gray eyes met his. “Just a little, sir, but my da can read better.” From his pocket, he took a sealed letter and pressed it into the boy’s hand. He had meant to leave it on deck, but this was better. Its discovery would not be left to chance. “When the boat comes to shore, give your father this. Remember, when you dock and not before, and you are to tell no one you have it until then.” He emphasized his point with a silver coin and bade the child to be off. Toward the prow, he heard the fishermen calling out to each other. Rough nets were cast overboard, well away from the hrill who veered to avoid them. Now was the time, he decided, when their eyes were turned and they had no mind for him. He pulled himself over the wooden rail, balancing there while he swung his other leg over. Splinters dug into his palms. Sea spray flew up into his face; he licked salt droplets from his lips. Behind him, he heard a shout and knew it was for him. He did not turn to see who had called out or bother to note what the man said. When the rail slid from his grasp, gravity sped him into the water. The sea weighted his clothing, surging into his mouth. Through the stinging spray he saw the boat making a sharp turn. Voices called out advice to tread water and remain calm. No one knew he could not swim. Pale sky and blurred faces vanished under a smothering blanket of foam. Water swirled into his lungs and, whether he wanted it or not, the body’s fight for survival began. **** Taraz, the eunuch who attended the healers, carried the gossip back to the Blue House like the prize it was. “They’ve brought someone into the gatehouse,” he said. The three young men seated on the bench under the apple tree ignored the formal little bow the eunuch bestowed upon them. “Is it a new arrival, or some stuffy priest visiting from another city?” asked Alanáro. “If it is the latter, you can save your breath.” “A new arrival, sir,” said Taraz. “They carried this one in senseless, so I did not get to speak with him. Olveru and Haeran

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shoved me out as quickly as I could bring warm clothing and water.” “That makes two newcomers in as many months,” said Enedhil. “Is this one a child as well?” Taraz shook his head. Shoved to the back of the small bedchamber, he had seen less than he would have liked. “He is the usual age, I think. Haeran says he was found half-drowned on the beach. He already has the sickness, so no one can get anything sensible out of him.” “Is he pretty?” asked Alanáro, the salacious curve of his lips voicing his thoughts. Olenwë glared at him. “Have you ever seen anybody drown? There’s nothing pretty about them when they wash up, even when they don’t die.” As someone who had grown up in a fishing village, he could have told his companions tales to curdle their stomachs and banish any burgeoning thoughts of seduction. Instead, he asked how long the young man had been in the sea. Taraz could not answer him. Very little useful information was forthcoming from the eunuch, and in the end the three young men were left with more speculation than fact. By the time Olveru returned for supper and the evening devotions, the news had gone throughout the house, and nearly everyone in the communal dining hall clamored for news. “Now tell us,” said Enedhil, “is he just sick in the normal way or did he really drown?” The glower Olveru gave his brothers indicated he wanted peace in which to eat. Still, he answered their queries. “He was alive when found, though barely. The fisher folk think the hrill brought him to shore.” “Is he handsome?” asked Alanáro. Enedhil swatted him. “When was the last time you saw an ugly talevé?” Olveru said only that they would have to wait and see what the change wrought. A new talevé’s confinement usually lasted fifteen days, during which time he weathered the transition as his body adjusted. Once he recovered and was informed of the rules and responsibilities of his new status, he would proceed into the Blue House to live out his life as one of the Lady’s sacred Water-lovers. 85

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A room must be prepared and all other comforts made ready. From the beginning, it was clear that the young man had no belongings to be moved in. Olveru, whose task it was to welcome newcomers, went into the storeroom to select suitable clothing and toiletries. Before he left, however, he turned and gave a stern warning to others in the room. “We do not even know his name,” he said. “I can tell you that he is not a halfwit and can speak, but he says nothing when we ask him who he is and why he was in the water. It may be the changing sickness or the shock of being in the ocean. Madril is adamant that you leave off your usual games when he arrives.” As he spoke, Olveru glared at Alanáro. “He will probably remind you himself when the time comes.” No more news came even as the fortnight passed. Entry to the gatehouse was strictly controlled, so all most could do was gaze across the courtyard at the tall hedgerows and slate roof of the structure and wonder. As a physician, Olveru was the only talevé who had access to the newcomer, yet he was as uninspired as the priests when it came to gossip. From the House of the Water came strict orders from the chief priest Madril that the new talevé was not to be disturbed when he first entered the Blue House. However, anyone who could devise an excuse to be in the atrium or garden on that day did so. Madril came to the house with three other priests. Olveru and the physician Haeran led the young man in through the atrium and out into the garden. He was slightly built, dressed in clothing that did not quite fit, and he leaned on Olveru’s arm as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. He appeared dazed and frightened, trembling slightly as he moved, His timidity made it seem a deliberate gesture. “I wish he would move his hair out of the way so we can get a better look at him,” muttered Alanáro. “Be quiet,” hissed Olenwë. His eyes were fixed on the face shadowed under the curtain of hair. That the young man was shaking did not alarm him, as almost every new talevé who came into the Blue House was weak and disoriented from the change, and there were always a few anxious moments when the introductions were made. 86

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Even more puzzling was the way the young man fumbled through the ritual welcome. Surely someone had explained the rite, where he did not have to respond except to nod, but this one looked ready to bolt. Olenwë did not realize he had taken a step forward until Enedhil seized his arm. “You heard what Madril said. Leave him alone.” With his eyes still on the youth, Olenwë shook off his companion’s hold. Enedhil had followed the others downstairs in order to ensure that no mischief was done. Olenwë could not speak for Alanáro or anyone else. “I’m not going to seduce him. I just want to talk to him.” **** After the quiet of the gatehouse, the priests and the house into which they led him were a frightening blur. Through an elaborate, marble-floored atrium he went, past fading murals of dolphins and hrill into a garden abundant with fruit trees and the sound of splashing water. Amidst the greenery stood several white-haired men engaged in conversation. They turned at his approach and fell quiet. He did not look at them. Several days ago he had seen his own hair, all the color bled out of it, and did not know what to think beyond his shock, even when the healer Olveru gently explained to him that the Lady of the Waters had chosen him to become one of Her sacred lovers. Olveru was the only talevé he saw in his confinement, though he was assured that others were nearby whom he would meet once he was well enough. The prospect filled him with apprehension. In his blue-gray priestly robes, Olveru exuded such an air of sacred mystery that the young man feared what the others were like. No matter what the mirror told him, he did not believe could not possibly belong among them. It is all a mistake. I am not supposed to be here. At every opportunity, he tried to tell Olveru and the priests who came to visit him, yet when they asked him why he could not say. There were no words for his terror and shame that muddled his thoughts, and he could not think past the chills that racked his body to find them. And when they asked his name, his tongue froze.

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At last, Olveru said that if he could not remember they would find another name for him. Whatever name he had, he decided, it must not be worth keeping if he could not remember it. They let him sleep in a large, soft bed in a quiet room, bringing him tea and cool compresses when his fever rose. A chamber pot was kept close, for if he did not have to vomit, he had to urinate, and was miserable even when Olveru explained that his body was purging itself as it changed to the Water element. He slept fitfully, his dreams tormented with images of sea creatures swarming around him in dark, cold waters that closed over his head and would not let him go. When the priests came, they told him that he had been in the sea. Some fishermen who dwelt near the shore had found him lying in the surf with the driftwood they had come to collect and had called for the priests, who brought him to the House of the Water. “You must have fallen off a boat on the open sea and washed ashore,” said Olveru. “The priests have made inquiries on the waterfront, but none of the fisher folk here in Sirilon have reported anyone missing.” His fever lessened and his body grew strong enough that he was able to take exercise in the small garden attached to the gatehouse. When a priest came to tell him that new lodgings were being prepared for him, his fear returned. At first he thought he was to be taken out into the city, but the priest drew his attention over to a nearby building with a blue slate roof. From his upper story window he was able to see more of the building and another, larger complex looming behind it. When the priest explained that the Blue House was where the talevé traditionally dwelt, all the young man understood was that he was going to be taken from his quiet room and pretty garden and immured behind temple walls. It did not feel like the honor the priest claimed it was. Clothing was brought for him. More formal than the robe and shift he had worn in the gatehouse, it did not quite fit. More priests came to instruct him in the rules of the Blue House and his responsibilities in it, at which he told them that a mistake had been made and stopped listening.

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The following morning when they came to escort him to his new lodgings, he struggled between them, calming only when Olveru appeared. “The Blue House is just like the gatehouse, only larger,” said the healer. “You will have your own room and a beautiful garden to walk in, and everyone is eager to meet you. No one will hurt you. There is nothing to fear.” Although his manner was grave, Olveru had a soft, persuasive voice. At length, the young man took the healer’s outstretched hand and let Olveru guide him across a broad courtyard and into the walled compound. Eighteen talevé dwelled in the Blue House, plus the servants, who were eunuchs from a foreign land. Only castrated males were considered reliable enough to wait on the Lady’s sacred lovers. “You will be with others who are just like you. I understand you are nervous, but you will soon find there is nothing to fear.” Olveru patted the young man’s hand, drawing him through the gate. No matter how low his station at birth, every talevé was entitled to respect. He was provided with the best of everything, including an education if he was unlettered, and aside from certain religious obligations his life was one of comfort and leisure. He allowed Olveru’s soothing words to take him past the murals whose sea creatures too closely echoed his nightmares and onto a colonnade that looked out on a broad, green garden. Madril, a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair, led the priests who met him on the shaded path. All four bowed deeply to him. “Welcome to the Blue House, most favored one. Here you will dwell in the Lady’s sight, according to Her wish.” Beyond a nod of acknowledgement, the young man was not required to make a ritual response. For this small blessing alone he was grateful. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the talevé began to approach him. No one had warned him about having to interact so soon with the others, and the man’s physical presence so intimidated him that he quickly ducked his head. Even the other man’s voice was powerful, deep with a strange accent, as he asked if he could give assistance. “Olenwë, the ritual is well in hand. I do not think now is the time,” said Madril. 89

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“The ritual’s over,” answered the talevé, whose name the young man did not quite get; it sounded foreign. “I was going to ask if you needed help getting him upstairs.” “We have people for that,” said one of the other priests. “This is no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest.” The voice that answered him dropped to a dangerous timbre. “You might be a priest, Kyrin, but I haven’t forgotten how to punch a man who insults me.” “That is enough from both of you!” Madril’s voice scythed through the tension, separating the two. “Olenwë, I thought I had given orders to clear the garden and atrium. You and your friends should not be here.” “I don’t know about them, but I was minding my own business,” said Olenwë. “Those bushes over there, they need pruning.” “And you have not touched a pair of pruning shears in the two years you have been here.” “No, but I used to haul fishnets out of the sea for a living. I’m strong enough to carry a man when he can’t walk, and this one’s shaking so hard I don’t see how he’s going to make it up the stairs on his own. I don’t suppose you’re going to carry him. Here, let me take him, Olveru. You just tell somebody to show me where his room is.” Powerful arms went around the young man’s waist, sliding behind his knees and lifting him off the ground even as his body stiffened in protest. He did not want Olveru to leave him with this stranger. Dizziness took him, forcing him to close his eyes and bury his face in the other man’s chest. Olenwë’s strength was reassuring, but the words of his argument with the priest made the young man afraid. This is no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest. Though he did not quite understand what that warning meant, it implied something sinister.

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Chapter Two The bedchamber was more spacious than the room he had occupied in the gatehouse. Beeswax polish pervaded the air, and a soft blue coverlet draped a bed piled with cushions. As soon as he felt the mattress under him, the young man sat up, blinking his eyes to dispel his vertigo. Once the dizziness passed, he reached to undo the cords that held back the curtains. A large hand circled his wrist to stop him. “Why do you want to hide?” asked Olenwë. “You should pull your hair out of your eyes and stop being so shy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” All he could do was shake his head. While reassuring at first, Olenwë’s solicitousness was not altogether proper, and the young man could not help but notice that neither Olveru nor the priests had followed them into the room. “All right,” said Olenwë, “if you aren’t going to show yourself, and since Olveru says you don’t have a name, I’m going to call you Ninion. It means hidden one in Danasi. There are statues of their gods everywhere on the island where I was born. They all have blank faces, because it’s forbidden to look at the divine. We call them ninoni.” The Danasi dwelled in the islands and coastal highlands west of Sirilon. They were secretive and rough, worshipping their own pantheon of nameless gods. “You are not a Shivarian?” the young man asked. Chancing only the slightest look at Olenwë’s face, he saw someone tall and broad-shouldered, with a firm jaw. Aside from the accent, Olenwë did not seem like a foreigner. “I thought only Shivarians could become talevé.” “I’m mixed blood,” said Olenwë. “Most of the people of the Seaward Islands are, but we worship the Lady of the Waters as well as anybody. Here, I’ll show you.” He quickly rolled up his sleeve to reveal a firmly muscled bicep bearing the triple wave of the Water 91

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rune. “I got my tat at fifteen. All islanders honor the Lady like this, and the men on the ship that brought me here had them as well.” The tattoo rippled as Olenwë flexed his arm; the young man could not stop looking at it. “So do you like the name? Shivarian names don’t mean anything, but Danasi ones do.” “Ninion,” he murmured, trying the name on his lips. It sounded all right. He nodded. Olveru appeared with a few loose leaves of paper and writing implements. He set them down on the wooden sideboard before ushering Olenwë out of the room. “You may see him later, once he is situated.” He politely but firmly closed the door after the man. “I will leave you to rest for a while, but first we must see about a name for you. The priests must make a record of your arrival.” “He said you could call me Ninion.” “Olenwë gave you a name? It must be a Danasi one, like his. But if you like it, that is what we will call you. Should you remember your own name or anything about your former life, I brought paper for you to jot things down as they come to you.” Olveru went over to the window, where a long chest covered by cushions doubled as a seat. “You will find toiletries and clothing, which can be altered if it does not fit you. On special occasions, you will wear robes; I will help you choose something suitable from our stores. Tonight you may eat here but tomorrow you will take your meals with everyone else in the communal hall. The bathing room and privy are down the hall. We typically bathe together, though you may decide whether you prefer to go in the morning or evening.” A eunuch arrived bearing a tray of food. The young man picked at the oatmeal and sliced apple before curling up on the carpet against the chest with the paper and pencil. During his illness his mind had turned to wool, unable to recall even the names of the people who tended him. Now fragments had begun to return, surprising him with their intensity. Olveru wanted him to write, to remember, but words would not come to him, and what little he knew he did not want to share. Ninion. No other name came to him, however hard he tried to remember. Ninion it would be, then.

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Letting his thoughts meander with the shifting light of the room, he idly moved the pencil across the page, and had halfway sketched the elaborate feet of the brazier before he realized what he was doing and crumpled up the paper. **** The movements were an intricate dance of balance and strength, but the implement belonged to the Seaward Islands and half a dozen other fishing towns and villages along the Shivarian coast; only the net hook had been removed. Olenwë moved in tandem with Elentur and Daro, each one easily twirling the weight of the staff. In the islands it was as good a weapon as a sword, while in the Blue House the purpose of the exercise was physical fitness, not combat. “Oh, look there,” said Elentur, snickering loudly enough to be heard halfway across the garden. “He must be looking for his doll.” The young talevé who was the butt of his joke stiffened and quickly scurried down the colonnade into the Blue House’s library. Olenwë waited to see what Daro would say, but the other man simply stopped his exercise and leaned on the staff in a pensive manner. A fourteen-year-old talevé was really nothing to joke about. The priests told them outright that they did not have any business questioning the Lady’s choice, but that did not stop the speculation. What had gotten into Her to even look twice at Dyas made them all wonder. Perhaps in a few years he would be attractive; now he was simply scrawny and childish. “Maybe the doll is a better bedmate,” Daro finally said. Elentur snorted. “Yeah, but it doesn’t suck cock the way I do.” “Leave him alone!” Olenwë was stunned to hear the voice of the young man huddled on the bench at the edge of the exercise yard. In the five weeks he had been in the Blue House, Ninion had hardly said ten words to anyone. It was easy to forget he was even there. “Hey, we’re just having a bit of fun,” Elentur called back. “You want to join us?” Ninion’s eyes were blazing. “You are all disgusting!” When he turned and stormed back toward the house, it had not been in Olenwë to follow. The young man’s tantrum was hardly worth the effort, yet before he knew it Olenwë was snatching up his 93

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tunic and running across the gravel, then onto the garden path to catch up with him. “Slow down there. Now tell me, why am I so disgusting? I haven’t got anything on the bottom of my shoe and I took a bath before, so I shouldn’t smell too bad.” Ninion stopped under the colonnade, well out of sight of the others. “You make fun of him.” “And he lets us,” said Olenwë. “Maybe you didn’t notice, seeing as how you never let your hair out of your eyes, but Dyas always rises to the bait.” “You should know better.” If there was one thing Olenwë understood about Ninion, it was that under his inexplicable shyness was an arrogance that could only belong to the highborn, whether he remembered his birth or not. Moreover, he did not like other men getting too close to him; he even wore his underclothes into the bathing pool, averting his gaze from those who bared their bodies. Olenwë could not see what was so wrong about young men being naked together. Everybody had the same parts, and it was all very proper. “Is there anything else that disgusts you?” asked Olenwë. “Yes, your vulgar language.” “That’s a big word, isn’t it? Yes, I talk like a fisherman, and so does Elentur, because we both are fishermen, and yes, I say don’t instead of do not. No, it’s not proper for a talevé, but the priests know if they don’t like it they can kiss my—” Ninion growled. “You are impossible!” Quickly sidestepping Olenwë, he scurried away. Again, against his better judgment, Olenwë hurried to catch up with him. **** Ninion wished the other man would leave him alone. Olenwë’s presence was intimidating, never mind that he was stripped to the waist for exercise with hands that could snap a wooden post in two. His mingled odors of leather, sweat, and male musk were a combination that unnerved Ninion. He started to slam the door, but Olenwë thrust his hand into the jamb and pushed it open again. “What do you want?”

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Olenwë walked into the room, noting with a raised eyebrow the way Ninion put the bed between them. “I just want to talk to you.” “If you are going to swear at me, you can just turn around and go away.” The priests who instructed the talevé in the behavior appropriate for their station all agreed that the speech of some of the Blue House’s residents was lamentably crude. A talevé was not supposed to use contractions, just as he was not supposed to scratch himself, wipe his nose on his sleeve or make rude jokes in public. Everyone behaved when the priests were about, but when their backs were turned and once they left the Blue House for the night the talevé did as they pleased. Ninion climbed onto the bed, crossed his legs, and tried to ignore Olenwë by doing the meditations prescribed for him by Aglarin. The priest had explained to both him and Dyas that they each had an animal spirit called a ki’iri inside them. Only through meditation and study would they learn what their ki’iri spirit was and how to release it. Olenwë made no effort to leave. “Oh, I see. Do you know what your animal is yet?” Take a hint and go away, Ninion thought. The mattress dipped at one end. When Ninion slitted his eyes to look, he was horrified to see Olenwë sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m a hrill. There are twelve sacred animals, but that’s the best one you can have. There are a few other hrill here, too, and Daro’s a senu on top of that.” “What is a senu?” asked Ninion. “What cellar did you grow up in that you don’t know what a senu is?” he sputtered. “It’s somebody who can talk to the hrill.” “I did not grow up in a cellar. I was born here in Sirilon, but I never got to go down to the docks. I never left the upper city and I never saw a hrill until—” The memory of dark shapes in the water suddenly washed over him. Hrill were gentle creatures, servants of the Lady who were known to rescue men drowning at sea. They should not inspire fear, yet it was all Ninion could do to force them from his thoughts.

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At the edge of the bed, Olenwë watched him intently. When he spoke, his voice was soft yet earnest. “The upper city,” he murmured. “You remember where you come from?” Ninion quickly shook his head. “I was born here, I know that, and I lived in a house with many servants, but that is all. I remember nothing of my name or family.” “So why were you in the water?” asked Olenwë. It was not the first time someone had asked, but Ninion had always been able to evade giving an answer. What am I to say, that I do not remember? Now Olenwë loomed too close to him, an insurmountable obstacle, the need in his eyes burning so hotly it compelled Ninion to draw back. “Go away,” he whispered. “Please, just go away.”

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Chapter Three The lesson had technically ended for the day, or would have had Dyas stopped questioning the ki’iri master. “Can I become a bird?” “No, Dyas,” said Aglarin. “Birds have hollow bones to aid their flight, but you do not. You cannot change your basic nature to include flight, or gills with which to breathe underwater.” “But Arion can do a hrill, he’s told me so.” Aglarin swiftly corrected him. “He has told you. And a hrill is not a fish. It is warm-blooded and breathes air, as you do.” Ninion had begun to feel the ki’iri master’s impatience. At this rate, they would never be dismissed. Dyas was pleasant enough when he was not being baited. More than anything, he wanted to go home to his two little sisters and his dog, and sulked when the priests told him he could not keep a pet. Seeing his loneliness, Ninion sympathized with him, but like everyone else he wondered what had possessed the Lady of the Waters to select so young and immature a lover. Out of boredom, two other talevé had come to listen to the lecture. Ninion suspected they had come to torment Dyas. Aglarin, in fact, glared at them with eyes that warned them to hold their tongues, which they did not do; they sat in the back and whispered to each other throughout. Ninion drew his lips tight in anger. Did they think the boy could not hear them? Mindful of Olenwë’s words, that the boy encouraged his tormentors, he urged Dyas to ignore the teasing. However, the baiting did not stop and the boy could not concentrate. Ninion was strongly tempted to ask Aglarin to put the others out, but he had been taught from a very young age that it was the highest disrespect to interrupt an elder.

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Aglarin pulled his bushy eyebrows together into the beginnings of a frown. While he had vast reserves of patience, even the portly ki’iri master must eventually reach his limit. Once again, he gave the two young men a warning glare while trying to stay focused on Dyas’ digressions. “There are twelve sacred animals and only twelve,” he answered. “And they must be warm-blooded and close to your own body size and weight.” “What about a dog?” pressed Dyas. “Dogs are nice. I used to have one called Arcus.” “What about a nice little baby ducky?” Elentur chortled under his breath. Finally, Ninion turned around and snapped at him. “Be quiet! I am trying to listen.” In a calm yet tight voice, Aglarin ordered Elentur out of the room. Minias, who had been sitting beside him, made his excuses and left before he could be similarly evicted. “Why do they have to be so mean?” Dyas asked once they left. “I do not know,” murmured Ninion, “but you did well in ignoring them.” “At least Olenwë wasn’t with them. He teases you, too, Ninion.” “Yes, he does.” “Does that mean he likes you? My mother said that when somebody teases you like that, it means they like you.” Dyas frowned, puzzling over what he had just said. “Although I think she meant it about girls.” “No,” said Ninion, “it means that he is a pest.” “I guess they’re all pests, then.” Aglarin cleared his throat to get their attention. “Any talevé who wishes has the right to attend a lecture, but I will speak to them and see if I can discourage them from attending your lessons.” Dyas shrugged. “Don’t bother. I’m never going to get it.” “The ki’iri gift will come to you, just as proper speech will.” Aglarin winked at the boy. “But you must practice both.” Ninion gently touched the boy’s shoulder. “The gift has not come to me, either.” “It will not come to either one of you if you dwell on it too much,” said Aglarin. 98

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They were released to the afternoon meal, after which they had an hour of exercise before the day’s second round of lessons. Some of the talevé who entered the Blue House were unlettered or did not quite meet the standard. These were sent to the schoolroom to take lessons in diction, reading, and writing in addition to the practical and devotional instruction which they all received. And then some must endure further lessons with the priests, who tried to instill in them that such things as scratching, belching, and slouching were not considered proper social graces. Upon his arrival, Ninion had been examined in all these areas, and the priests had determined that he was properly educated; that he could not recall his formal schooling or anything beyond the ability to read, write, and do figures did not trouble the priests. “You need only be literate, well-mannered, and able to memorize the correct prayers,” he was told. Where he would have spent his afternoon in the schoolroom, Ninion obtained permission to go to the House of the Water where the priests gave him a job cataloguing manuscripts. If he performed well, he might at a later time be allowed to work in the scriptorium. He particularly enjoyed studying the sacred texts with their gilded pages and jewel-like illuminations, though he was careful not to be seen idling. In the evening after dinner, the talevé enjoyed a few hours of leisure before bed. Usually they gathered in the communal sitting room to talk, read, or play games. Sometimes the eunuchs emerged from their quarters to join them and share stories about Tajhaan, the distant desert land where they had been born. A few talevé, looking to alleviate their boredom, even took lessons in the Tajhaani language. Dyas showed Ninion how to play staves, a game which he did not know. “I wish I didn’t have to have those stupid speaking and writing lessons,” he complained. “The others all make fun of me.” Ninion gave the culprits a sidelong glance. “They are jealous because they are all older than you and are not doing as well.” “Where did you learn to speak so well? Are you rich? Enedhil says all rich people know how to speak right.” “No one is rich or poor in the Blue House.” “No,” said Dyas. “I meant before.” 99

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“I do not recall, but I must have had a good teacher. Here, you are neglecting your staves and it was you who wanted to play. You have the blue ones, remember?” **** Ninion had made a practice of coolly ignoring him. His attitude was a typical piece of highborn arrogance that would have been sufficient for Olenwë to leave him alone, yet in unguarded moments Olenwë saw another side of him that renewed his determination to gain the young man’s trust. When he was not at his lessons, Ninion could often be found curled up in an inconspicuous corner with a scrap of paper and a drawing pencil. Whatever he drew he never showed anyone, shoving it under a book whenever someone expressed curiosity. Olenwë did not know why, but in those moments of peace, Ninion was strikingly beautiful, and Olenwë sensed that seeing him in this state was a rare privilege. The summer air was too warm for afternoon exercises. Olenwë went out into the garden, hoping perhaps for a game of dice or staves with Elentur; the man had trounced him last time and he wanted his coppers back. He paused when he glimpsed Ninion sitting in the partial shade of a lime tree with Dyas. Both were drawing. Now there was an interesting sight. Olenwë stealthily ventured close enough to see the boy’s childish scrawling, but Ninion immediately sensed he was being watched and clutched the paper to his breast. There was no sense in hiding his presence any longer. “Why don’t you let me see what you’re doing?” “‘Cause you’ll make fun of him,” said Dyas. Olenwë took a long breath. “Listen, boy, I didn’t ask for your opinion, and if you get snippy with me I’m going box your ears.” “You can’t do that,” answered Dyas. “I’m a talevé.” “So am I.” Olenwë made a shooing gesture. “Now go scurry off somewhere so I can have a word with Ninion.” Gathering his things, Dyas stalked off with a murderous glare. “I’ll see you later, Ninion, once he goes away. Just don’t let him kiss you. My mother says if you kiss somebody and you’re not related that means you’re lovers.”

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Before Olenwë could answer the boy with an obscene gesture, Ninion rounded on him. “Why is it so difficult for you to be nice to him?” “I was being nice, otherwise I would’ve boxed his ears as I said,” answered Olenwë. “He hadn’t any business saying I was going to make fun of you. I just wanted to see what you were doing. You spend a lot of time with pencil and paper.” If anything, Ninion pressed the drawing pad even more firmly against him. “It is nothing, just scribbling.” “Then why don’t you let me see?” Putting his hand on the edge of the drawing pad, taking care not to be too rough or appear too eager, Olenwë managed to coax it away from Ninion. Unable to draw and not knowing anyone who could, he anticipated the type of childish scrawls Dyas had produced. True art was the furthest thing from his expectations. A graphite image of Aglarin met his gaze; the clean-shaven ki’iri master was poised in mid-lecture, as lifelike as if he was standing before them. “This isn’t scribbling at all,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful. Do you have anymore?” Ninion bit his lip. “Can I have it back now?” Instead, Olenwë flipped through the pad. Every inch of paper was covered with drawings, images of trees, statues, and people. Olenwë found himself gazing upon priests, eunuchs, Olveru, Dyas, Arion with his abundantly long hair and….himself? Not just any image, but stripped to the waist in the bath, luxuriating in the warm water; the image was far more sensual than he would have given the artist credit for. “You drew me?” “Please, give them back.” Olenwë was alarmed by his pleading tone. There was no reason in the world for him to be so distraught over a compliment. “I was going to ask you if I could keep this one, but it’s all right. You can have it back.” He put the drawings back into Ninion’s hands. “Really, it’s all right.” The speed with which the young man gathered up his things and fled was doubly alarming. Olenwë could only wonder what he had done or said to put him off so. “All I did was compliment him,” he murmured. “You were mean to him. I told him you would be.” 101

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A familiar and thoroughly unwelcome voice told him that Dyas had been spying on them. Had the boy been standing close enough, Olenwë would have cuffed him. “Oh, shut up.”

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Chapter Four Night beaded the windowsill with dew, and a bright moon dappled the curtains of his bed. Within, all was darkness, a cocoon of solitude and dreams. Down the ephemeral paths of sleep he went, peering first in one corner then another until he came to a place that beckoned him to stay. Amid the softly rustling leaves he saw it, a gentle creature, skittish at his approach, browsing through the grass of a sundappled clearing in a forest where no other beast stirred. A majestic head lifted, liquid eyes caught his and held his gaze. The next morning after breakfast, Ninion told Aglarin about the dream. Nodding, the ki’iri master waited until he was finished to give his answer. “It was a stag you saw. It is sacred to both the Earth Mother and the Lady of the Waters.” Ninion had known what he was seeing; to have it confirmed brought him no relief. “But people hunt stags.” Aglarin gave him a curious look. “Only noblemen are permitted to hunt deer. Have you ever done so?” “No, I have just seen them.” Whatever memories he had mislaid, Ninion was certain he had never been hunting. He had, however, heard the cautionary fables of talevé who abandoned the Blue House while in the throes of their ki’iri gift only to be killed by hunters or frightened villagers while still in spirit form. “When I change, someone will shoot at me. They will not know any better.” “You have heard too many stories. When you transform, it will be strictly within the Blue House. Hrill and dolphins are the only ki’iri permitted to go out.” Following protocol, Ninion did not formally announce his vision to the other talevé. This would not occur until after his first successful transformation, but everyone knew by the preparations being undertaken what he would become. Those who shared his 103

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ki’iri gift offered encouragement though little practical advice. As the experience was different for all, he was discouraged from forming any preconceived notions about what would take place. A ki’iri spirit took its cue from a talevé’s own disposition, so the revelation rarely came as a surprise. All agreed that Ninion had a deer’s liquid brown eyes, yet were puzzled when Olveru pointed out that a stag could be fierce under certain circumstances. Aglarin arranged for him to visit the private menagerie of Sirilon’s ruling prince, where the handlers let him touch a stag and watch it in its pen so he could study the animal he was to become. His dreams intensified, always taking him to that same place: the silent, sun-dappled clearing where his hands and nostrils were filled with the living pulse and musk of the animal in whose pelt he now slept. In the darkness of the night, he woke feeling strangely detached. The deerskin ended up on the floor and he went to the wash basin to vigorously scrub the dead animal’s scent from his hands and face. Sleep did not return so easily; he filled the small hours with sketches of things half-remembered from his dreams. One morning he woke to a sudden ache in his limbs. By the time he stumbled out of bed in search of Olveru, he could barely walk. In the corridor, he found a passing eunuch and asked him to bring the healer, as he did not think he could make it downstairs. Another eunuch helped put him back to bed, and Olveru arrived within a few minutes to see what was wrong. The healer did not seem alarmed. He simply took Ninion’s pulse and sent for Aglarin. “What is it?” asked Ninion. Every pore in his body radiated pain. Surely he must be dying. “It is your ki’iri spirit trying to emerge. Do not fight it,” said Olveru. “Aglarin will be here as swiftly as he can and he will help you release it.” Whatever Olveru meant by swiftly, it seemed to be taking forever. There was no space for fear or thought, only the urgency of pain. At that moment, Ninion would have done anything to stop it. Aglarin was still brushing bits of pastry off the front of his robe as he came in. Gently nudging Olveru aside, he sat down on the bed beside Ninion and took his wrist to measure his pulse. “The time is

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now,” he said. “The spirit is already halfway out of you. Relax and release it.” Ninion groaned. “It hurts.” “That is because you are trying to suppress it by fighting the pain. It is a natural response, but the exact opposite of what you should be doing. Relax your limbs and let the pain take you. You will not lose consciousness and you will not die.” Slowly, he unwound his body where he had doubled over himself and tried to breathe in and out as Aglarin urged him to do. At once, the pain hit him with renewed vigor, and he cried out, but even as he did so he could feel his limbs stretching and reshaping themselves. Olveru quickly moved in to pull his clothing off him; as he reached up to help, thrashing his arms and legs to be rid of the linen nightshirt, he saw the pelt beginning to erupt over his skin. His cry of alarm dissolved, and the sounds of human speech blurred into incomprehensible background noise. Smells deepened even as many of the colors in the room muted to gray, though the crimson embroidery on the cushions by the window remained vivid. Both men helped roll him off the bed onto the floor, where he wobbled on four legs that seemed too flimsy to bear his weight. His head drooped under the unwieldy antlers that had sprouted from his forehead; he tried to shake them loose until he discovered the trick of keeping his head and neck balanced. Aglarin spoke to him, gesturing that he should follow. Others came out into the corridor to look at him and murmur in their strange tongue. The stairs were difficult to negotiate at first, but he quickly managed the trick of placing his legs and was soon following the man across the atrium and into the garden. Morning dew still clung to the grass, which beckoned to him with its crisp, green fragrance. His last meal had been the night before. He started to browse and nibble, ducking away when the man, making negative sounds, gestured for him to stop. Another man approached him. He recognized the scent, only now it was stronger, a blend of soft wool and male musk. The smell should have aroused his competitive instinct, but there were no females about for the challenge of butting antlers. It aroused something else in him instead, and it seemed odd to him that it was 105

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musk and not estrus that drew him. Although he did not understand the murmuring sounds the man made, he submitted to his caresses, relishing the way his hands roamed his head and flanks. Exhaustion suddenly crept over him. No longer could he support the weight of his antlers. His head sagged and, wobbling into the grass, he sank down on trembling legs. A stag’s instincts told him to keep his eyes open, that it was not safe to be so vulnerable with other males nearby, but he was too far gone to care. Closing his eyes, he dreamt, stirring only at the first slight touch of cool air on his body. Arms went around him, lifting him out of the nest of grass he had made for himself. The scent was still there, wool and musk, and his human mind supplied a name. Weariness obscured his shame; he vaguely knew he was naked, but did not care. Once safely cocooned in the warm softness of his bed, Ninion slipped away again. It was evening before nausea woke him. Fumbling in the darkness for the chamber pot, he threw up something that, once he managed to strike a light, looked like bits of grass. Ki’iri and human memories did not quite merge; he tried to remember if he had eaten while in his other body but could not. Aglarin had warned him against it. He slept the rest of the night, stirring only when one of the servants drew back the curtains to admit a blinding panel of morning light. “You cannot stay in bed all day, honored one,” said the eunuch. “There is going to be a ceremony today, because you performed your magic. They are going to say special prayers.” Olveru presently brought food and clean water for his wash basin. “Aglarin will come later this morning with Madril to lead you in a prayer of thanks to the Lady.” He peered into the chamber pot. “You ate while in your ki’iri body.” “I do not remember.” Ninion managed to keep down half a biscuit and some juice before pushing the rest aside. His limbs felt too slack and drowsy for movement, yet he could not go back to sleep. He curled up among the pillows with his drawing pad and pencil. It had taken two months for him to work up enough courage to ask for good

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quality paper and graphite, and to his astonishment the priests had been more than happy to accommodate him. Most of the talevé left him alone for the time being, a few peering in to see if he was awake, but the tall figure who came to stand by his bed had the air of one who had come to stay. “Are you feeling better?” asked Olenwë. Letting his hair fall in front of his face, Ninion nodded. “You should be getting dressed soon, didn’t they tell you?” Olenwë was dressed more formally than usual, in dark blue silk with a silver brooch at his shoulder. “It’s a nice ceremony they have, and they give you a pin that has your animal to say you’re a full talevé. I daresay Aglarin’s had it ready for weeks.” He paused before adding, “You were a lovely stag.” “You saw me?” “I was the one who carried you back here, don’t you remember? Some don’t recall their transformations afterward, but those of us who are hrill usually do. I think it’s because hrill are smarter to begin with. They’re almost like people, in a way.” Ninion realized with a sudden flush of embarrassment that he had been naked when his transformation ended. Ducking his head, he hugged the drawing pad to him. Olenwë dropped his eyes to the paper and graphite. “What are you drawing?” “It is nothing.” “Show me. I like everything you draw. The Lady knows I can’t draw anything, not even a proper eye for the prow of a ship.” “Why does a ship need an eye?” “It’s a Danasi custom,” explained Olenwë. “The eye guards the vessel from evil spirits in the deep. Now come, show me what you’re drawing.” Ninion reluctantly relinquished the page. “It is not very good.” The composition was very fluid, not at all like the portraits or stilllife sketches he was accustomed to doing. Olenwë’s brow furrowed slightly as he puzzled over it, and Ninion’s heart sank. I knew it was not at all good. “Is this what you saw when you were a stag?” “It is what little I remember.”

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He gave the drawing back. “Why are you so shy about your drawings? If I could draw like that, everybody would know about it.” Ninion covered the drawing with a blank sheet and stuffed it under his pillow. “I do not like others looking at my work. It is nothing to look at anyway, truly. Perhaps I should not waste my time with it.” **** The ceremony was an elegantly simple affair, with all the talevé, eunuchs, and tutors present. Ninion had assumed it would take place in the atrium where the morning and evening devotions were held. Instead, the priests led them across the garden to a shrine whose doors opened to reveal a marble rotunda. A pool of water reflected the sea-greened copper image of the Lady that stood in a niche at the opposite end. In full regalia, Madril officiated, presenting Ninion to the Lady as Her fully invested servant. In Your sight, in both bodies, the one he brings and one that is Your gift, here is Your servant, Ninion. What everyone was really to see was Aglarin’s gift: a silver brooch in the shape of a leaping stag. When he pinned it on Ninion’s shoulder, it was the signal to applaud and come forward to offer congratulations. A small meal was laid out in the communal dining room. Ninion’s stomach was still queasy from the grass and he could not eat, but he did his best to smile at the others. Socializing was not something that came easily to him. As soon as possible, he retreated to a corner with Dyas, who, like him, had no one else to talk to. Olenwë promptly came over with a pastry and the watered wine talevé were sometimes allowed. “Why aren’t you eating?” “I am not hungry.” “Here, take this.” He set the plate down in front of Ninion. “If you want to get big and strong you need to eat more.”

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Someone once told him that the people of the Seaward Islands were typically taller and more vigorous than their mainland cousins, so Ninion very much doubted he would ever fill out the way Olenwë had. But he sensed that the other man would not leave him alone until he ate something, so he took the proffered plate and fork and choked down a few bites of pastry to please him. As he took a sip of the wine, Olenwë fumbled in his pocket. “I’d like to give you something. It’s not as fancy as that pin, but it’ll give you better luck.” He held in his hand a bit of shell and rock crystal strung on a leather thong. It was not particularly attractive. “We wear these in the islands to be safe at sea. Before I came here, I wore it all the time.” Ninion looked at the worn talisman, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. “Should you not keep it?” “The only time I ever go into the water now is for the hrill, and I can’t wear it there. Here, turn around and let me put it on you.” The talisman hung heavy and strange around his neck, and worse, Olenwë apparently expected him to wear it. Ninion murmured his thanks, though by this time he was blushing furiously and wanted nothing more than to tear the thing off. Still, the rules of common courtesy were clear. He should give a gift in return. Telling Olenwë to wait, he went upstairs and got his drawing pad. When he returned several minutes later, Olenwë was still sitting at the table with the plate of half-eaten pastry. His bemused expression became one of earnest as Ninion opened the pad and began to leaf through the pages. “What are you doing?” he asked. Toward the back, shoved behind images on better-quality paper, Ninion found the image of Olenwë in the bath. “Here,” he said, timidly offering the drawing. “You can have this.” Olenwë accepted the parchment, smoothing out the edges while careful not to blur the graphite. “You didn’t have to give me anything,” he said, “but it’s beautiful, like you are.” He lifted a hand to brush back the strands of hair that had fallen across Ninion’s face. “You shouldn’t hide yourself like that.” Ninion flinched at the touch of those fingertips running through his hair, grazing his cheek. “Please do not touch me.” “Why not?” 109

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“Because men should not do that.” Olenwë smiled at him. He still had not moved his hand. “Outside, maybe they shouldn’t, but here it’s very different. I’m sure you know that.” No one had said anything outright, and Ninion had experienced a very abrupt awakening when he saw two talevé kissing in a corner. The act so shocked him that he felt ill. He was even more horrified that no one stopped the two men, who did not seem the least bit concerned about being discovered. Later, when he summoned the nerve to ask, Olveru told him that talevé had love affairs with each other all the time. As a child he had been taught to revere talevé as pure vessels utterly devoted to the Lady, when in reality it seemed they were nothing more than whores going from one bed to another. Upon returning to his room, he had knelt in front of his shrine and prayed for the Lady’s guidance. It was inconceivable that She did not know what Her lovers were doing, and that She would not punish them. “You are supposed to love the Lady, not each other. It is unnatural and disgusting.” Olenwë narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time the Lady came to you?” The question cut more deeply than he had perhaps intended. Because the priests were so vague about this aspect of a talevé’s calling, Ninion had not given it much thought. Only now did he consider that something might be lacking. “Never,” he admitted. “Perhaps She does not like me.” “That’s not true. She came to you once,” said Olenwë. “That’s why you changed. But you have to understand, we’re not with Her all the time. There are other Water-lovers in other cities, and then Her consort must have His due. Each of us gets to be with Her maybe once a year, which leaves us with nothing to do in the meantime.” “You don’t have to do those other things. You’re supposed to be pure vessels for the Lady.” “Sleeping with another talevé makes me dirty? There’s nothing that says we shouldn’t have sex, and the priests don’t mind.” That was the unlikeliest excuse Ninion had ever heard to justify what everyone knew was an unnatural practice, and he said so. 110

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“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” said Olenwë, “but a good many talevé happen to like men. I’m not ashamed to admit that I do. I always have.” “Then why did anyone not punish you? A good beating would have cured you of it.” Olenwë took this statement of fact with infuriatingly good humor. “Do you really think so? I wasn’t punished because I didn’t let anybody know. You’re right, my father would’ve taken the skin off my back if he knew, but I don’t think it would’ve done any good. Of course nobody wants to be unnatural, but there are some things men can’t change. The Lady only knows how I tried. I did it with girls hoping I’d get interested, but it was their brothers I really wanted.” Disgust and fascination warred within Ninion. “What about here?” “Here I don’t have to hide what I am, because there are so many others like me,” said Olenwë. “I’ve learned not to be ashamed of it. Liking other men doesn’t make me weak or any less of a man. Give me some idiot who says I’m unnatural and I’ll put his head through a wall if you don’t believe me. And the way I see it, not liking girls means I’ll be faithful to the Lady. If She didn’t like it, She would say something.” “But She is also a woman,” protested Ninion. “No, the Lady is a goddess, and it’s very different when you lie with Her. I’m not particularly good with words, and it’s not something we’re supposed to talk about even with each other, but She doesn’t take the flesh to make love.” **** It took all his self-control not to lean in and kiss Ninion and crush that slender body against his own. Had he been an islander, the young man would have understood immediately what the gift of the talisman meant. Lovers in the Seaward Islands exchanged tokens all the time, and Olenwë still had the bit of spiral shell his first lover had given him. Ninion could say what he liked about male love, but Olenwë sensed uncertainty even when he voiced his objections. Now the young man was wearing his token, but more importantly, he had given a gift in turn, something that was less 111

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than chaste. An islander knew that when the gift of a token was reciprocated, it meant that a lover’s suit had been accepted. Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, thought Olenwë, you just told me you loved me.

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Chapter Five Crowds lined the streets from the House of the Water, extending east along the heights of Sirilon, to the House of the Air on its high promontory. For the Lord Min’s feast-day, His banners hung from every pole and balcony, stirring in the crisp autumn air, and all businesses were closed. The citizens burned incense to the Lady’s consort and gathered to catch a glimpse of the talevé, who went in solemn procession to do reverence to the Lord of the Winds. It was ritual humiliation. Once a year the talevé were required to acknowledge Min’s right of precedence with the Lady of the Waters. Not to do so was to invite misfortune; those mariners, merchants and fishermen who relied on good winds in their sails for their livelihood could not afford the storms that ensued when Min grew agitated, or the calm seas that came when He withheld His favor. Ninion felt the crowd measuring him. In his finery of pale blue brocade, he felt stiff and half-dressed. For the occasion he had been forced to comb his hair out of his eyes, but he kept his gaze to the ground even as his companions held their heads high. It did not matter that the citizens along the route were respectful, even adoring as some of them called out and threw flowers. Large numbers of people frightened him. Olenwë, in his dark blue silk, was his partner as they walked in double file down the Street of the Princes. Ninion had not asked the other man to accompany him; he had simply taken the honor as if it was his right. Olenwë remained by his side throughout, lending his silent presence, and Ninion felt safe with him. The route was lined with temple guards from the House of the Water, and by the archers of Min, the god’s elite corps who were also trained in the city’s defense. Dressed in the god’s white and gray, they formed an impassive barrier between the crowd and the 113

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procession, which included priests of both Houses as well as the talevé and a parade of the city’s elite that stretched the entire two mile distance between the temples. Unlike Prince Carancil and his courtiers with their richly caparisoned mounts, the talevé were compelled to walk. The priests had cautioned them to wear comfortable shoes under their robes, but even the hardiest of them were footsore by the time they reached the courtyard of the House of the Air. Up a broad flight of steps they climbed, still in double file, and entered the god’s white marble domain, a forest of wide columns banded in silver. Every door had been thrown open to welcome the Lord of the Winds; despite the bodies crowding the hall, the air was chill, stirring the chimes dangling high above. At the high altar, where Min’s visage glared down at the worshippers, the priests of the Air stepped down to greet the talevé. Although they spoke words of welcome, their courtesy was as stern as the occasion demanded. The attendant priests of the Water fell away, as was proper in the house of another god. They had brought the supplicants as tradition demanded, but would not participate in the offerings. In the weeks before the equinox, the talevé had been taught the ritual genuflection and prayer. Those who had learned it in previous years were made to revisit their lessons until they could execute the movements perfectly. Now all nineteen of them lined up before the altar, went down to their knees in a single fluid gesture before the image of Min, and bowed their heads while performing the ritual invocation. Nineteen voices formed a synchronous echo in the deep, vaulted space; the murmur had barely subsided when the priests came forward with trays bearing small silver cups containing incense. When his turn came, Ninion gagged at the cloying scent of the dozen offerings before his. His hands trembled as they poured the contents of the cup upon the ritual fire. The sacrifice was the culmination of an ordeal that had nothing to do with the god. He was not used to being on display, and it was all he could do to keep his composure long enough to utter the prayer.

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Aglarin had told him that at one time, on this one day, the worshippers of Min had been permitted to pelt the Lady’s lovers with refuse. In some backwater cities, the ritual humiliation was still carried to such extremes, but in the ancient center of the Lady’s worship, such practices had been replaced by a beautiful ceremony designed to show the god what worthy lovers His consort had chosen. As he poured the incense and made his obeisance, Ninion felt multitudinous eyes on him, stripping him bare. Shame made him tremble; the crowd might as well have been throwing excrement at him. Olenwë stayed beside him. Through the voluminous folds of their robes, he sought Ninion’s hand and squeezed it tightly as the last few talevé performed the rite. His head was held high, his eyes looking straight ahead, over the heads of the crowd. “If they want to look, let them,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth, so only Ninion could hear him. “They can’t touch us.” His hair stirred and fanned out behind him in the breeze drifting in through the open doorway; he merely lifted his chin and met the scrutiny of Min straight on. On the way back, their part in the ritual done, the talevé were permitted the luxury of a covered wagon to bear them back to the Blue House. Once out of public view, some groaned and began loosening the collars of their sweltering finery, but most were quiet. In all its forms, humiliation was a potent silencer. **** Ninion sat at the table beside Dyas, who was frowning over the day’s lesson and munching on dried apricots. It was too cold and windy to sit outside; through the library window they saw one of their brothers taking exercise by sweeping dried leaves off the garden path. “Do you want some, Ninion?” Dyas proffered the plate of apricots. “They’re good.” He was not hungry but took one to please the boy. “See if you can close the book and repeat the verse back to me.” Dyas closed the book and pushed it aside. “I don’t know why I have to do any of this stuff,” he grumbled. “I’m not any good at it.” “It takes practice,” Ninion said softly. 115

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“I know I’m not supposed to be here. Almost everybody laughs at me, but not you. You’re all right.” He fidgeted with the book, opening it and fanning the pages. “I’ve been wondering why there aren’t any old talevé. I tried to ask Kyrin, but he won’t let me have questions anymore. He says I ask too many of them.” Ninion had also noticed the lack of older talevé. “Olveru says they die around age forty. It is part of the price a talevé pays for becoming part of the Water element. He assured me that it is a very gentle, painless death, a gift from the Lady.” Dyas seemed unperturbed by this. “Forty’s old. Still, I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even like girls.” Fourteen was old enough for a youth to begin developing an interest in the opposite sex, though it did not always happen that way. Even now, at eighteen, Ninion felt only slight stirrings that left him more puzzled than aroused. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. “The Lady is not a girl, but a goddess,” he said. “She does not take the flesh to make love.” “You mean to have sex? The priests say that I did it with Her once, but I don’t remember.” “None of us do, I think.” Had Olenwë not intimated that making love with Her was to merge with the Water element, Ninion would have sworn that, given their reticence to discuss the matter, the talevé were left with no memory of any encounter with Her. Now it was clear that it was only the first time that he could not recall. “Maybe I don’t remember because I’m not supposed to be here,” said Dyas. “I still want to go home. I could dye my hair. It would be all right, nobody would know.” Dyas would not have been the first talevé to express dissatisfaction with life in the Blue House. Though he came from a family of seafront warehouse clerks who often worked long, difficult hours, the prospects of leisure and luxury held little appeal for him. “My father promised he would take me to the warehouse and let me learn what he does. It was very important, because I was the only son, and now I can’t help out.”

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“Madril says that if it is necessary the temple will provide a small yearly sum to a talevé’s family,” said Ninion. “They will not starve, and I am sure they understand why you are not with them.” The door opened and Olenwë came in. This time, he did not ask Dyas to leave or even move, but instead pulled a third chair up to the table. It was clear he was trying to be civil, yet the moment he opened his mouth to greet them the boy gathered up his books and excused himself entirely. “Why did you chase him away?” asked Ninion. “I like talking to him.” Olenwë made a face. “Did you hear me tell him he had to go? I can call him back if you like, but I like talking to you, too, and I’d rather not have to deal with him whining about how much he misses his dog and helping his father out. It’s obvious he’s never done any really hard work or he’d be down on his knees thanking the Lady he didn’t have to anymore.” “You are insufferable.” “No, I just remember what it’s like getting into a fishing boat before dawn and being out there for hours in the cold and wet. By the time I was Dyas’ age, I was already doing a man’s work.” Ninion knotted his fingers in his lap. “What is it like where you come from?” Olenwë started to answer, but stopped the moment he opened his mouth. “Do you want to walk in the garden?” he asked. “You’ve been indoors all day; you need a bit more color in your face. We can exercise and I’ll tell you.” Leaving the library, they went outside. Yellowing trees stirred in the wind, dropping their leaves into the flower beds and pond. Aside from the talevé who was tirelessly trying to keep the path clean, everyone else preferred to stay indoors. It was difficult to keep pace with Olenwë’s longer stride, which he gradually slowed when he saw that Ninion was falling behind. “Well, what should I say about the Seaward Islands? There are more than sixty of them, a whole chain going from north to south. I lived on Ikun, which is more to the north, but the biggest island is Lachant where everybody goes to trade. From my village it’s a two day sail with a good wind.

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“From Ikun to Sirilon it’s ten days. We don’t have a Blue House in the Seaward Islands, so I had to come here. By the time a ship was found that could take me, I’d already had the changing sickness.” Once past the clipped hedges, they sat down on a bench under an apple tree. Some weeks earlier, the talevé had made an afternoon of harvesting the garden’s three apple trees, and what they had not eaten outright they took down to the cellar to dry for the winter. “The first people to settle the islands were Danasi. Most of us are mixed blood, and we speak that language as well as Shivarian. My name is the Danasi word for strong.” Ninion was only half-listening. Although he had broached the subject, it was not what he truly wanted to know. “Olenwë,” he asked softly, “when did you first know you were different?” Olenwë stopped his running monologue and considered both speaker and question. “You mean, when I first realized I liked other men? When I was old enough to want sex,” he answered. “My friends were all going with girls, talking about them, but I wasn’t interested. I thought maybe something was wrong with me, but then our families went to a gathering on the isle of Pelisso and I saw this beautiful young man. I couldn’t get him out of my head. That’s when I knew I didn’t want girls at all.” The frank admission made Ninion’s face burn. He let his eyes fall to his lap. “Did you have sex with him?” “No, I did everything I could to forget about him. When we got back to Ikun I went with a few girls like my friends and tried to be normal, but I didn’t enjoy it the way they did.” “So when did you first do it? With a man, I mean.” Ninion could not believe he was having this conversation. Fascination kept him from ending it and walking away. If the question was inappropriate, Olenwë did not seem to mind. “I was sixteen and a friend of my brother asked if I could go on his boat and help him. He lived alone and we had a big family, so he told my father that he’d share part of the catch if he could get my help. So we fished and swam and went to rest on a little beach, and that’s when he touched me.”

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“And you did not mind?” Olenwë did not look like the type of person who could be made to do anything against his will, but things might have been different when he was younger. Olenwë shrugged. “I was terrified at first only because I’d been told it was so shameful, but then he kissed me and told me it was all right. I couldn’t believe my good luck,” he said. “He had me that afternoon and after that we met whenever we could get away.” The choice of verb was baffling. “He had you?” Olenwë leaned back on the bench and frowned. “Ninion, do you know anything at all about sex?” “Of course I do.” The truth was that Ninion knew only what had been considered proper for him to know, that women had breasts to nurse babies and a place between their legs where he was supposed to put his member in order to make those babies, and that the act of doing so supposedly felt good. What men did together he had no idea. “I mean, I know a little,” he added defensively. “And you’re how old?” “I will be nineteen in the spring.” Still puzzling over this, Olenwë seemed to have an idea. “There’s a book in Madril’s office. I think it must be the worst kept secret in the Blue House, but the pictures are worth it.” “What book?” “It’s full of pictures of men making love,” said Olenwë. “It’s a sex book. Do you want to see it? I think I could steal it for a day if you want.” His face burning, Ninion vehemently shook his head no. “Why would Madril keep such a filthy thing?” “Why do you think?” Ninion truly did not know, and a second later wished he had not inquired when Olenwë bluntly asked if he had ever touched himself. He swallowed, biting his tongue to keep from telling the other man that it was none of his business. “Why would you ask about such a shameful thing?” If anything, Olenwë’s nonchalance was infuriating. Ninion was tempted to flee and nurse his injured pride, yet part of him also wanted to hear the answer. Olenwë just laughed at him. “Stop pretending that you don’t,” he said. “All men do it, even the priests. Why do you think there 119

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aren’t any young priests who come to the Blue House? It’s just the eunuchs and the old men. That’s part of the Lady’s gift, you know, to be so beautiful that men and women forget themselves when they see us. That’s why we’re locked up here, so they won’t be tempted.” Now Ninion had images of lascivious priests following him about. As quickly and gracefully as he could, he changed the subject. “Did you love that man, the one who was your brother’s friend?” “I liked him,” said Olenwë, “but I didn’t love him. It didn’t take me long to see how selfish he was. He always wanted it the same way and always took more than he gave. After a while I began to feel used, but there wasn’t anybody else, so I stayed. The last time I was with him was the day I changed.” “What did he say about your becoming a talevé?” asked Ninion. “He was terrified and ashamed, and it killed him.” Olenwë sighed, and by the way he hunched his shoulders Ninion knew he had finally asked a question that was difficult for him to answer. “One day after hauling in the nets I tied my boat up by the place where we always met. It’s a little cave with a freshwater spring; there’s sand and it’s very cool on a hot day. I’d been working since before dawn, so I took a nap while I waited for him. When I woke up I felt damp all over, but I didn’t think anything of it because the air around the spring is very misty.” “Did the Lady come to you?” “I didn’t know that until later,” said Olenwë. “I had light hair already, and in the summer the sun bleached it almost white. In the shade of that place you couldn’t really tell anything was different. So he came in and we did it, but it wasn’t until we went outside to get the boats that he saw I’d changed. He took one look at me and screamed. Then he ran. I had to take both boats back to the village. By the time I got there it was dark, I was already feeling sick and I still didn’t know what was wrong. The village priest had to explain it to me.” “What happened after that?” Olenwë stared down at his hands. “Pelhan was so upset by what he’d seen that he confessed he’d been with me. Once they saw

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me, the village elders dragged him out of his house and stoned him right there for raping a talevé. They didn’t even bother with a trial.” “And you let him die?” “Weren’t you listening? I didn’t know what was going on. I was lying in the village priest’s house with a fever and throwing up everything he tried to give me. They took Pelhan faraway from the village to kill him,” answered Olenwë. “Everybody just assumed he’d been overcome with lust at the sight of a talevé and acted on it. He didn’t do or say anything in his own defense; he didn’t even tell them that we’d been having sex for three years already, and nobody ever asked me. If they had, I think I would’ve been too scared to tell anybody the truth. You’re not the only one to ever believe making love with a man is shameful or to be terrified by the change.” **** Olenwë did not know what to make of Ninion’s questions, and revisiting his affair with Pelhan was not the way he wanted to spend an afternoon he had intended to devote to relaxed courtship. It was tempting to think that Ninion was beginning to overcome his revulsion, but there was no telling if he was simply curious about sex or if he really wanted to make love with another man. Not all talevé did. Olveru had been celibate for as long as anyone could remember, and most of the older talevé renounced sex altogether. Celibacy would be such a waste. Olenwë knew that if ever there was a beautiful young man who needed and craved affection, even unwittingly, it was Ninion. From the garden, he went upstairs and took out the drawing Ninion had given him. For such a sexual innocent, the young man’s artwork was enticingly erotic. Olenwë’s lower body remained underwater, but the depth of detail in the expression, in the play of muscles and even in the beads of water that clung to hardened nipples, meant the artist had been looking. Olenwë could only wonder what Ninion had been thinking when he rendered the image. He needed to confide in someone. Enedhil, older than he by several years, was by far the most sensible of his friends as well as an excellent listener. Once Olenwë explained the matter, Enedhil wasted no time in assessing the situation. “The first thing you need to do is ask yourself what you really want from Ninion,” he said. “If 121

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you are just trying to seduce him for the sake of having been the first talevé to take him to bed, I think you are making a mistake.” “I can get sex anytime I want,” answered Olenwë. “This time I want something more than that.” “There are others who would be more willing to entertain a serious relationship with you,” said Enedhil. “Alanáro has expressed his interest on several occasions.” Olenwë shook his head. “Just because I’ve slept with him more often than anyone else doesn’t mean I’m in love with him. He knows that. We’re friends, nothing more.” “Do you think Ninion is interested in you?” asked Enedhil. “I might not know him well, but even I can tell he is a virgin.” Olenwë showed him the drawing. “Tell me now that he isn’t interested.” Enedhil took the drawing over to the window where he could study it in better light. “I do not know what to say,” he admitted. “He is clearly aware of you as an erotic being, but from everything you have told me he believes sex with another man is wrong.” “So did all of us before we came here.” Olenwë carefully took back the drawing, smoothing away imaginary creases. No one had ever given him anything so beautiful. “Look, I’m not looking to throw him down and take him. All I want is for him not to turn away from me.” “And then what?” asked Enedhil. “You talk about love, but I have never seen you take your relationships seriously.” Olenwë tightened his jaw. “Are you telling me I’m not capable of love?” “Do not put words in my mouth that are not there,” Enedhil said sharply. “Would love be enough for you? Let us assume that Ninion somehow accepts your suit. It may be a long time before you can bed him, and if you commit to him you would have to give up your other partners. Would someone with a sexual appetite like yours be satisfied with waiting?” They both knew the answer. Once he had arrived in the Blue House and his inhibitions were allayed by the permissive attitude of the priests, Olenwë satisfied his passion for intimate physical contact as Pelhan had never been able to do. But while his love for sex remained undiminished, he had renounced his usual trysts ever 122

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since Ninion’s arrival. “He can learn to enjoy making love with me,” he said. “I won’t hurt him.” “It is not that simple, I think. Have you stopped to consider the differences between you? I am not talking about birth or upbringing, but just your appearance alone.” Enedhil gestured toward the mirror that hung beside his clothes chest. “Look at yourself, Olenwë. You have to look down to talk to him, and those hands of yours could snap his neck. Assuming he knows anything about the sex act and how men do it, I doubt he is eager to have you be the first one inside him.” Olenwë was not about to point out that not everything about him was big. “He can be on top for all I care. I don’t even think he knows how men and women do it, much less men.” “My point,” said Enedhil, “is that you intimidate him, and he is already uncertain enough.” “I’ll admit that he’s frightened of something, but I don’t think it’s me.” Olenwë looked down at the drawing again. Whatever inspired Ninion’s apprehensiveness, it could not possibly be a fear of him, not when he did everything in his power to be gentle and soft-spoken whenever Ninion was near. “You and I were both there when Olveru and the priests brought him in. We both saw how terrified he was. He never says anything about his life before, and he’s never told anyone why he was in the water.” “You are assuming he remembers,” said Enedhil. “I think he remembers a lot more than he’s told anyone.” **** In that limbo place where time blurred to accommodate his craft, Ninion found himself sketching again. The figure on the page was stripped to the waist to accentuate broad, muscular shoulders. His lower body was encased in tight leggings, his hair blown back as he brought up the staff in a clean, shallow movement. The drawing was nearly finished before he realized the face belonged to Olenwë. All at once, his artistic euphoria fell away from him and he stared at the page in horror. His original intention had been to sketch Minias raking leaves in the garden. Flipping through previous drawings, Ninion was aghast to find Olenwë’s face doodled in a dozen places. He set down his pad and graphite and went to kneel in front of the little shrine that was part 123

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of the furniture in every talevé’s room. For one who had grown up praying to the Earth Mother, the daily devotions to the Lady did not come easily. No one had told him how he was supposed to approach a goddess who was not a welcoming maternal figure but an amorous seducer. In the end, he offered his thoughts to the empty air: What does it mean that I keep drawing him? I cannot love him. He bent double, touching his face to the carpet as he wrapped both arms around his middle. A sob welled up in his throat. It is forbidden. It is wrong.

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Chapter Six The moment Olveru came in and shed his outer cloak, the three talevé in the sitting room knew something was wrong. “What is it?” asked Daro. Olveru came over to the fire to warm himself. Rain had fallen during the night, and a thin fog still hung over the grounds at midday. “I am not certain,” he said. “I was in Madril’s office this morning when a rather curious matter came to his attention. A nobleman came in to see him. He had with him a letter he wanted Madril to read.” At this point, Olenwë’s interest began to wane. He had been discussing hrill with the other two, who both shared his ki’iri gift, but anything having to do with books or anything similarly dry did not warrant his attention. “What was in the letter?” asked Arion. Olveru rubbed his hands together over the grate before politely evicting Daro from the chair nearest the fire. “It was a letter written by his dead son. As it was not a matter requiring my attention, I was surprised that Madril did not ask me to leave right away.” “And what does this have to do with anything?” asked Olenwë. His impatience warranted a glare from the other three. Olveru did not like being interrupted, and Daro and Arion both wanted to hear the fresh news he brought. “The young man was a suicide who threw himself from a fishing boat last spring,” said Olveru. “The body never washed up. His father showed the letter to Madril and wanted to speak to him about it. I am not sure why he waited so long to bring the matter to the attention of the House of the Water or why he brought the letter. Madril asked me to leave. They talked alone for some time. I do not know what was said, but Madril looked quite troubled when I saw him again. He would not tell me what was wrong.” 125

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While Olveru disappeared into the kitchen for some warm tea, the three talevé resumed their conversation; letter and corpse were quickly forgotten. It was only when Madril appeared in the doorway with a grim face that they realized something was amiss. Madril’s gaze passed over the room and its occupants. “Is Ninion here?” he asked. “I believe he is helping Dyas with his lessons,” said Arion. “And where is Olveru? I see his cloak hanging on the peg.” Olenwë noticed the folded paper in his hand. “He’s getting something to eat.” “Daro, go and tell him to bring Ninion in here.” While they waited, the priest would answer no questions, but stood by the fire and stared into the grate with a look of intense concentration. Ninion came in, Olveru guiding him with a hand on his arm; whatever the healer had told him left him anxious and uncertain. Madril wasted no breath on courtesies; he held out the paper and asked if Ninion had written the letter before throwing himself into the sea. Dark eyes grew large in a face that slowly lost its color. Ninion stared at the folded paper in horror, but would not speak. With each repeated query, his refusal grew more emphatic. Olenwë, alarmed as well as increasingly irritated, started to go to him; a warning glare from Madril kept him in his seat. At last, pursing his lips together in a thin line, the priest made a dismissive gesture. Ninion immediately went for the door. As he reached the threshold, Madril suddenly called out after him. “Sanadhil!” Ninion visibly flinched. He turned, enough that the others could see the terror in his eyes, and then bolted from the room. Olenwë rose, only to have Madril seize his arm. “Let him go.” “Why did you do that to him?” Olenwë pulled free, but stayed where he was. “Why did you call him that?” “Because that is his name: Sanadhil né Kirrion. The man who came to the House of the Water today was his father. He took part in the autumn procession and was close enough to recognize his son among you. These last several weeks he has been making inquiries.”

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Arion explained to the other talevé that the Kirrion family was very wealthy and influential. “They serve as advisors to Prince Carancil,” he said. “Madril, what is going to happen to Ninion?” “Beyond answering a few questions, nothing will happen,” answered Madril. “He is a talevé and cannot be removed from the Blue House, no matter what his father may wish. Lord Kirrion desires to see him, but given the nature of the letter, I told him that it was not permitted.” He handed the parchment to Olveru. “However, I do not think this matter is settled with him.” Olveru looked over the letter. Folding it again, he started to give it back to Madril. “I do not know that anyone else should see this.” His reluctance made the letter irresistible; the others promptly crowded around him for a glimpse. “Whatever is seen or said here,” said Madril, “must not leave this room.” “Why not?” asked Olenwë. “What does it say?” With a last look at Madril, who did not protest, Olveru reluctantly opened the parchment; the others hovered over his shoulder, anxious for him to begin. “It begins here with a greeting to his parents.” “‘To my honored—’“ began Arion. Giving him a little look of annoyance, Olveru cleared his throat. “Thank you very much but I will read it.” “Then hurry up,” said Olenwë. Whatever was contained in Ninion’s letter, he needed to know. “‘To my honored father and mother, may the gods keep you. I am sorry that you have received this. I know that I am not the son you desired. I know that I have shamed you in all that I have done; in this I hope to redeem myself. My consolation is that you still have Faellan to bring you honor. Whoever brings you this letter, hold him blameless in this; no one knew my intent until it was too late. I am—’“ Olveru suddenly placed the letter facedown on his lap. “If you want to read the rest, then you may do so by yourselves. I do not need to see more.” Olenwë looked toward the door through which Ninion had fled. Nearly a half-hour had passed, enough time for a young man who had attempted his life once already to do so again now that his secret was out. 127

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“Where are you going?” Madril asked sharply. The urge that seized him was so sudden that he did not bother taking formal leave. “We’ve left him alone,” he said. All he knew was a need to run, to fly up the stairs and throw Ninion’s door open. He did not even want to entertain the possibility it was too late. **** Ninion huddled in the window seat, his face buried in his hands. Olenwë took a step forward, his heavy footfalls prompting Ninion to lift his head. When he saw who was there, Ninion stumbled from the cushioned chest, edging back against the far wall. Through a curtain of disheveled hair, his red-rimmed eyes were wild with terror, but Olenwë saw no weapon in his hand or any other sign that he had tried to injure himself. Olenwë held a hand out to him. “It’s all right,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you.” As he circled the bed, carefully advancing, Ninion lifted his arms as if to ward off a blow. “Please, do not let them take me.” “Let who take you?” When Ninion lunged forward in an attempt to dart past, Olenwë seized him around the waist and pulled him tight against him. “You’re not going anywhere. Stop struggling! Nobody’s coming to take you anywhere!” A voice ragged from weeping fired back at him. “My father saw me! He went to the priests and now Madril—” “Madril only wanted to know if you’d written the letter. He’s not going to let your father take you away; he’s already said so. You’re a talevé, do you understand?” He did not want to have to strike Ninion to make him calm down enough to see reason. “This is where you belong!” Sobbing, Ninion began to struggle again, subsiding only when exhaustion forced him to yield to Olenwë’s greater strength. Olenwë felt wetness through his tunic where Ninion had buried his face and was now hiccupping into his chest. All he could do for the young man was hold him fast with one arm and try to soothe him with the other. “Why did you jump into the sea? Why did you do that to yourself?” “No, I cannot—”

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“Tell me!” His voice was much more forceful than he intended, and he felt Ninion—Sanadhil? What am I going to call you—flinch in his arms. Olenwë held onto him, stroking his hair. “Please tell me.” “I-I—at the banquet, I was supposed to dance with her.” “With who? A girl?” Ninion nodded dumbly. Sniffling, he dragged his sleeve across his face before continuing, “Father wanted me to marry. He said it was time and I was old enough, so he made me go to a party at the house of one of his friends. I had never been before. I had a dance. I tried, but I did not like it. I thought maybe it was because I had never been with a girl before and I did not know her. I-I went to sit in the corner and her brother came to sit with me. We talked and then…. We had not even done anything yet, just touched hands, but Father, he saw and….” Olenwë forgot to be surprised in learning it was a man Ninion had wanted after all. His only thought was how hard Ninion was shaking and how much hurt was in his voice. “What did he do?” “He waited until we were home, then he slapped me across the face and shouted so everyone could hear how horrible and unnatural I was. And then he, he….” “Go on, tell me.” “He took all of my drawings, everything, and burned them. He said I was too soft, that I was going to forget such foolish things and I-I wanted to—I could not— That was when I wanted to die. He knew how much it meant to me, and still he—” Unable to say more, Ninion’s voice dissolved into sobs that shook his entire body. It was all Olenwë could do to get him to sit down and hold him as he poured out his anguish. Once Ninion was quiet again, Olenwë spoke. “When did you remember all of this?” he asked. “It was only a little at a time,” murmured Ninion. “The drawings I remembered almost right away, when Olveru gave me the paper, not what my father did but that it was wrong to be doing it.” “And what about your name?” asked Olenwë. Ninion hiccupped against his shoulder. “I kept trying to remember. It was only after the ki’iri transformation that I did. I hated the sound of it so I never told anybody.” 129

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“I like Ninion better, but Sanadhil is a beautiful name, too.” “Not when my father says it,” said Ninion. “I did not want anyone to know about it. I was afraid.” “You have nothing to fear,” Olenwë murmured into his hair. “Not while I’m with you.” **** Dyas poked his head through the door. “You know what? I have my animal, or I will once I do it for the first time.” Ninion looked up from the book he was reading. He had not been able to concentrate and welcomed the distraction. “What is it?” “It’s a wolf.” A wide grin suffused Dyas’ face. “Maybe I can bite Elentur for being so mean.” “I would not do that,” said Ninion. “He is a wolf also.” “I gather you’ll be just a cub,” said Olenwë, who sat on the bed across from Ninion with the drawing pad across his lap. “I wonder what fourteen is in wolf years.” “I’m fifteen now,” Dyas said stiffly. “I had a birthday.” Olenwë raised an eyebrow. “Oh, did you now? Then I suppose you won’t want a doll this year.” Scowling, the boy huffed off. “You are being mean to him again,” said Ninion. “I wish you would not do that.” “He doesn’t know how to take teasing. My brothers and cousins used to do the same, and there was never any harm in it.” Olenwë turned the page to a drawing of two talevé harvesting an apple tree and showed it to Ninion. “Who taught you how to draw?” “No one taught me,” said Ninion. “When I was younger, my parents would not let me go out and ride with my brother because I was too frail. They kept me indoors with books and tutors, and then there were long hours when I had nothing to do. My father did not mind my drawing when I was a boy, but he always said that artists were commoners who had to work for their bread.” “There’s nothing wrong with working for one’s bread.” Olenwë carefully studied the next drawing, a portrait of Arion in his festival attire, his long hair flowing. He did not fail to notice the sketches of him on several of the pages; his only comment was a smile. That morning, a bundle of items arrived for Ninion, personal belongings that his family had not given away at his supposed 130

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death. A note had come with them, but Madril promptly confiscated it and read the contents before tossing it on the brazier. “You are beyond his reproach, Sanadhil,” he said, “and you do not owe him an answer.” Olenwë had not left his side since yesterday. He stayed well into the night, holding Ninion until sleep came and dozing on the floor at the foot of the bed with his quarterstaff to reassure him that his father would not come with armed guards to snatch him away. Such fierce loyalty embarrassed Ninion. Ordinarily the thought of sharing his room with the intimidating young man who had been trying to court him for months would have been too much to bear. Now he was afraid to send Olenwë away. Even after careful consideration, Ninion decided not to use his birth-name in the Blue House except on official documents; he wished Madril would not address him so, but did not have the nerve to correct him. As Olenwë continued to pore over his drawings, he put down the book and went through the box of clothing and jewelry with disinterest. The only thing he would have wanted to bring with him had been reduced to ashes. Being discovered by his father in a tentative embrace with another young man and the anger that followed was something he could have borne, for he knew enough about what was considered proper to show remorse, but no words could convey what it was to have his one passion torn away from him. His art was his very soul, its destruction a knife through his heart. He had not lied when he told Olenwë how badly he had wanted to die. He started to close the box when Olenwë spoke. “Wait, let me look.” “There is nothing in here worth keeping.” Olenwë got up from the mattress and took a seat beside him. His broad hands shuffled through piles of good linen and wool until they found a silver hairclip set with mother-of-pearl. “You’re going to keep this, aren’t you?” Resting a tentative hand on Ninion’s shoulder, he drew back the strands of hair that obscured Ninion’s face and secured them with the clip. “There, that’s much better.”

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At once, Ninion put up his hands to remove the clip. Olenwë seized them between his larger ones. “You shouldn’t hide your face,” he said. Their faces were close, within the sphere that demanded greater intimacy. Ninion became aware of an uncomfortable heat that suddenly suffused his body. Olenwë’s breath warmed his cheek, and he could have sworn that he could feel the other’s heartbeat. He wished Olenwë would let him go, yet at the same time did not fight to break free even though he knew he could easily have done so. Something soft touched his lips, pressing against them with delicious heat. In that moment, his senses returned. Warmth turned to panic, and he found the strength to pull away. “What are you doing?” Olenwë remained undaunted. “I am kissing you, the way you should be kissed.” As he leaned forward again, Ninion turned his head so the kiss fell on the corner of his mouth. “It is wrong!” he whispered. “That’s your father talking,” said Olenwë. “If that were true then the Lady would say something about it.” His eyes widened, reflecting a moment’s inspiration. Getting to his feet, he urged Ninion up with him. “We should put it to the test.” Ninion hesitated. “What do you mean?” “You’ll see,” said Olenwë. “Here, put on your cloak. It’s all right, we’re just going to the Lady’s garden shrine. You’ve been there before.” Once beyond the downstairs atrium and into the garden, Ninion began to regret trusting Olenwë. The day was cold, pregnant with threatening rain, and the night’s sea mist still clung in patches to the ground. He was tempted to stop, pull his hand away and turn around, but some impulse that had nothing to do with logic kept him going. At the far end of the garden, Olenwë pulled open one of the doors and ushered him into the shrine. Dim in the gray light that filtered in from above, the pool steamed softly in the cool air. The sea-green image of the Lady watched from its niche beyond the pool.

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“This is the most sacred place in Shivar,” murmured Olenwë. “She can hear everything we say, and if I kiss you now She will see it.” Ninion felt Olenwë hold him fast as he tried to pull away. “And if it is a sin, She will strike us dead!” “Why would She punish us for doing something that feels so good?” Fingers slid along the curve of his jaw, gently tilting his head up. The lips that descended on his felt warm and soft, and the powerful arms that slid around him held him upright when the heat turned his limbs to sand. All his resistance fled, for all he knew now were the lips and tongue moving against his, and hands that roamed every part of him. Forbidden it might be, yet he yielded because in this place his shame no longer mattered and he found he did not want it to end. A need for oxygen forced them apart. Ninion was reeling; he could scarcely think. What have I done? “My father—” Some halfremembered objection made him blush and duck his head away. At any moment, he expected his father to come storming around the corner and drag him away in a humiliating scene. But in the shadows there was only the soft ripple of water and the sound of their breathing. Olenwë dropped kisses on his eyelids, as feather-light as the others had been hard and passionate. “It’s only the Lady who matters.” It was increasingly difficult to think. “But the gods made men and women to be together. They….” His body wanted only to yield, but his mind could not reconcile what he had believed all his life with the burning need that made him wonder how unnatural he truly was. Surely the gods had not meant desire to be like this. Kisses drizzled down his face to slide down his chin and the apple of his throat. “Who are men to say what the gods intended?” murmured Olenwë. “Tell me why you gave yourself to the Lady.” Such a question seemed out of place. “I do not understand….” “That’s what they call it in the islands when a man drowns himself, a sacrifice to the Lady.” Already overcome by emotion, Ninion could not help the tears filling his eyes. “I do not know, only that I was lying on the floor of 133

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my room wanting to die. I could see the sea outside my window. I cannot swim, so I thought it would be easy. They would never find me. I did not want them to find me. I did not want to be anymore of an embarrassment to my father than I already was.” His voice broke on the last syllable, swallowed by the body that muffled his sobs. Olenwë made gentle, shushing noises. “The Lady called to you. She wanted you to come to Her, so She could take you away from those people. It’s all right, listen.” The rippling of the waters in the pool had become a fluid trickle that filled the chamber like the murmur of a brook, and in it was the lullaby of the goddess.

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Chapter Seven Ninion woke chilled and damp, blindly pawing at a wet coverlet. As awareness slowly returned to him, he realized his hair was also soaked. His body tingled pleasantly when he moved to retrieve a dry robe from the clothes chest. He could not quite remember what had happened, only the rushing of water and liquid caresses. By now, he understood enough to know the Lady had been with him, and though he was disconcerted by the wetness on a cold winter morning when he knew the Lady was more likely to be with Her consort, he was not frightened by it. As the servants changed the bedding, Ninion retreated to a corner of his room with his drawing materials and, in the light and heat of the brazier, quickly sketched the details before they faded from recall. The task he set himself was not an easy one; he was used to rendering tangible objects or people, not abstract impressions. Only when he was satisfied did he comb out his hair, get dressed, and go downstairs for breakfast. The activity upstairs was enough for the entire household to know what had taken place. Dyas, who sat beside Ninion, was ready with half a dozen questions, but the observed etiquette prevented anyone from commenting on the event; someone kicked the boy under the table until he was quiet. Afterward, Ninion found Olveru and Enedhil alone in the sitting room. Knowing they would not laugh, he took out the drawing and showed it to them. He did not tell them what it was, yet he saw that they immediately understood. Weariness dogged him throughout the day. Olveru informed him that such exhaustion was normal for one who had just experienced communion with the Lady; it would pass within a day or two. He was permitted to attend to his duties in the House of the

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Water, though the priest who supervised him was instructed to release him at the first sign of overexertion. After the evening devotions, while the rest of the household went in to supper, Ninion made his excuses and went up to bed. Food did not interest him, and neither Olveru nor the eunuchs who served the meal made any comment about his lack of appetite. Sleep would not come. He lay awake in the curtained bed, watching the early twilight slowly darken the sky outside his window. Cobalt shadows filtered into his room, and a soothing quiet descended upon the house. Below him, he could hear the muffled voices of the other talevé at their evening amusements. Pale moonlight had begun to silver the shadows near the window when a soft knock came at the door. Rather than undertake the effort of answering, Ninion burrowed deeper under the covers and waited for whoever it was to go away. The latch slowly turned and the door edged open. Through the bed curtains, Ninion saw a shadow slip into the room and carefully close the door again. Whoever it was, their presence banished his comfortable solitude. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay as still as possible. “Ninion,” said a voice. The curtains parted and the mattress shifted under the weight of a heavy body. “I know you’re awake.” Slowly, he opened his eyes to look up at Olenwë. They had been together for the last two weeks, kissing and touching in private corners but no more than that, and Ninion slept alone at night. To have his lover wander in after nightfall indicated a desire for greater intimacy. Ninion had known this was inevitable, and the eagerness that mingled with the concern in Olenwë’s voice seemed to confirm this. Olenwë set down the heavy book he was carrying to fish something out of his pocket; it was an apple. “You didn’t have any supper. I thought you might be hungry,” he said. “I brought something else, too, if you want to look at it.” With a sheepish smile he pushed the book forward. “Well, actually, I stole it.” Ninion sat up. With his movement, the apple rolled off the bed and into the shadows. “You stole it?” “I’ll put it back when I’m done with it.” Olenwë fumbled with the bedside lamp and tinder box, lighting the wick before kicking 136

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off his house slippers and climbing up onto the bed. Ninion shifted over to make room for him. “This is the book I told you about before, remember?” Worn around the edges, with a splotched leather cover, the book had been passed among the priests for generations. Olenwë carefully turned the pages to the beginning. On each page were fading ink drawings of young men in various states of undress, kissing and touching each other. Ninion felt the heat rise to his face. “Who drew this? The lines—” “I bring you a sex book and all you can do is comment on the artwork?” Ninion felt himself blushing. “Well, I-I have never seen such a thing before and I—” When he tried to turn the pages to the middle and back, Olenwë stopped him. “This is just the kissing part. I don’t know if you want to see the rest.” What was before him was more than enough to make the blood rise to his face. As he studied the images he was suddenly aware of Olenwë’s hand on his arm; the other man leaned over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. The proximity was magnetic, and the book became an afterthought. When their lips met, it came as no surprise. Ninion did not even mind that Olenwë might have had an ulterior motive in bringing the book here. But when a large hand slid down the hollow of his throat to undo the laces of his nightshirt, his own hand flew up to prevent it. “Please, no.” Olenwë’s fingers lingered over the laces, gently teasing the skin he had already bared. “You like it when I kiss you. I just want to look at you and touch you. I won’t hurt you.” As much as he knew and believed in his lover’s sincerity, where love turned to lust it frightened him. He did not know what to do, and did not want Olenwë to find him ugly, never mind that the other man had already seen him in the bath dozens of times before. “I-I do not know—” “No, you’re afraid.” Olenwë reached up to touch Ninion’s mouth with his fingertips before kissing him again. “I’m only going to do what’s in the pictures that I showed you, nothing else unless you want me to.” 137

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And when Olenwë undid his clothing and saw him erect he did not know what he would do. The men in the book were touching each other and themselves between their legs; he wanted that also, but did not know how to ask. I want you to put your hand here—but then what was he to say or do? Perhaps Olenwë would not even want to touch him there. Olenwe’s thigh pressed against his groin. Ninion rubbed against him until Olenwë drew back and slid his hand between their bodies. Ninion gasped sharply. “Are you going to—?” “Do you want me to? You get so hard when I kiss you, I think this time I ought to do something about it.” **** Olenwë did everything he knew to make the experience pleasurable, yet even as his clothing was slowly, gently drawn aside, Ninion apologized for being so ugly. Sweet gods, what are you thinking? Who told you that you were ugly? Olenwë silenced his protests by telling him that he was beautiful, and that there was no such thing as an ugly talevé, compensating with his hands and mouth for his lack of poetry. His original intent had been to show Ninion the book and perhaps coax him out of his shyness, but he had underestimated the power of visual stimulation. In the heat of arousal, it was becoming increasingly difficult to control his passion. When Olenwë had promised to do only what was in the drawings, he meant it, but as they loosened and discarded their clothing he chanced more, telling Ninion exactly what he intended to do as he did it. His talevé lovers had taught him what pleasure sensual language was, where Pelhan had simply told him how badly he wanted to fuck him and left it at that. He readily admitted wanting to sheathe himself in Ninion’s body and ride to his own climax; in their three years together, Pelhan had never let him have that pleasure, and toward the end there were days when Olenwë had almost hated the man. If Ninion ever trusted him enough to allow him such intimacy, it would be a gift, but even in his need Olenwë knew and accepted that it would not be tonight. **** 138

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It barely registered that he was half-naked and that another was touching him. The hands roaming over his torso and thighs were so firm and warm that all thought stopped. Shame did not enter into it. When his shirt slowly rode up his chest, followed by a hot mouth determined to explore every inch of his torso, Ninion forgot his reluctance. All that existed was the small candlelit circle of his bed, their bodies moving upon it and the words of passion that made him blush. And when those lips closed over his left nipple, nibbling and suckling for a few moments before moving over to its twin, he pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle his outcry. That anyone would be interested in a part of his body he thought useless amazed him. Then those teasing lips and tongue were venturing lower, sliding over his belly to his thighs, licking and swallowing his erection. In the darkness of his bed, on many other nights, Ninion had explored the memory of their embraces, imagining his lover’s hands on his body. It was hardly the first time he had touched himself, but until now the faces in his daydreams had always been ephemeral. He had fantasized about a lover caressing him, even stroking his cock the way he did when he was alone, yet never imagined what Olenwë was doing now. He could not believe that anyone would think to do this, or that it would feel so good. Hands cupped his buttocks and roamed his flanks, urging him toward a release that did not come. Just short of his orgasm, Olenwë stopped and crawled up to cover him with his body. Their bare skin touched, their erections brushing together. Slowly Olenwë began to thrust, encouraging his partner to match his movements by the grinding of his hips. Ninion twined his legs around him and let instinct take over. He rocked in time to the delicious heat that was swallowing him, meeting his lover’s lips and tongue with the same rhythm. Not even the Lady’s embrace, what little he could remember of it, had given him such wild pleasure. Yes, the thought was blasphemy, but he was too far gone in orgasm to care. Only when the spasms stopped and he could think again did rational thought return to him. No longer a slave to animal desire, he realized what they had just done and was ashamed. All his 139

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father’s invectives came flooding back to him. He was unnatural and hideous, and between their bodies was smeared the proof. Clutching at the bedclothes, trying to cover his nakedness, he shrank back. Olenwë immediately began dusting his cheek with kisses. They were both panting, flushed with exertion, and Ninion felt a peculiar lassitude weigh his limbs. “That was good,” Olenwë said. “The Lady was watching us, you know.” Ninion looked at him in confusion until he indicated the little shrine in the corner. “She does not mind?” “No, I think She enjoys it as much as we do. Wait here, I will come back.” Olenwë suddenly rolled away from him, off the bed, and Ninion heard the soft splash of water before his lover returned to his side. A moist cloth swiped across his belly to clean it. Ninion tugged the blanket up over his torso and thighs. The sweat cooling on his body reminded him how cold the room still was. “I should not have done that,” he stammered. “I have made a mess.” His apology elicited soft laughter from Olenwë. “But you’re supposed to come when I touch you. If you hadn’t, I would’ve thought something was wrong.” Curling up next to Olenwë under the covers, Ninion looked again at the book, which had been pushed off to the side during their lovemaking. He turned it to the back and stared at the image before him. A couple lay in each other’s arms, one lover atop the other, whose legs were drawn up to his chest; they were kissing with open mouths, and the one on the bottom did not seem to mind where the other’s cock was. “It looks like it hurts.” Olenwë nuzzled his ear. “No, he’s enjoying it. Look at his face.” “Does it hurt?” The arms around him tightened in reassurance. “It feels strange at first, and it can hurt if you’re not careful. You can’t just jam it in there and do it like you would with a woman, but the gods made a secret place inside a man that feels good when you touch it.” Ninion turned the page. A young man with long, flowing hair sat in his lover’s lap while being penetrated from below. They were clasping each other, and the one being taken had his head thrown

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back in ecstasy. “I wonder who posed for these, and who drew them.” “The pictures are all talevé. It was probably an artist like you, somebody who knew what it felt like.” Olenwë kissed his shoulder, sliding up to his neck. “Would you ever consider letting me do that to you? I don’t mean right now, but someday?” The lovers in the drawing were of equal height and weight. Olenwë was taller than he by nearly half a foot and was much broader in the shoulders. Being held by him in the fire of passion was to be overwhelmed by his power. To have a lover like that inside his body would hurt. “Why did you choose me?” he asked. “I am not very interesting.” As for being an exciting sex partner, he could not fathom why Olenwë was wasting his time. Olenwë nuzzled his ear. “Do I need to show you again how much I want you? As for why I want you, I could ask you the same question. Why did you draw me like that?” Ninion felt the heat rise to his face. “I do not know,” he murmured. “It seemed somehow that I should.” They perused the book, studying and commenting on some of the other drawings, until Ninion realized with some consternation that his stomach was growling. “Olenwë,” he murmured, “where did that apple go? I am hungry.”

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Chapter Eight When Madril asked to see his drawings, Ninion did not know what to say. In his mind he saw his father ordering him to bring out his artwork, before instructing the household guards to restrain him so he could tear them to shreds and burn them unchallenged. “They are nothing, truly,” he stammered. “I would still like to see them,” said Madril. Olenwë appeared in the doorway. “It’s all right. Let him see them.” Seeing his lover standing with the priest stung more than the request itself. On the night his father destroyed his folios, his mother had stood by and done nothing to help him. “No, I do not have them anymore.” “Sanadhil,” Madril said gently, “I am not going to destroy your work. I have been hearing from the others what a skilled artist you are. I simply want to see if there is any truth to it.” When Ninion was finally persuaded to bring his drawing pad out from under the mattress, Madril sat on the clothes chest to study it. If he could have done so, Ninion would have fled, done anything to avoid being present when Madril finally condemned his meager talent. Even when Olenwë moved in to reassure him with a hand on his arm, he could not bear the scrutiny and turned his eyes away. To his surprise, Madril complimented many of the drawings but seemed most interested in his renderings of the stag. “Sanadhil, if you were taken to see the other sacred animals, could you draw them?” “Why would you want me to do such a thing?” “There is a wall downstairs in the atrium whose decorations are centuries old and too badly worn to restore. An image of the Twelve Sacred Animals might be just the thing to please Her,” said Madril.

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“We have painters for the task, if you would compose and transfer the image.” “Are you asking me to draw something for the Blue House?” Ninion was not certain he had heard correctly. When he looked up at Olenwë to see if this was true, he was stunned to find his lover was nodding and smiling down at him. “But I do not understand,” he told Madril. “Why would you ask me to do such a thing? They are just scribblings.” Madril closed the pad and handed it back to him. “Then they are extremely talented scribblings. Many of the murals you see here and in the House of the Water are the work of talevé who came before you. You are not the first artist to enter the service of the Lady.” Under escort, Ninion went with his drawing materials to the royal menagerie. Then, with Olenwë in tow, Daro took him down to the beach where he still practiced the senu’s art of speaking to the hrill and asked the creatures to show Ninion how they moved. As he sketched, a composition began to take shape in his mind. An artist who worked in frescoes and murals came to show him how to create cartoons of his work, large-scale drawings which could be placed on the wall. Holes were poked along the outlines, through which charcoal dust would be rubbed to transfer the image. The painting would be done by others who were skilled in the medium. Only the composition was his, and he demurred when the others complimented the results. **** Late spring in Sirilon was cool and windy, no more so than on the heights of the temple precinct where the cliffs afforded a majestic vista of the city and harbor below. On a spur of rock thrusting out over the water like a ship’s keel was an ancient shrine said to be the oldest in Shivar. For centuries it had withstood wind, sun, and rain, the once brilliantly colored tiles now cracked and fading; if one looked hard enough, one might still make out the Lady’s sigil. Votive offerings of shells, clattering in the breeze, hung from its lintel. Behind the shrine, where the edge of the cliff was bounded by a wall of perfectly seamed ashlar, Ninion looked down at the harbor. Only a year ago he had stood at his window in his father’s house 143

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and contemplated death. Then as now, the blue sea had drawn him, promising freedom from the shadows in which he had lived his life. And he had sought it out, unable to swim but embracing the oblivion of its depths as a supplicant. A solid presence at his back told him he was no longer alone. He turned in Olenwë’s embrace and lifted his face to receive his lover’s kiss. “I thought I might find you here,” said Olenwë. “Dyas has just made his transformation. The darling little wolf puppy is nipping at Elentur’s heels.” Anyone looking up to the heights might have seen them, two figures sharing a lovers’ embrace. From on high, Ninion felt so solitary, so removed from the rest of the world that it did not matter what others saw. His father, barred from contacting him, ceased to be a threat months ago. In the months following their first night together, Olenwë had been patient with him. He gradually introduced Ninion to forms of lovemaking he thought they would both enjoy, and made no move to fully consummate their relationship. Whether it happened at all or never, he seemed content. “Is Dyas really nipping Elentur’s heels?” asked Ninion. Olenwë chuckled. “Yes, but only after pissing on him first. If that wolf pup is any indication, I think the boy is going to grow up to be quite the firebrand. Why are you all the way out here? You’re missing a good show.” “I have been working all morning and needed some air. Madril wants me to design more murals for the House of the Water.” “You should. The one you did of the animals is beautiful.” Olenwë lifted his hand to push aside a windblown strand of hair before letting his fingertips rest on Ninion’s lips. “Now come, there’s a certain puppy that’s waiting for you to throw him a stick.”

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Still Life

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An abridged version of Still Life was published as “An Exchange of Gifts” by Forbidden Fruit Magazine in 2006.

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Chapter One Striding across the newly plastered wall were eighteen figures, life-sized tracings Ninion had carefully mounted, fixed, and laboriously transferred with charcoal. Days passed, his work requiring such patience that his hand scarcely seemed to move. When he was finished, the twenty-five foot mural stood ready to be painted, each figure elaborately dressed and bearing a different offering. Ninion would not color his own mural. The House of the Water had hired the finest painter in Sirilon to work with him. The man and his assistants waited upon his instructions, ready to breathe life into his figures with their pigment. That Shevan, full of his own importance, would defer to him seemed outrageous. Ninion had known the painter’s reputation even as a boy, when his father had commissioned a full-length portrait to hang in his study. Shevan delivered a masterpiece so lifelike Ninion cringed to look at it, and left with the distinction of being the only man in recent memory who could give the formidable Lord Kirrion a tongue-lashing without having to answer for it. For that alone Ninion liked him. Shevan neither criticized nor hastened his work, only offered advice where he seemed to need it. “The hands on this figure are very expressive,” he said, “but try smoothing those lines. It’ll be more difficult to paint if you don’t.” Where he saw sense in the suggestion, Ninion made the improvements. Whether Shevan behaved so agreeably because he was one of the Lady’s sacred consorts, or because the portraitist truly respected his work, Ninion could not say. He was merely thankful Shevan made no protests about his staying to supervise the painting. 147

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Normally he would not interfere with the work of another craftsman, yet his reasons for doing so needed little explanation. In order to create this mural, an ancient one had to be demolished to prime the wall for his tracings. The earlier work had been centuries old, crumbling beyond restoration, and that which took its place must be worthy of both the Lady’s approval and his own exacting standards. When he was ready, Shevan helped him remove the onion-thin paper through which he had transferred his designs. “We’ll start on the background first thing in the morning, unless you want the priests to have a look first.” “That will not be necessary,” replied Ninion. “You may start whenever you are ready. I only wish the light in here was better.” “We’ll light candles,” said Shevan. His gaze swept the vaulted, dimly-lit hall, then he nodded. “I’ve worked in darker places.” Shevan’s frescoes covered the entry hall ceiling in the sanctuary of the Lord of the Winds, walls in the catacombs under the House of the Water and royal residence, and the extensive library of the Mariners’ Guild. That much Ninion knew. As a boy, often too frail to leave his father’s house, he had seen very little of the city, and now as a talevé confined to the Blue House, he saw even less. Talevé, who were always buried at sea, never ventured into the catacombs, and on their annual pilgrimage to the House of the Air they had neither time nor privacy to gaze up, nor would they have been able to see much within the shadowed recesses if they had. Ninion trusted Shevan’s skill. Others did not. Several priests had already questioned the propriety of giving these two-dimensional Water-lovers faces that could be identified. It was not the first time talevé would be portrayed in temple art, yet it was a new thing not to represent them as stiff and iconic. When he received the commission, Shevan had gazed at Ninion’s drawings and studied them at length, humming under his breath while remaining otherwise inscrutable. Slowly the haughtiness melted from his face, and he smiled. “This will work,” he said. It was all the praise he ever offered. Ninion knew not to expect more. Certainly he did not point out that the realism was based on Shevan’s own techniques, or that he had been inspired by the portrait the artist had painted twelve years 148

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ago. Do you recall a commission from Fhersan Tal né Kirrion? He bit his tongue against the temptation to mention the earlier work. Do you remember snapping at him to hold still and keep his complaints to himself? But Ninion was no longer Sanadhil né Kirrion, the lord’s son who tried to drown himself in the harbor. He had no reason to speak of such things. A priest chaperoned the whole affair from his corner stool. Under such scrutiny Ninion could not give his instructions as freely as he would have liked. Instead he had to lay out his drawings, move his finger over the design, and hope Shevan was astute enough to recognize the messages hidden within. Half a moment passed before Shevan grinned. No one need point out that hiding a signature or some other tidbit was a hallmark of his work. Ninion wondered if his father ever noticed the two greyhounds buggering each other among the illuminated capitals of the open book in his portrait. “It will be done as you wish,” said the artist. “I’ll do those parts myself.” Later, as Ninion made the brief walk back to his quarters in the Blue House, his chaperone abruptly stopped him. “First you are giving too much life to sacred images,” the priest complained, “then you give special instructions to the painters. I trust that you are doing only what is right and moral in the Lady’s honor.” How ironic, reflected Ninion, and arrogant, for the priesthood to assume it represented the Lady’s wishes better than Her own sacred lovers. “I have incorporated devotions to the Lady in my work.” Ninion let his chaperone note his sanctimonious air before continuing, “Madril and the other senior priests have already seen and approved the project. Do not trouble yourself further with it.” A pallid sunset filled the horizon. Dusk spread shadows through the Blue House gardens, and a chill breeze set the candles in the atrium fluttering when Ninion entered. Supper was being served in the dining room; he had time enough to doff his cloak and take his place beside his lover, who grinned at his unexpected arrival. “I thought you’d be eating with the painters,” whispered Olenwë. “I do not even have lunch with them.” At noon the chaperone 149

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always hustled Ninion to a private alcove, whether he would or no. Most days he was too busy to note the time, or his appetite. Dyas, seated across from them, handed Olenwë a plate of biscuits. “How’s the project going?” he asked Ninion. Ninion selected a biscuit from the tray. “The mural is ready to be painted.” Thus far all anyone else knew was that the mural would depict a procession of talevé bearing gifts for the Lady’s altar. No one in the Blue House could have suspected that they themselves would be portrayed, and Ninion preferred it that way. Otherwise his unwitting subjects would never have given him a moment’s peace. “You’re terrible,” grumbled Dyas. “You’re gone all day and have nothing to report when you get back.” “That is because you always roll your eyes when I start talking about perspective and shading.” Two seats down, a talevé with lank hair and watery blue eyes cleared his throat. “What the wolf-pup means is you spend your days with Shevan Ardannes, whose ego is reported to be as big as his cock—” Madril cleared his throat. “Decorum, please, Elentur,” he said. Elentur glossed over the reprimand. “I’ve heard he takes over every project he’s involved in. How can you stand him?” Before Ninion could reply, the high priest provided an answer. “The House of the Water is paying Master Ardannes a handsome sum to do as he is told.” “Is that why he told Prince Carancil to smile for his portrait or he’d paint pink bows all over the prince’s doublet, because he was being well paid?” “Where do you hear these things?” asked Ninion. “I do not remember hearing such tales, and several priests were at the unveiling.” “Yes,” added Madril. “There were, as I recall, no pink ribbons.” Elentur simply chuckled over his soup. “I have my sources.” “What he means,” said Dyas, “is he believes every bit of gossip the eunuchs feed him.” Elentur made a rude gesture, then smiled at the disapproving high priest. “Well, Ninion, are you going to answer the question?” “There is nothing to say. The drawing is on the wall, and 150

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Master Ardannes will start painting tomorrow. So far there have been no complaints.” After the evening prayers Ninion sought only to enjoy a relaxing bath and retire, as he had to return to the temple early the next morning. Had Olenwë not been so intent on his company, he might have succeeded. Olenwë did not like the long hours he had been spending at the House of the Water and wasted little time in saying so. “Look at you. You’re exhausted and you’ve hardly two words to say to anybody.” Ninion set down the book he had been reading. “I hardly ever say anything and this is not the first time I have been away working on a project.” Seeing how frustrated his partner was, he leaned over the chair’s arm and kissed him as passionately as he thought proper outside the bedchamber. Such chaste demonstrations, however, rarely did more than enflame Olenwë. “Those were here in the Blue House.” Olenwë grasped Ninion’s arm with one large hand and cupped his cheek with the other, steadying him while he returned the kiss. His passion observed no proprieties, and Ninion soon felt a warm tongue slide between his lips. He knew then precisely how the night would end. “I was able to visit you.” “You are forgetting how many times I had to throw you out for distracting me.” “If that cockhead artist gives you any trouble—” “Then he will be receiving a much smaller fee.” Ninion kissed him again. “I will find some way for you to see the work when it is finished. I think you will like it very much.” Sensing that his words were not enough, he tucked his book into the pocket of his voluminous robe and allowed Olenwë to lead him upstairs. In his bedchamber, they undid their clothing, heaping it in a corner while they slid under the covers to begin the lovemaking Olenwë craved. Ninion’s eyes, strained from working in candlelight and shadows, begged sleep. His body ached with exhaustion from the laborious process of transferring twenty-five feet of images in all their detail, yet his lover’s urgency would not let him drift off. Guilt tugged at him as strongly as the body coaxing him toward arousal. I 151

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should not be doing this as a favor to him. I should want it as much as he does. Even after two years he could not quite believe this tall, stunning man was his. His awe, his gratitude for the affection he received, was why he never pushed Olenwë away. Quite simply, Ninion did not want to be without him. Olenwë knew how to coax him into desire. With the stimulation of the mouth and hands roaming his torso, the tongue seeking his own, it was not long before he was arching his back, his lethargy pushed aside in favor of little gasps and grunts that urged Olenwë to make him come. Ninion alternately pulled his lover to him and tried to shove him away, to push his head down to his erection. All he received were a few moments of oral pleasure. Olenwë took him in once, twice, then released his member to insert a finger between his lips. Knowing what was to come, Ninion licked it, coated it with his saliva while lifting his thighs for the cushion Olenwë slid under his hips. Many times he tried, but had never been able to relax enough for his partner to use his tongue in that place. However, over time he had been able to accept and enjoy being fingered. Olenwë knew precisely where to touch him, and how—sometimes hard and fast, and sometimes slow like now, building toward a breathless, boneless climax. “You should let me do this the right way.” Olenwë’s fingers drew little circles over his belly. “I want to come inside you.” Despite their intimacy, they had not fully consummated their relationship, and it surprised Ninion that such gentle quips were the only reproach he ever heard. To offset the disappointment he was certain his lover must feel, he gave Olenwë numerous proofs of his affection, allowing his partner to finger his most intimate parts and struggling past an instilled revulsion to oral sex to reciprocate the joy he received. On a few occasions, he consented to taking the lead and found unexpected pleasure in penetrating his lover, but dominance was not a role he wanted to play. Surely Olenwë must nurse some private regrets. A more skilled lover could have satisfied him far better than I. “One day,” murmured Ninion. “You are so big, that is all.” 152

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He spent the next quarter of an hour demonstrating his admiration, taking his partner’s erection in hand and lavishing it with his tongue, making Olenwë squirm, though he did not swallow the result. Afterward they lay close under the covers, Olenwë dropping off to sleep almost at once while Ninion remained awake, comfortably drowsy if a bit apprehensive. Naturally he had promised Olenwë that he could view the finished mural. What his lover would say he had no idea. That Shevan, a master portraitist, had no complaints with, and even guarded praise for his work did little to quell his sudden misgivings. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. For two years now he had wanted to do something for Olenwë, something that meant more than the little drawings his lover tacked all over the walls of his room. Now his plans struck him as too ambitious, too liable to fall flat. His only consolation was that Olenwë did not suspect what he planned, and if the end result turned out all wrong, perhaps he would not notice at all.

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Chapter Two Olenwë stayed the night, and was still in bed when Ninion rose, dressed, and ate in the kitchen before joining his chaperone in the icy predawn for the walk to the House of the Water. He took the morning prayers with the priests at the main altar before meeting Shevan and his crew in the side hall. Though access to the work area had been restricted, this part of the temple received substantial foot traffic during the day. That, coupled with the presence of a talevé among the workers, necessitated screens behind the scaffolds, hung with the same canvas sheeting that protected the floor. Shevan liked to start early. His workspace illuminated by three oil lamps, he supervised two assistants as they mixed pigment for the background: muted sepia and parchment tones that would not compete with the richness of the figures. When he saw Ninion with his chaperone, Shevan respectfully touched his hand to his forehead while hissing at his assistants to stop and do the same. Whether he really meant the gesture or did it because the priests expected it of him Ninion could not say. “I’ll soon be mixing the colors for the first figure on the left,” he said. “Your notes indicate turquoise and sky blue with gold trim. Is it necessary to be that specific?” Now came the inevitable criticism. “That is what Alanáro actually wears during the procession.” Shevan consulted the sketches, smaller versions of the tracings, and nodded. “Yes, I see. I’d never really noticed. I’ll get your approval on the colors before they go up. However, I am rather curious about two of the figures.” Leading Ninion over to the wall, he motioned to the hem of the figure’s flowing robe. “I know this is you,” he said, “and I also

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noticed the text hidden in the embroidery. This name is different than the one you seem to use.” His finger traced Sanadhil concealed among the scrolling leaves and vines. “Yes,” admitted Ninion, “that is the name I was born with.” “I wasn’t aware that talevé changed their names when they entered the Blue House.” Ninion did not want to have this discussion. “Sometimes they do,” he replied. “My other name is hidden among the garlands I am carrying.” Shevan grunted acknowledgment, then moved to his right. “Now this figure behind you—” “Yes, that is Olenwë.” “Is he a particular friend of yours?” Ninion glanced over at the chaperone; the man was not yesterday’s lecturing priest and not terribly interested in the work. “I assure you, Master Ardannes, I would not offer the Lady what was improper, nor would the priests allow it. Talevé have a strange brotherhood. Sometimes it is more, but that is not for anyone but the Lady to judge.” That last part sounded harsher than he intended, and from the way Shevan flinched back, Ninion could see he had surprised the man. “What you Water-lovers do is your business. I only want to make sure I have it right.” “Olenwë has been my friend since the day I first entered the Blue House.” Shevan, flustered by the turn of conversation, glanced aside. “Of course,” he said shakily. “I think we’re ready to begin with the background.” I have said too much, and none of it gracefully. Ninion donned the canvas apron Shevan handed him. From the beginning he sensed the portraitist was nervous in his presence. Now he had made it worse, with the project only at its halfway point. I should never have written those words. His hidden message revealed too many secrets, laid bare too much dangerous knowledge where outsiders would not understand. This he knew, because he had once been in Shevan’s position, made awkward by the very notion of two men in love. 155

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While the assistants laid down the background with its sepia shadows, Ninion refined charcoal lines where his tracings had not gone through, then helped Shevan mix pigment for the figures themselves. Shevan spent as much time holding swatches of colored parchment up to the wall as he did at the mixing table. After a short time Ninion asked him why. “It’s difficult to render what I’ve never seen,” he replied. “Your image will be the easiest, since you’re right here, but blending tones for the others will be much harder. You’re certain the priests won’t allow the other talevé to sit for their portraits?” “They do not even know the figures are to be portraits,” confessed Ninion. “The drawings I submitted left out most of the detail. Not even Olenwë knows he is going to be on this wall.” Shevan stared at him in genuine surprise. “You didn’t tell him?” If it does not come out right I will be ashamed. “I did not want to ruin the surprise.” Sighing, holding up a pair of colored scraps, Shevan shook his head. “Then you’ll have to help me with the faces. My assistants can do the hair.” By day’s end most of the background was finished. At one end Shevan had begun on Alanáro’s face, adding light and shadow. Color blushed the cheek, deepening on the lips, while the eyes remained hollow. “I leave that for last,” he explained. “They’re the most expressive part of the face. While I’m working on the face I think about the eyes, how they should look.” “I draw the eyes first.” Standing at a distance, Ninion found Alanáro’s image strangely haunting, sightless, wanting to step away from the wall’s flat surface into life yet unable. “Drawing, yes,” agreed Shevan. “When you paint it is different.” A few more strokes, subtly blending color and shadow on the cheek, then he set the brush down. “We’ll come back tomorrow and finish this.” Upon his return to the Blue House, Ninion found Olenwë upstairs in the bath, soaking a badly bruised shin while the healer supervised from a footstool at the edge of the pool. “What happened?” he asked. 156

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Olveru looked more irritated than concerned. “He and Elentur were sparring in the yard with quarterstaffs.” “We were just exercising,” said Olenwë. “Is that what you call it in the Seaward Islands?” Ninion noticed the bruises darkening Olenwë’s shoulder and cheek. “You look like you were in a fight.” “They were,” said Olveru. “Apparently they took it into their heads that the purpose behind sparring was not exercise but comparing the relative size of their cocks.” Olenwë turned, his sudden movement spattering the other talevé’s priestly robe with droplets of hot water. “Everyone knows mine is bigger.” “Say what you like, but you can be sure Madril will insist on having a word with both you and Elentur tomorrow. Talevé do not behave this way.” “Just because you never have any fun doesn’t mean you have to spoil it for the rest of us.” Ninion handed Olveru a towel to dab the areas where Olenwë splashed him. “I am not impressed.” “You get hard watching me sweat.” The crude statement brought an embarrassed flush to Ninion’s face. This sort of banter was not at all to his taste. “We will see how handsome I find you when Elentur knocks your teeth out.” “A few teeth are nothing. My grandfather had only the one tooth, and the women still whistled at him.” “I do not whistle,” said Ninion. “No, but I can teach you.” Olenwë rose naked from the steaming water, seized the towel the healer handed him, and stepped out onto the tiles. Injuries sustained during his daily exercises were nothing new, and once his irritation at the discomfort passed he seemed to enjoy flaunting his scrapes and bruises. “I’ll be limping for a week,” he hissed, as he put weight on his battered shin, “but it’s nothing.” Ninion could tolerate only so much posturing. Meeting Olveru’s gaze, he rolled his eyes. “Just get a poultice on it and get dressed for supper. We are going to be late.” “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss first? I’ll tell you where, and Olveru can step outside.” 157

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“That would only encourage you. If I wanted someone with such crude manners, I would have found myself a soldier.” Ninion looked about, found his partner’s tunic and other clothing on the stool Olveru had vacated and flung them at him. Olenwë peeled the sweat-soiled linen off his chest. “Maybe, but you’d never get one as good-looking or as good in bed as I am.” “Get dressed and come downstairs, you big baby, and try not to make too much of a fuss.” As he washed and went down to supper, Ninion shook his head at his lover’s antics. Occasionally he wondered what drew him to Olenwë when on the surface they had so little in common. Tall, broad-shouldered and rough-mannered, Olenwë stubbornly clung to his islander fishing heritage and was so exuberant in bed it was sometimes more than his highborn, delicate partner could bear. Two years after entering the Blue House, Ninion now knew profanity that would make his parents livid with shock. Once in a while he gently asked Olenwë to mind his tongue, but it no longer unsettled him as it had in the beginning. Even the sparring matches with Elentur meant nothing more than a little friendly competition, a way for Olenwë to assert himself in a place where he had no real responsibilities or other pastimes. So Ninion learned to roll his eyes and be tolerant. Olenwë was not going to change, and Ninion did not really want him to. It could have been different. Life with his genteel family or the bride they had chosen for him would have made him miserable. No, he thought quickly, it did make me miserable. It was far easier to forget those years of isolation and strict rule in his father’s house than remember the rejection that had driven him to despair. For all his crudeness, Olenwë was surprisingly astute and gentle, and Ninion could easily forgive him his faults. Soon Olenwë limped down the stairs and into the atrium. “Did I tell you that Dyas changed this afternoon?” “As I recall you were too busy trying to convince Olveru and me that your cock is bigger than Elentur’s. Not that it matters in the slightest to me.” Olenwë laughed before kissing him lightly on the lips. “You’ll be happy to know that Dyas bit Elentur on the ass again. Elentur gave me the shiner on my cheek when I couldn’t stop laughing.” 158

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Ninion sighed at the mental image of the sixteen-year old as a wolf chasing after Elentur, who often teased the youth, and Olenwë howling with laughter as his rival received his comeuppance. “Tell me Dyas did not urinate on him again.” “Of course he did.” Dyas, exhausted from his transformation, would still be upstairs sleeping. Ninion reminded himself to look in on the youth before going to bed. “I keep telling him not to do that.” “Let him have his fun,” said Olenwë. “That’s the problem with being a sea creature. I never get to do anything as remotely interesting.” Elentur chose that particular moment to appear, wearing a surly look that deepened when he saw Olenwë. Ninion smiled at him. No matter the ferocity of their posturing, tomorrow the two men would be exercising together and exchanging their customary banter. “You see,” continued Olenwë, “he’s a wolf, while I’m stuck as a hrill.” “I thought you liked being a sea creature.” “Yes, but for once I’d like to piss on his leg the way he does mine.” Ninion stood on his toes to kiss his lover’s temple. For years the priests had tried to instill Olenwë with eloquence and a sense of etiquette, to no avail. Good breeding would only ruin his natural good humor, and his allure. “Do you want the whole House in an uproar?” “You say that as though it were a bad thing.” Sighing, Ninion took Olenwë’s arm and headed toward the dining room. “What am I going to do with you?” “If you’re at a loss for suggestions—” “Your suggestions are not fit for public viewing.” A half-second later he felt a hand smack him lightly on the buttocks. Flushed, not knowing whether to be shocked, furious, or both, Ninion started. “If you do not behave during supper you can forget about playing later.” Olenwë pulled a long face. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

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It really was impossible to refuse Olenwë when he put so much effort into being endearing. But Ninion held firm. “Tease me during supper,” he replied, “and you’ll see how much I mean it.”

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Chapter Three Madril made the usual noises, complaining about the lack of decorum in the Blue House, and Olenwë did his best to look contrite. Elentur did the same, while rubbing his buttocks where Dyas had nipped him a day earlier. Scolding came to nothing, for within the hour the two were once again in the exercise yard wrestling and baiting each other. They noticed Olveru off to the side, grimly shaking his head at their antics. Olenwë grinned, waved, then chuckled when the healer left in an irritated huff. “I think he’s impressed.” “With my manly charms or your clumsiness?” asked Elentur. “Fuck you.” “Sorry, I don’t take it in the ass.” Gritting his teeth, Olenwë searched for a suitable retort, yet found something better in the figure approaching from the main house. “Oh, look who’s here. It’s your favorite person.” When Dyas, still bleary-eyed from yesterday’s change, blinked and innocently denied any memory of biting Elentur, it was all Olenwë could do to hold in his laughter. Young as he was, the boy was as devious as he was ferocious, and Lady help the man who claimed him once he was finally old enough to have a lover. “I swear I’ll bite his prick off the next time I change,” Elentur grumbled once the youth was gone. “Oh, but you heard what he said.” Olenwë let escape a tiny guffaw. “He doesn’t remember a thing.” “I’ll give him something to remember.” “He’s not afraid of you.” Elentur flashed him an obscene gesture. “Why don’t you go bother Ninion?” This Olenwë would have done had he been able. As annoying as he knew his presence was, he enjoyed watching Ninion at his 161

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tasks, whether on small murals around the Blue House or just sketching with charcoal. Most days Ninion spent in the temple scriptorium copying manuscripts or occasionally illustrating them. Olenwë wrote well enough to sign his name, and could read a little, but not enough to join Ninion in his work. As much he would have liked to share in this part of his lover’s life, he knew it was futile to brood over things he could not change. Certainly, knowing the privations Ninion had endured in his father’s house, Olenwë was not about to begrudge his art simply because he lacked talent. This time, however, he felt uneasy. In the scriptorium Ninion was safe, surrounded by priests and other talevé, and while the supervising clergy might ask him to recopy a text or measure his margins more carefully, no one criticized his art. But this artist, renowned more for his abrasive reputation than his skill as a painter, seemed to respect neither princes nor priests. A twentyone-year-old talevé, a rival, might draw a careless comment, a hurtful remark that Ninion was unlikely to report. He won’t tell me anything. That Ninion trusted him at all was a gift given to no other, but he still carried some hurts inside him. “You don’t have to be there all the time, do you?” Ninion snuggled against him. How pleasant it would be to remain like this all morning, or at least until one of the priests barged in to hustle them to morning prayers. “You want me to stay with you.” “Of course I do,” replied Olenwë. “I have to supervise the painting.” Olenwë snorted. “This famous artist isn’t much good if he needs you to watch him. And besides, it’s outright dangerous for a talevé with your beauty to remain too long among laymen. This man might try to abduct you.” “I hardly think so. Shevan Ardannes is married.” “When has having a wife ever stopped a man from lusting after a gorgeous talevé?” “You are exaggerating my beauty,” said Ninion. Turning, he kissed Olenwë lightly on the mouth. “But if it makes you feel any better, the priests never leave me alone with the painters.” Olenwë sighed. So much for that argument. “I’ll be glad when 162

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this project ends. You’re always so tired and anxious when you come home sometimes I think you aren’t happy with the work. You’re sure this artist isn’t giving you trouble?” “No, he is fine.” “Then what’s wrong?” asked Olenwë. “I’ve never seen you like this with other projects.” He had fully expected Ninion to deny any trouble, to insist on how happy the work made him, but when his lover sighed and rolled over to one side he knew his instincts were right. “The mural is such a massive project I am surprised the priests let me submit a design at all.” “You should be honored they chose it.” In the shadows Olenwë thought Ninion might have shrugged. “So many people will see it, and if it does not turn out right—” No more of that nonsense. Olenwë placed a hand on Ninion’s left shoulder, drew him close, and kissed his brow. “You always say that about your own work, and you’re always wrong.” “But this is special, Olenwë.” “Everything you do is special—ah, watch my shin.” “You and your ridiculous posturing,” said Ninion. “You and Elentur behave like children who have nothing better to do.” “That’s just it,” replied Olenwë. “We don’t have anything better to do. I don’t have any duties in the House of the Water, and nothing else to keep me out of trouble.” No one had to tell him that idle hands made for disaster; in the fishing communities of the Seaward Islands a man imbibed such maxims along with his mother’s breast milk. Olenwë found his current boredom all the more frustrating because he could not do anything about it. “In fact, if you hadn’t come along when you did I’d spend all my time wishing I could go back to Ikun.” What he never shared with Ninion or anyone else was the knowledge that there were some talevé in the southernmost Islands who avoided coming to Sirilon, who lived free and did as they pleased. So the stories went. Many times Olenwë felt he should have fled Ikun while he had the chance, before the ship came to take him to the mainland. But had he escaped, had he lived free in the warm southern Islands, he never would have known Ninion. Therefore, what 163

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should have been a constant longing became an occasional regret, tinged with the certainty that a man could not have everything he wanted. **** As the work neared completion Ninion lingered off to the side with his chaperone and watched Shevan put the final touches on the elaborate details of jewelry and embroidery. His assistants followed in his wake to apply sealant. Once the mural was finished and before the sealant had completely dried, Madril and the other senior priests came to inspect the work. Ninion, standing beside Shevan, held his breath and tried to keep from trembling as they paced the length of the mural, scrutinizing the craftsmanship, discussing the details in hushed tones until he was certain they would find fault with it. Finally Madril, wearing an inscrutable look, approached. “The results are acceptable,” he said. “Of course, we do not necessarily approve of portraiture in the sacred enclosure, but in view of the high quality of the work we will let this pass.” Ninion waited until the priests departed before daring to breathe. They did not notice, he thought. It was before their eyes and they never saw. “So the stuffy old men approve,” Shevan commented drily. “I suppose Madril realizes he’d have gotten pink bows if he complained.” So the tale must be true. “Those are real talevé,” said Ninion. “I do not think Arion or Olveru would appreciate bows in their hair anymore than Prince Carancil.” Shevan’s laughter echoed through the vaulted space, startling his assistants. “Ah, so you’ve heard that story.” “Is it true?” “If you look carefully enough at his portrait you might find a bow or two.” Shevan nodded at his assistants to reassure them, then winked at Ninion. “I couldn’t let the dour old fool escape thinking I didn’t mean it.” All that evening Ninion’s thoughts turned toward obtaining clearance for Olenwë to leave the Blue House in order to see the mural; only talevé who were anointed members of the priesthood or were assigned tasks in the House of the Water had the privilege of 164

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leaving the enclosure. He considered his next move through the morning prayers and breakfast, and before noon went to ask Madril to allow Olenwë to visit the temple early tomorrow morning. “No one will be there,” he said. “Normally I would not ask but I would like him to be able to see his face in the mural.” Madril sighed heavily. “When I saw the mural I suspected you might ask.” “It is a small request,” replied Ninion, “and it would give him such joy.” “Of course, but you realize that once the others learn their portraits are in the House of the Water, they will also wish to see themselves. Those who frequent the temple will view the mural and spread the word.” Ninion had not, in fact, considered that possibility. “Is it so impossible a request? Arrangements could be made for a private night viewing.” Madril made no promises beyond giving his consent for Olenwë to make a brief predawn visit. His reluctance made no sense. Often it seemed that the priesthood hesitated in giving the talevé too much leeway; their attitude in letting Ninion work on the mural felt more like a favor than an honor, and soured his elation at receiving the commission. Ninion could not comprehend this, even when Olveru explained that the priests, threatened by the connection the youthful Water-lovers had with the Lady, behaved as they did out of a need for self-preservation. I have no wish to usurp Madril’s position, he thought. I simply want Olenwë to be able to see the work I did. Not wanting to rouse suspicions in the Blue House, Ninion kept quiet until a eunuch came to his door just before dawn to inform him that his escort had arrived. It was his misfortune that Olenwë did not like rising before it was necessary, and often came down to morning prayers disheveled and bleary-eyed. Ninion, already dressed, shook him vigorously. “I do not want to have to dump cold water on you to get you up.” Groaning, Olenwë tried to shove him away. “Lemme alone,” he mumbled. “You could not have been this sluggish in the Seaward 165

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Islands.” Ninion opened the clothes press and selected items that he promptly dumped onto the bed. “All those stories of being out on the water before dawn and here you cannot even drag your lazy carcass out of bed for me.” Olenwë rolled over, yawned, and scratched himself. “Unless we’re going fishing or about to fuck I don’t see the point.” “Oh, you are impossible!” Ninion threw a tunic over his head, and followed that with a pair of trousers. “Here I get Madril to agree to let you go to the House of the Water and see the mural, and you cannot even manage to open your eyes. Now get up, put your clothes on and wash. You have all afternoon to sleep if you are truly that lazy.” Once motivated, Olenwë could and did move as quickly as any fisherman due out on the water before sunrise. He dressed, dragged a comb through his hair, and rinsed the sleep from his mouth with scented water. “Now if you’d just told me instead of barging in like a nagging fishwife,” he complained, “we wouldn’t have had all this fuss.” “It was to be a surprise,” said Ninion. A temple guard awaited them in the outer courtyard, and in the chill darkness and fog they made their way from the Blue House, down the linking colonnade and into the House of the Water. The night guards were still on duty, with no priests in sight. Olenwë noticed this at once and promptly commented. “It’s nowhere near dawn.” “Stop your grumbling and turn left,” said Ninion. “We are here.” From the lantern the guard carried, he lit a pair of oil lamps Shevan’s crew had left behind. Later this morning the men would dismantle the scaffold, remove the canvas flooring, and by afternoon the mural would be visible to the public. “Come inside and see,” he told Olenwë, taking his hand to guide him into the enclosure. Although he gave no indication that the man was not welcome, the guard retreated to a respectful distance to await further orders. “All right,” chuckled Olenwë, his voice softly echoing through the temple’s empty spaces, “what do you want to show me?” Smiling, his heart beating hard with mingled fear and 166

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excitement, Ninion turned toward the wall. Then he abruptly stopped, bewildered at what he saw. Once, twice he blinked, but no, there was no mistake. Where their images had been earlier, and should have been now, was now a blank, white space.

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Chapter Four “I do not understand.” The whiteness was plaster, still wet and applied unevenly, and only to their two figures; the other sixteen looked as they should. Ninion stood rooted to the canvas-covered floor, mouth agape in disbelief and unable to wrap his mind around the concept that someone would want to ruin his hard work, that they would specifically want to hurt him and Olenwë. After a moment he gave a little cry, all he could manage when inside he was screaming in agony. From behind he felt Olenwë’s hands on his shoulders, then his muscular arms wrapping around him. “What is it?” “Those were our portraits, you and me. Someone ruined them.” In his ear he heard his lover hiss, “Who did this?” “I do not know. Only the priests and painters have seen it.” Ninion’s thoughts raced, trying to grasp at that which made no sense. “Perhaps it was a priest who disapproved—I do not know.” “We’ll find out who did it.” Olenwë’s lips touched his temple, then he spoke again, very softly, “We’ll fix it. Now, show me the rest of your work.” All Ninion wanted at that moment was to flee, to run back to his room in the Blue House and hide, but with Olenwë gently urging him on he saw he had no hope of escape. Slowly, reluctantly, he led Olenwë to the far end of the mural, where the procession began. “Look carefully,” he said tonelessly. “You should recognize them.” Olenwë squinted in the flickering light at the figure upon the wall, and tilted back his head to peer at a face two feet above his. “This looks like Arion,” he said, letting his eyes trace the figure’s waist-length hair.

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“Daro is behind him,” said Ninion. “He is the one holding the brass bowl of seashells.” “Are they all like this?” Olenwë’s hand instinctively came up to touch the work, but after a warning about the sealant, which was in the final stages of drying, he kept his distance. “Yes, they are.” Ninion felt his voice knot in his throat. Only decorum kept him from burying his face in his hands and bursting into tears. Despite his denials he had a sinking suspicion he knew who had defaced the mural, and why. This he did not want to believe, and did his utmost to convince himself that it could not be possible in such a short space of time. The mural had not yet been unveiled to the public; the dedication was still days away. No one else would try to erase me like this, he thought. Olenwë laid a hand on his arm and, with the guard in tow, led him back to the Blue House. There he flagged down the first eunuch he could find and ordered him to find Madril. “But, holy one,” protested Zanir, “the high priest is still—” “I don’t care if he’s asleep or fucking some whore. Go get him,” barked Olenwë. “Tell him it’s urgent.” Half an hour later Madril arrived wearing a tired, harried look that dissolved the moment he learned the reason behind his rude awakening. “I will begin making inquiries immediately. Olenwë, take Ninion into the dining room and see that he eats something.” “I am not hungry,” Ninion said in a small voice. “There is no need for you to be this upset,” replied Madril. “We will find out who did this, and the mural will be repaired.” Once Olenwë led Ninion into the dining room and helped him sit down it did not take long for the other talevé to discover what had happened. Immediately they put forth theories as to who the culprit must be, an exercise Ninion did not encourage and wished would end. “The priests make a fuss over everything,” said Dyas. “It’s always ‘don’t do this’ or ‘that’s not proper.’ They must have seen something they didn’t like.” Right away there were murmurs of disagreement. “The priests gave their final approval yesterday,” Olveru pointed out. “They would not have done so unless the work was to their liking.” 169

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“What about that cockhead artist?” asked Elentur. Here Olveru shook his head again. “He would not sabotage his own work this way. Ninion, I saw your sketches when Madril approved the design. If that is what the mural looks like then there is no reason for anyone to have done what they did.” “There is one person—” “Do not even say it, Dyas.” Olveru wagged a finger at him. “No one needs to hear it.” Throughout this, Ninion bit down on his lip, drawing blood as he struggled to hold back his tears. No matter what Olenwë tried to press on him he could not eat. Dyas was right, he must be, unless someone else wished him ill. But Ninion dared not say anything, dared not admit to the messages he had concealed within the ruined images, not now, when all his hard work had come to nothing. At last, pressured on all sides, he burst into tears. Olenwë hugged him close, while waving everyone else away. “Stop this and just let him be. All of you, go.” Madril entered as the dining room cleared. “Sanadhil,” he said, using the formal name Ninion despised, “you must accompany me to the work site. Olenwë, you do not have clearance to—” “Fuck you. I’m a talevé. I should be able to go to the House of the Water whenever I want.” “Your temper does not help matters. Sanadhil is already agitated; he does not need you threatening half the city in his defense. Olveru will go with him.” Ninion regretted the sting the high priest’s decision caused Olenwë, yet at the same time he welcomed it. “It will be right,” he said quietly. “I don’t like this,” grumbled Olenwë. “It will only be for a short time. We will inspect the damage, then Sanadhil will return and Olveru will give him something to help him rest.” Madril nodded toward Ninion, who had already begun to protest that he did not want to be drugged. “I assure you, we have as much interest as you in learning who did this.” Why he needed to go at all Ninion did not know. Shevan, already present at the site and swearing profusely at the damage, was able to answer Madril’s questions. “It’s only the two images here, and only their faces and other scattered details. Before you 170

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ask, my men and I had nothing to do with this.” “Can it be repaired?” asked Madril. “Of course,” replied Shevan. “We have the original tracings, and once they’re positioned properly we can restore the damaged areas in a very short time. However, we should wait for the sealant to dry, otherwise the parchment will stick to the wall.” Nodding, Madril drew Ninion aside. “I did not wish to say this in front of Olenwë, knowing what his temper is like, but my initial inquiries have yielded some possible answers. Your father visited the temple yesterday.” Ninion stiffened. From the beginning, however much he hoped against it, he had known this moment would come. “No one aside from the artists and senior priests has seen the mural.” “There may have been informants among your chaperones,” said Madril, “and the House of the Water is not entirely closed at night. It is possible.” Ninion grasped Olveru’s arm as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Even within the sanctuary of the temple, it seemed, he was not beyond his father’s reach. “Has he said anything?” “I have not yet questioned him,” admitted Madril. “One does not accuse a man of his status lightly. However, this afternoon I will find some pretense to call him into my office. He may not confess to anything, you understand, but we will see to it that he knows the consequences of any further mishaps.” In short, nothing would happen. Ninion gasped for air in the closeness of the canvas-shrouded work area, and felt Olveru tug at his arm. “You should go outside.” “I want to go back to the Blue House.” Madril nodded. “There is no further need for you to remain.” As Olveru escorted him out Ninion started when he encountered Shevan standing just outside the hall. “I wouldn’t worry about repairing the damage,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve redone countless paintings, most of which I plastered over myself.” Ninion managed a brief nod. “Thank you,” he croaked. “I had no idea that blustering idiot Fhersan Tal né Kirrion was your father.” “Perhaps it is best you do not mention it,” said Olveru. Shevan grinned. “I wouldn’t want to acknowledge him either. 171

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You must be Olveru Terrias, the healer.” Ninion sensed his companion’s mingled interest and annoyance. “Have we been formally introduced, Master Ardannes? I believe the correct form of address for a talevé is ‘holy one.’” “Well, then, holy one Olveru, you might recall that I’ve spent countless hours poring over all eighteen of your faces. By now, I know your features in intimate detail. When you have a chance to look at my poor rendition I think you will find your name hidden among the herbs in your hands.” Olveru discreetly coughed, yet made no move to leave. “Are you flirting with me?” “Oh, but I am a married man, holy one,” replied Shevan. “Marriage has never stopped a grown man from panting like a dog over a talevé,” Olveru said, a hint of disdain creeping into his voice. Ninion could only wonder how much he was truly enjoying himself. Now, venturing beyond presumption, Shevan claimed Olveru’s hand and kissed it. “Truly I was not able to decide which among you is the fairest, you are all so lovely.” Olveru snatched his hand back. “Those are hardly wooing words, Master Ardannes.” Madril emerged from the canvas enclosure, bringing the exchange to an abrupt end. “I hope nothing is amiss here,” he said drily. “Not at all,” replied Olveru. “We were just leaving.” As they turned to go Ninion spoke, “Master Ardannes, the illuminated manuscript in my father’s portrait—” A mischievous light twinkled in Shevan’s eyes. “Yes, what about it?” “I noticed a pair of greyhounds in a rather...compromising position.” “Ah, so you noticed my parting gift to him,” said Shevan. “You have, I noticed, a rather fine eye for detail.” Ninion nodded graciously at the compliment. “Unfortunately, my father never seemed to appreciate it.” “Yes, I see that.” A grim note crept into Shevan’s voice. “Which is why I will do my utmost to restore your work to its every last detail.” 172

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Chapter Five Olenwë hated it that things were so complicated in Sirilon. First he needed formal, written permission to leave the Blue House— even to visit the temple of his Lady—then priestly interference kept him from staying with Ninion. Olveru and his potions were useless. Ninion did not need to be drugged like some uncontrollable child; he needed reassurance that those who damaged his work would be found, and then, like a man, he needed to dry his tears and go back to work on the mural. Madril should be acting, not asking polite questions and shuffling a distraught talevé out of the way simply because he found it unseemly. In the Islands, Olenwë would not have to look hard for anyone who did him wrong; in a fishing village, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Within the hour, he could go straight to the offending party and demand restitution. Of course, the Blue House was not a village and the talevé were not peasants, as the priests so often reminded him. Fhersan Tal né Kirrion was a powerful noble attached to an equally powerful ruling prince, and he would only admit responsibility for defacing his son’s work if it suited him. “If I were there,” he told Elentur, “I’d make him talk.” “Are you even sure it was him?” Whatever ragged doubts Olenwë still had he shoved aside. “Who else could it be? He burned Ninion’s drawings once before. Why shouldn’t he do it again?” “Then why not whitewash the entire mural instead of just your two faces?” Elentur shook his head. “Does he even know the mural is Ninion’s work?” Olenwë made no reply, because at this point he did not know what to say. The culprit could just as easily be a priest who, knowing about the relationship between him and Ninion, decided to erase their faces to show his disapproval. But then why not do 173

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the same to the images of Arion and Daro, or Elentur and his lover Minias? It made no sense at all, and all Olenwë could do was make sure he was with Ninion when Madril returned that afternoon with news. “I understand you refused Olveru’s draught.” Ninion nodded slowly. “I do not want to sleep.” “Let him go back to work,” said Olenwë. “Fixing the damage will make him feel better.” Madril glared at him with such vigor that he knew his comment was unwelcome. “Master Ardannes has already finished retracing the plastered areas. He and his assistants are currently repainting the background. Sanadhil is not needed for this work.” Olenwë felt Ninion squeeze his hand. “He is right,” Ninion said softly. Madril continued, “I have contacted Lord Kirrion over this matter. Naturally he admits no responsibility, but he does not deny it either. I do not think it will come as a surprise to hear that he demands to see you, Sanadhil.” “I have no desire to see him.” Olenwë expected that to be the end of it. A talevé could not be coerced, and the priesthood actively discouraged contact with family members. Ninion had stated his position once before. As far as Olenwë was concerned, Madril had no business asking again. To his utter surprise and dismay, the high priest decided to press the issue. “Sanadhil, while I respect your wishes, it may be time to lay this matter to rest. Therefore, you will accompany me later this afternoon.” “It appears that respecting his wishes is the last thing you’re doing,” observed Olenwë. When Madril did not respond, he added, “If Ninion meets with his father then I demand to be present.” Madril frowned at him. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I don’t see how you can prevent me.” “You may think that because I cannot have the temple guards come in and subdue you that I cannot have it done at all. Do not press me on this issue, Olenwë. The law does not forbid other talevé from laying hands on you, as your recent altercation with Elentur proves, and if I have to ask him and others to lock you in your 174

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room, I will.” Olenwë idly wondered what the law said about breaking a priest’s jaw. “You’re a real ass, Madril. That man erased my face, too.” Madril’s mouth tightened at the insult, but he did not yield. “I cannot risk your assaulting him. I assure you both, this will not be a private meeting. I would never ask Sanadhil to meet with his father alone.” “I do not want to face him at all,” murmured Ninion. “It doesn’t seem like you have a choice.” Olenwë leaned over in his chair to drape an arm around his shoulders. “He can’t do anything to you.” “He just did, Olenwë.” Still hugging Ninion close, Olenwë glared one last time at Madril. This isn’t the end of it, he thought. Naturally he could not show up when the high priest prepared to leave with Ninion and expect Madril would not carry out his threat, but he could follow later. How to proceed, though, that was the question. Never having left the Blue House except as part of a formal procession or without a waiver, he would have to order the three sentries at the gate to stand aside. They would challenge, of course, and Olenwë imagined they would try to herd him back inside without laying a hand on him. Elentur and Minias would come to his aid, and perhaps one or two others, but once he passed beyond the gate he still had to find his way to Madril’s office, which he had never visited before. Asking a passing priest for assistance would only rouse suspicion; the man would ask to see his waiver, and if he could not produce it Olenwë knew he would not get very far before additional priests and guards swarmed down upon him. Pacing the garden colonnade, he pondered his options until he noticed a eunuch carrying a message from the gate to the small outbuilding where Olveru dried and prepared his herbs. Olenwë followed, and found the healer at his work table reading the open message. “Is that what I think it is?” Olveru dismissed the eunuch with a gesture. “And what do you think it is?” he asked. 175

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So this was the game Olveru intended to play with him. Olenwë casually leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the threshold. “I think you’ve been summoned by Madril in case Ninion has a nervous fit.” “That might be,” admitted Olveru. Olenwë growled in irritation. “Oh, stop fucking around. Ninion doesn’t need one of your potions. He needs someone to stand beside him when that big blustering blowhard starts insulting him. Tell me, are you going to do that for him?” He raked Olveru’s slight form with a disparaging gaze. “I highly doubt Madril will.” “Olenwë, you do not know what Lord Kirrion looks like.” “No, but I know the type. The only way to stop a bully is to stand up to him.” “That does not mean you have a right to break every bone in his body.” “Did I say I would?” As the healer began to move toward him, Olenwë straightened, obstructing the doorway outright. “You can walk past me, Olveru, but I’ll follow you all the same. The guards wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me, and they’re not about to risk a fight with a talevé just to keep me out of the House of the Water, not when I have a right to be there.” Olveru sighed heavily. “I will have to show you the way.” In the end he did more than that, getting Olenwë past the guards with a chilly reprimand when they asked to see the waiver for the unfamiliar talevé leaving with him. “Just because I agreed to help you does not mean I think it is a good idea,” he said. “The eunuch Madril sent knows who I am. Madril is not going to believe Taran mistook you for me.” Through wide corridors they hastened, drawing curious looks from passersby who noticed that Olenwë was not wearing the priestly blue-and-gray garb talevé wore in the House of the Water. “Once I get there it will be too late.” Olveru turned the corner. “It is the second door on the left. Promise me you will behave and not hit anyone.” “That depends on what I find,” replied Olenwë. Behind the door he heard murmuring voices. He started to knock, hesitated, then shrugged and rapped lightly, drawing a familiar command to enter. 176

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Madril, seated behind an elaborate desk, went livid. “I sent for Olveru.” “Did you?” Olenwë did his best to project innocent confusion. “The message must have gotten garbled.” “I very much doubt that,” Madril answered tightly. Beside the high priest, Ninion sat tense in his chair, his face as white as Olenwë had ever seen it. With his back to the door sat a gray-haired man in a green velvet doublet. He shifted in his chair, his expression of arrogant annoyance turning to apprehension when he saw who loomed over him. “Olenwë—” Olenwë took two paces toward him, just for effect. “So you know me?” Madril rumbled at him, “If you intend to stay you will sit down and not make a scene.” He waited just enough for Olenwë to find a vacant chair near the wall before continuing, “Lord Kirrion, let us continue. You know the House of the Water does not take such matters lightly.” “I will not have my son’s portrait besmirched by something that foul,” said Kirrion. “I am afraid I do not quite follow you.” “Then you are not aware of the text hidden inside the composition? These two—” With a dismissive wave he gestured to Olenwë and Ninion. “These two are lovers for all the world to see. Yes, I know that, as if one could not tell by watching their shameful proximity during public processions, but this is outrageous.” Madril turned to Ninion. “What does he mean?” “It matters nothing, now that he has destroyed the images.” “Tell them what you have done, boy!” barked Kirrion. “Lower your voice,” growled Olenwë. “You’re not the only one around here who knows how to be a bully.” “Sanadhil,” said Madril, more gently, “tell me what—” “Stop calling me that!” Ninion’s voice trembled with effort, yet remained firm. “You know how much I hate that name. Do not call me that any longer.” Leaning forward, Kirrion slammed his fist down on the table. “That is the name I gave you, boy!” Olenwë started forward, then froze when Ninion rose from his chair. “Sanadhil né Kirrion is dead, do you hear me? Dead! Do not 177

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call me that anymore.” Turning to Madril, he added, “You either.” “I refuse to use this lowly Danasi name you insist upon,” said Kirrion. “Then do not use it,” said Ninion. “I did not ask you to come here.” Kirrion ignored him. “Shevan Ardannes is an insolent braggart,” he told Madril. “I insist you speak to him regarding this outrageous mural. The day you allow such hacks to design work for this sacred institution is the day I cease making contributions.” For the first time, Olenwë discerned the faintest trace of a smile on Madril’s lips. “Lord Kirrion, you are apparently unaware that Master Ardannes is merely the painter. Sanad—Ninion, that is— designed the mural. You have attempted to destroy your own son’s work.” Kirrion was clearly dumbfounded. Then, shrugging, he slowly shook his head. “Why you would give him this commission I have no idea. Sanadhil has never had any remarkable talent aside from an ability to become sick at the slightest draft and embarrass his family name at the worst opportunity.” Olenwë could have split his lip right there. And he would have, had Madril not answered so quickly. “Whatever you may think of your son’s artistic abilities, defacing property that belongs to the House of the Water legally constitutes blasphemy. The fact that the mural depicts talevé, whatever your personal opinion of them, only adds gravity to the offense. We might consider it tantamount to assaulting one in person. Now, in deference to your rank we are giving you this warning, but should any further mishaps occur we will have to approach Prince Carancil and make this a public matter.” Rather than answer, Kirrion turned instead to Ninion. “I will not bear this insult. You will change the mural at once.” “No,” Ninion replied shakily. “You will do as you are told, boy, or—” “Or what?” asked Olenwë. Kirrion snorted. “Do you honestly think you can threaten me? My bloodline is among the noblest in Shivar. I am an advisor to Prince Carancil, while you are merely some dimwitted fisherman’s son from the Islands.” 178

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Despite the scorn lacing the man’s voice, Olenwë took secret pleasure in the apprehension he saw in Kirrion’s eyes. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” he asked. “Olenwë,” said Madril, “we will not have a scene here.” “Then you’d better tell this blue-blooded dandy to stop threatening his son.” Kirrion’s upper lip curled. “I did not think it possible, but my opinion of the Lady’s sacred lovers has just diminished significantly.” Madril turned to him. “Unfortunately what you think is not important, Lord Kirrion. The Lady does as She wills, and that is not for you or I to question. At this time I think it prudent to end this interview.” Ninion rose from his chair the moment Madril stopped speaking. “I am leaving.” “Sanadhil—” “I do not want to see or hear from you again, Father.” “Wait for me outside,” said Madril. Olenwë escorted Ninion from the room into a side corridor. “Gods, what an ass,” he muttered. Ninion looked away. “Please, I would rather not talk about it.” “I am proud of you, though, standing up to him like that.” Though he said nothing, Ninion did manage a slight smile. Madril appeared shortly. “Lord Kirrion will think twice before interfering with this House again, but there is another matter which still requires our attention. Show me these so-called messages, Ninion.” Within the canvas enclosure, Shevan stood on a stool, his face mere inches from the wall as he applied the slightest hint of blush to what looked like Ninion’s cheeks. An assistant coughed, drawing his attention, and he turned, brush and palette still in hand. “The work goes well,” he said. “If you would kindly step aside, Master Ardannes,” said Madril. “I wish to view a certain portion of the work.” Olenwë meant to follow and discover what all the fuss was about. When Shevan approached him, however, he found himself confronted by a short, balding artist whose conceit was reportedly as great as his talent. “You are Olenwë.” 179

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The utterance came out more as a statement than a question. “That’s the second time today somebody’s recognized me.” Olenwë’s attention remained focused on Ninion and Madril, the priest bending down to view a detail of embroidery Ninion picked out with his finger; he could not hear what they were saying. “Did you want something?” “I would like to make a note of your tones.” “My what?” Shevan led him over to a work table and a sketch. “I need to note down your color tones.” Rather than explain, in the candlelight space he had Olenwë turn his face this way and that. “It’s difficult to paint a subject you’ve never seen.” From his palette he daubed flesh-toned pigment onto the parchment. “It’s too bad I can’t get the other talevé. You and Ninion will be the most lifelike figures up there.” “I do not approve of this,” Madril said in the distance. Ninion responded in a softer voice, “I am not changing it.” “What’s going on over there?” Shevan daubed shades of blue over the sketch’s eyes. “You mean you don’t know?” “I’ve no idea what the fuss is about,” said Olenwë. “I take it that you do?” “Yes, but I’m not telling you.” “I could make you tell.” Shevan grinned. “Oh, I’ve no doubt you could hold me upside down over the side of the cliff or threaten to choke me, but if Ninion means for it to be a surprise for you then it isn’t my business to say anything. Besides, you wouldn’t want me to add little pink bows to your shoes, would you?” “You wouldn’t dare.” With his brush Shevan quickly painted a little blue bow in the sketch’s hair. “Has Ninion ever told you about the present I left for his father?” When Olenwë heard he roared with laughter. “Gods, that’s too funny. It almost makes up for not being able to shove his man’s head through the wall.” Ninion rejoined them. “Are you enjoying yourselves?” Shevan started to touch his hand to his forehead when Ninion 180

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stopped him. “You do not have to do that.” “I’m doing it out of respect, not simply because the high priest is standing behind you glaring daggers at me.” Olenwë noted how his lover blushed. “I am sure a great artist like you is accustomed to—” “You mean a great, conceited artist,” corrected Shevan. “Yes, I’m accustomed to dealing with the wealthy and powerful, but you’re the first talevé I’ve met. I had no idea there was so much talent among your kind.” “There isn’t.” Olenwë took unabashed pride in saying it. “Ninion has always been very special.”

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Chapter Six Ninion bit back his excitement as he watched his lover move along the wall, pausing at intervals to examine the other talevé. “You have already seen those.” Olenwë smiled at him in the lantern light. “I never get tired of looking at them.” Let him enjoy himself. Madril had grudgingly given his consent for this second excursion, and who knew when Olenwë would ever have the opportunity to view the mural again? Thus far, no arrangements had been made for all the talevé to visit the site. Perhaps fearing a rebuke or outright refusal, no one dared approach Madril to ask. Had the incident not occurred it might have been easier. Madril, never suspecting how the normally complacent Ninion had subverted the commission, could have been persuaded to bend, and even arrange a private viewing party in the House of the Water. I should have known it would not be easy. Even now Ninion had misgivings, for what his father and now Madril had noticed would in time come to the attention of others. Without his knowledge the priests might even hire artists to repaint certain portions, but it would not be now, not right away. “Olenwë,” he said, “you know that is not what I brought you here to see.” “Then you’d better stop daydreaming over there and show me.” Taking his arm, Ninion steered him toward the restored section of mural. “That is what I want you to see.” Rising before them, Olenwë, the tallest of all the figures, bore an offering of cloth lavishly embroidered with hrill, his spirit animal. His robe was the deep blue garment he wore during holiday processions. Beside him, in a robe of slate gray intricately

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patterned with gold, the painted Ninion carried an armload of flowers for the Lady’s altar. “I spent a lot of time on this,” said Ninion. Without touching the wall, he indicated the embroidery at the hem. “Look carefully at it.” “I am looking at it,” said Olenwë. “So you see the design?” Ninion asked hopefully. His heart slowly fell as he realized that what he wanted his lover to see, the moment of revelation he had imagined so vividly for so many weeks, did not register even when he spelled the design out with his finger. “Olenwë,” he said quietly, his voice halfway to breaking, “can you read it?” “What is it you want me to see?” asked Olenwë. Despite the rules of the Blue House and the insistence of the priests that the talevé under their jurisdiction be literate, Olenwë had stubbornly resisted. He could, he claimed, read and write his own name and as much as was needful, but it was now apparent that he had either lied or could not make out what was not clear to his eye. Please let it be the latter. “All of the figures have their names hidden somewhere about them, some in their jewelry or their clothes or in their offerings,” explained Ninion. “But ours are different.” Olenwë lightly rested his hand over Ninion’s, which was still poised above the intricate embroidery. “I see a letter here and there, but I can’t do any better than that. Fancy lines and puzzles, they just confuse me.” With his finger, Ninion slowly began to spell out the message in the design, for here he had done far more than hide his name. “It says ‘Sanadhil, beloved of Olenwë.’” Olenwë bent down until he was almost kneeling and lifted the lantern for a closer look, but the frown that creased his brows confirmed that he could do little more than that. “Is that what all the fuss was about?” “Yours says the exact opposite—here, on the offering you carry.” With the hand not holding the lantern, he drew Olenwë back to the tall, blue figure with the hrill-patterned fabric spilling from its arms and traced the words Olenwë, beloved of Sanadhil concealed among the embroidery. 183

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As Olenwë lifted his finger to trace over the design, Ninion gently guided it over the letters, helping him mark out his name. “Please tell me you can read that much,” he whispered. “Yes, I can, now that you’ve shown me where it is.” Olenwë stood close beside him, his arm sliding around Ninion’s waist and his mouth grazing his lover’s temple. “But why did you use your other name and not the one I gave you.” “No one knows my name outside the Blue House,” said Ninion. He felt Olenwë’s large hands take the lantern from him and set it aside before those same hands slid up his arms and cross his torso. Their chaperone waited in the shadows, conveniently forgotten until now; Ninion could only wonder what the poor sentry must think. “Why does it matter what people outside the Blue House see or think?” asked Olenwë. Once again that warm mouth nuzzled his skin, his hairline. “Ah, I see now. You wanted your father to see this.” Ninion hesitated before answering. Fhersan Tal né Kirrion had never even noticed the little touches Shevan Ardannes left on his portrait. And then, with a heavy sigh, he admitted, “Yes, perhaps I did. The mural that was here before this lasted for centuries, do you know that? This one will, too.” In some dark, quiet hour of the night, it had occurred to him that his father, who in his contempt had once destroyed his son’s drawings as the frivolous pastime of an invalid, might walk past this mural. He will see my face on the wall and know that this was my work, that it is something he cannot burn and that will outlive us both. “Had I suspected what he would do, or that it would cause so much trouble—” “I’m glad you did it,” said Olenwë, “though that’s not what I call you.” “My name is in the flowers I am carrying.” Ninion turned his head so Olenwë’s lips grazed his nose instead of his cheek. “You and I will be up here for hundreds of years, long after we are gone.” Olenwë turned him in his arms. “Why can’t I ever think of something that special, that meaningful?” He leaned forward to touch Ninion’s forehead with his own before moving down to claim his lips. Such a kiss was not proper for the House of the Water, 184

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certainly not with a witness awkwardly shifting his feet in the shadows, but Olenwë did not seem to care. “What can I ever do to repay you for this gift?” “Oh, but I never expected—” Olenwë silenced him with a kiss. “I will do something,” he said afterward. Even if he did not yet know what it would be. **** “I have to do something.” Olenwë took his dilemma to his friends, hoping they could help where his imagination failed. His sense of love and gratitude required something special, yet as he had no artistic talent and no money with which to buy a gift he quickly found himself at a loss. “Won’t your big cock satisfy him?” asked Elentur. “You’re useless, you know that?” “Well, you’re not an artist. I’ve seen your stick figures. They all look like they have broken arms and legs.” Olenwë glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me how talentless I am.” “Get married,” suggested Arion. “What do you mean?” “Ask Ninion to marry you.” Of all the possible things he might do, this option had never occurred to him. “You mean just go up to him and ask him? That sounds so simple.” Arion exchanged looks with his lover, then shook his head. “No, silly,” he replied. “You do not simply ask someone to marry you as though you were asking to borrow a tunic or pair of shoes. You have to do it properly.” “We’ve no village matchmaker here to go to his family and—” “Olenwë, are you seriously that clueless?” Elentur snickered, “And just imagine what Lord Kirrion would say.” “Either help me or fuck off,” grumbled Olenwë. When Arion explained how a marriage proposal should be made, Olenwë shook his head in amazement. So much fuss, it seemed. “Tell me you didn’t propose to Daro with all these flowers and candles. And the kneeling,” he added. “You didn’t actually kneel, did you?” 185

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“Yes, he really was on his knees,” replied Daro, “shoving his cock up my ass.” Olenwë nearly choked with laughter at the mental image those words conjured. “I don’t really think that’ll work with Ninion.” “No,” agreed Arion. “But these things you want me to do, it’s like courting a woman.” “Ninion is an artist, extremely sensitive to beauty,” Arion explained. “Whatever you do for him, you must appeal to his aesthetic sense.” “His what?” Like Ninion, Arion came from a noble household, and with his expensive private education sometimes used words Olenwë could not understand. “You’re going to have to help me here.” In secret, Arion tutored him on what to do and say, and on a fine, early summer evening Olenwë finally felt ready to attempt a proposal. After prayers he suggested a walk in the garden, all the while trying to conceal his anxiety and behave casually. Once they came to the garden shrine, he knew the moment had come. Getting down on his knees and uttering the words felt ridiculous, until he saw how moist Ninion’s eyes became. “Gods,” he said, quickly standing up, “you’re not going to cry, are you?” Ninion threw both arms around his neck and kissed him. “Yes, I am.” They returned arm-in-arm to the house, where in the atrium Olenwë’s friends accosted him. “Well?” pressed Elentur. “What do you think?” answered Olenwë. “I think he either said yes or you two just had a really good fuck.” Olenwë let his friends handle the wedding arrangements, as he had no idea what to do beyond asking Madril to officiate at the ceremony. He regretted not paying more attention when he was younger, but whenever his father began to speak to him of marriage he had always let his thoughts wander. Marriage never truly interested him, even though he knew it was only the most eccentric or poorest men in the Seaward Islands who remained bachelors; his father would not have tolerated the rumor of either at a refusal to marry. So Olenwë nodded his head as 186

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if listening and forced himself to be seen with the girls his parents thought would make good matches; any less effort, he feared, and they would suspect what was truly in his heart: that he did not care for women in that way at all. Weddings in his village had always been an excuse to get so drunk that he would not have to lie with any of the girls who sought his attention, though sometimes the need for sexual gratification was so great that he was willing to put his own preferences aside for an evening. Sex with women was not so bad, but it never excited him enough that he would have wanted to commit himself to it. “Do we really need to dress up and arrange for pastries and all these other things?” he complained. Arion lightly swatted him with the list. “You are fortunate this is all you need to worry about. I have already spoken with Madril about selecting a day and with the head cook about providing dessert for afterwards. All you have to do is remember to bathe and not fuss too much when wearing your good clothes. Honestly I do not see what you are complaining about. You were there when Daro and I took vows. You know what it is like.” That was true, but there was no pressure when one was merely an observer. “There’s so much to remember, I don’t want to forget anything.” “The groom typically shows up properly dressed, repeats his vows, and tries not to get drunk before the wedding night,” said Arion. “Since there will be no alcohol at the party you need not worry about that.” The ceremony would be held in the garden shrine, the customary site for special occasions in the Blue House. After evening prayers, Olenwë went upstairs and, with Arion watching, washed and donned the deep blue robe in which Ninion had painted him. In the corridor he met Ninion, dressed in his festival gray and gold, attended by Daro and Olveru. “Are you ready?” he asked. Ninion answered by placing a hand in his. “Not before you put these on,” said Arion. Two wreaths of summer flowers appeared in his hands. Olenwë accepted the coronet with good grace, while Ninion blushed at this final, 187

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crowning touch. Thus they descended into the atrium, to the applause of richly garbed talevé and eunuchs, and took their places at the head of the procession. Hanging like fireflies in the summer twilight, the lanterns borne by their escort were reflected by the waters of the shrine’s yanati pool, where Madril stood flanked by two senior priests. The evening felt soft and beautiful, even magical. Ninion, abashed at the effort being made on his behalf, complained many times that it was not necessary, that he was willing to yield his body without this pledge. Whatever apprehensions Olenwë had about going through the ceremony, he knew better than to agree. After years of chaste lovemaking, he knew what a gift he was being given and he would not have their first true night together be one of furtive rutting behind closed doors. Overcome by the poignancy of the moment, he had reached for Ninion’s hand, clasping it in his, doing his best to still his nerves and savor the moment. Olenwë’s family had always wanted him to bring home a girl of good family who would cook, clean, and bear healthy children. Certainly Ninion was far from the bride his parents would have welcomed. He could neither cook nor clean, but no woman could have compared with his beauty and gentle grace, and Olenwë reflected with wry humor that he never cared much for children anyway. Madril spoke the words of the pledge; Olenwë repeated them without hearing what he said. He felt oddly euphoric, aware of only the lanterns swaying in the blue darkness and the hand clasping his. Ninion’s low murmur answered, accepting his oath to love and protect before following Madril’s lead in making his own pledge. When the last words were spoken, Madril gave a signal. Olenwë stood frozen, trying to remember what he was supposed to do now. “Kiss him, silly!” Elentur’s voice cut through the twilight. “Go ahead,” added Madril.

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They kissed, just enough for the low applause rippling through the shrine. Later there would be more, much more, and they would have no need for ritual trappings or witnesses. “The Lady witnesses this union. She sanctions this joining of two lovers through Her signs.” Olenwë took his time about breaking off the kiss, even when Madril drew the audience’s attention to the yanati pool. Mist curled above the surface, swirling and doubling back upon itself. Such was the peculiarity of this dark water, whose depths no one could fathom, in all seasons, so Olenwë gave it little thought. But, caught up in the wonder of the occasion, he laughed and applauded with the others. In the dining room, the servants had set out watered wine and pastries, and Madril offered a toast to the newly pledged pair. Ninion sat in his chair, luminous and flushed with the wine, his pastry untouched beside him. He gracefully accepted the congratulations of his friends, even a few small gifts, and burst out laughing at something Dyas whispered in his ear. Olenwë caught Arion’s eye; the other man gave a nod, indicating that all was ready upstairs. Excusing himself to the company, he claimed Ninion’s hand and led him from the room to the sound of polite applause. With only a lantern to light their way they ascended the stairs, and when they came to Ninion’s door Olenwë stopped to pull his lover into his embrace. “In here?” murmured Ninion. “I thought we would go to your room.” “I think you’d be more comfortable in your own bed.” Without waiting for an answer, Olenwë nudged the door open to reveal the brilliance of a dozen flickering candles placed on the sideboard and around the shrine with its basin and votive figurine. Shadows and gold suffused the room, tinting the cobweb of sheer silk that now draped the bed in place of its heavy curtains. This is exactly what I wanted, he thought, grinning broadly at the sight. Taking in the transformation of his room, Ninion gave a little gasp that was quickly swallowed by Olenwë’s lips. Olenwë nudged the door shut with his foot before slowly backing his lover toward the bed. 189

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For close to two years they had been lovers and no strangers to each other’s nakedness, yet in his movements Olenwë undressed his beloved with as much care as he would a virgin maid. In some ways, Ninion was not so different. Ninion parted his lips in silent astonishment as Olenwë kissed the bare skin revealed as layers of soft brocade and linen were pulled away. For him, the joy and ecstasy of making love always seemed new, and Olenwë never tired of touching him. Mouths met and hands roamed over warm flesh. Their clothes became an afterthought that carpeted the floor at the foot of the bed. Olenwë took a moment to look down at the body under him, ivory and pearl transmuted to gold in the candlelight, and to meet the shadowy pools that were Ninion’s eyes. Ninion’s arms twined around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss that tasted of wine and salt and heat. Olenwë was often surprised at what a truly sensual nature his timid lover had. Once Ninion had grown comfortable in the embrace of his taller, more physically intimidating partner, he grasped with both hands the passion he craved, lavishing Olenwë’s body with caresses that made up for in affection what they lacked in art. His desire to please was boundless except in the one thing that would have made their lovemaking complete. Olenwë had never expected Ninion to undo his deep-rooted beliefs about male love all at once, for even he had begun his attraction to other males believing sex with them was painful and dirty. As long as Ninion allowed him to give him pleasure, and seeing that his lover was willing to reciprocate in other ways, he did not mind. “The next time you draw us on some temple wall,” he said huskily, “I want you to show us just like this, with me making love to you.” “The priests would never let me do that,” murmured Ninion. Olenwë nuzzled his earlobe, letting his tongue dart around it and around the pink shell of his lover’s ear. “Do I really care what they think? This is worshipping the Lady just as much as anything else. Besides, the look on your father’s face—” “Please, I would rather not think about him tonight.” “You and me both,” chuckled Olenwë. Long, breathless kisses 190

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led him down Ninion’s torso, rolling over nipples that rose hard at his touch and painting his tongue along a navel that squirmed in anticipation at the path his mouth was taking. He coated his fingers in the oil someone had left by the bed and parted Ninion’s thighs, dropping kisses along the sensitive inner skin. After such a wait, another lover would have taken him right there, but that was not what Olenwë wanted; he knew only too well what it was to be taken for the first time in lust, with little thought for the moment. Even he, rough-mannered and half-literate as he was, could see in his lover’s artwork a need to create beauty and permanence, so he had tolerated all the frustrating etiquette, and stumbled over the right words to ask for Ninion’s pledge, because what he held now in his arms was worth it. The one thing of beauty he could offer was his words of passion, not the staid formulas Arion taught him but those with which he had been raised. It was commonplace in the Seaward Islands for people to use the old Danasi tongue for both endearments and curses. Olenwë found he could give better expression to his desire in the old island language, and in the beginning had translated for his curious partner until Ninion told him he did not need to know what the words meant. Olenwë had laughed and said that he might as well have been reciting his mother’s market list if all his lover wanted were the erotic sounds. Those words he used now, exhaling them with his breath over damp skin, letting them slide off the tongue he used to taste the cock rising before him, swirling them around the hot, hard flesh before ceasing speech altogether. Where he would have gone on, quickening the movements of his fingers and mouth to bring his lover release, he withdrew and bent over Ninion, catching his panting breath with his lips before pulling back to ask how he wanted to consummate their lovemaking. In hindsight, there was only one way Ninion would have wanted it, to be surrounded by his lover’s heat and shielded by his body as they joined. He was careful, patient even with the temptation of the hot tightness that enveloped him; the short, sharp gasps Ninion made told him that it was uncomfortable. Olenwë would have stopped, even then, but the arms that went around him, 191

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cupping his buttocks to draw him closer, urged him to continue. He could have said many things. He might have told his lover that in the aftermath of pain he would become accustomed to the sensation of being filled, even that the discomfort would eventually turn to pleasure, but those were the assurances of a lover too intent on his own fulfillment; his own first lover had stilled his protests with such words. Olenwë could have mouthed such promises; the subtle changes in his lover’s body, the unconscious thrusting of his hips and the short, shuddering breaths, rendered it unnecessary. Hands clutched at his arms, his back, and a breathless voice uttered his name like a prayer. Falling over the edge of his own release, he answered.

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About the Author L.E. Bryce was born in Los Angeles, California and has never lived anywhere else. She has a Masters in English Literature from California State University, Northridge, and currently works as an English teacher. Her Jewish mother, two dogs and passel of cats help her keep her sanity. She is a regular contributor to Forbidden Fruit Magazine, and is the author of Dead to the World, My Sun and Stars, Aneshu Concubinage, The Golden Lotus, Snake Bite and Other Dark Homoerotic Fantasies and Those Pearls That Were His Eyes. She maintains a blog at http://granamyr.livejournal.com.

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