Misfit

 

Nysander hummed softly to himself as he walked through the gloomy palace corridors. A few of the courtiers he passed cast him a questioning glance, but most gave him a smile or respectful nod, used to his quirks. His little tricks at the royal banquet last night—making rings from gold coins, casting a rain of flowers, and sending empty platters floating back to the kitchen—had gone over well, as usual. People tended to assume that this was why the queen favored him. That suited the old wizard just fine.

He was well acquainted with Idrilain’s suite of rooms, having visited four queens before her here. He’d known Idrilain from birth and both loved and respected the warrior ruler she’d become.

It was a pleasant autumn day and he found her and her women sitting in her sunny courtyard, together with her second daughter, young Aralain. The sun glittered on pale blonde hair as she and her mother looked up and smiled at Nysander.

“Ah, here you are, my friend! Welcome back.” The queen rose to take his hands. “Four months is too long not to see you. How was your journey?”

“Very pleasant, my dear.” They dispensed with titles in private. “The island is very nice this time of year.”

“I miss it,” Idrilain said with a sigh. “I want to hear all about it, and how Rabinis is faring, but first there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Kallia, summon Seregil.”

One of the younger ladies-in-waiting went inside.

“Seregil?” asked Nysander. “An Aurënfaie?”

 

 

“Yes. A distant kinsman of mine. He arrived just after you left. I’ve recently placed him with Emidas.”

“Indeed?” Emidas was the queen’s chief scribe. While it was an honorable post, it seemed an odd choice for a kinsman.

“I’m afraid he’s having trouble adjusting to court life. I made him a page first, but he was a bit old, and wasn’t really suited to the position.”

“How so?”

Idrilain gave him a wry look. “He had a habit of not being where he was supposed to.”

Nysander chuckled at that. “Ah, I see.”

“But he’s well educated and writes with a very fine hand. Emidas has been happy with him so far. Well, mostly. Seregil is a bit headstrong, and apparently gets bored easily.”

Nysander could well imagine, having traveled in Aurënen. The ‘faie had no royalty, and nothing so formal as the Skalan court.

The young woman soon returned with a pretty youth. His ink-stained fingers and short green robe marked him as a junior scribe. He had the fine features of a pure ‘faie, framed by long dark brown hair loose over his shoulders. His grey eyes betrayed a deep sadness even as he gave Nysander a stiff bow and a forced smile. He looked to be about eighteen in human years.

Nysander took all that in at a glance, but it wasn’t what most caught his attention; the young ‘faie had magic in him. Nysander could just make out the faint aura of it around him. It was a shame to waste him as a minor functionary. If he’d been here when the young man had arrived he might have requested him for the Orëska.

“Nysander, this is my kinsman Seregil,” said Idrilain. “Seregil, this is Lord Nysander í Azusthra, one of the chief wizards of the Orëska House and a great friend of mine.”

“My lord, I am very honored to meet you,” said Seregil. His Skalan was cultured and carried the lilt of a western clan. Oddly, Idrilain hadn’t used Seregil’s formal name, with its string of patronymics and clan.

“Can Seregil take tea with us, Mother?” asked Aralain, and Nysander guessed that she was a bit smitten with the young man.

Idrilain smiled. “I’m sure his master can spare him for a little while.”

Seregil bowed again and joined the them at a small tea table by the fountain.

“Well, you are a long way from home, my boy,” said Nysander. “How are you enjoying Rhíminee so far?”

“I haven’t seen much beyond the palace, my lord. But it’s very pleasant here.”

Nysander could tell he didn’t mean a word of it. Though he still smiled politely, it was clear that Seregil wasn’t here by his own choice. As much as Nysander wanted to ask him more about himself, he sensed that it wouldn’t be welcome and to brush his thoughts would be rude.

The way Seregil spoke—when he did speak—and the genteel manner in which he handled his delicate porcelain tea bowl all reinforced Nysander’s initial impression that he was from a cultured, perhaps sheltered background. What in the world was he doing here?

Just then they heard raised voices and Idrilain’s two older children burst in. At eighteen, Princess Phoria and her twin, Prince Korathan, were fair and tall like their mother. Phoria was slender, while Korathan had a lean athlete’s build.

“Mother, Phoria won’t let me ride Bright Star!” Korathan exclaimed.

“Because he’ll break her neck if he tries,” Phoria retorted. “Oh, hello, Nysander! And Seregil! It’s good to see you.”

“Cousin,” Korathan said, acknowledging Seregil, as well.

“Your Highnesses.” A genuine smile transformed Seregil before Nysander’s eyes. He was more than pretty; he was quite beautiful, perhaps more than was good for him here at court. At least he’d made friends with the queen’s children. No doubt he’d rather have been with them than sitting here in his stiff collared robe.

 

***

 

Seregil did his best to concentrate on the document in front of him, a manifest from a grain shipment. The scriptorium was silent except for the light scratch of quills on parchment and the occasional distant honking of the Vs of wild geese flying over the city. Outside in the garden, new fallen snow sparkled in the sun under a clear blue sky. Despite the cold draft from the window casement beside him, he longed to be out there, not in this dreary chamber with its bare walls and cold stone floor. His desk was at the back of the room, furthest from the great hearth. He and the other junior scribes worked with their cloaks on.

He’d been at this kind of work for almost three months now and he was heartily sick of it. The manifest he was copying out was the sort of task Emidas thought him worthy of, or perhaps it was spite. Seregil knew he’d been foisted on the head scribe after he’d failed as a page. Well, he hadn’t failed so much as not cared. The whole artifice of the Skalan royal court, all that bowing and scraping and memorizing of titles grated on his nerves. And it was boring. And these clothes!

He hadn’t known what boredom was, though, until they stuck him here with a score of men and women who never lifted their noses from their task. Lord Emidas carried a short walking stick with a knob on the end and wasn’t above rapping the head or shoulder of any slackers. Seregil had found that out the first day and nearly punched the man. No one had ever laid hands on him like that. No one touched the Khirnari’s son—

Except that I’m not, anymore.

“Seregil, come here, please,” Emidas called from his high desk at the front of the room, where he’d been checking through the day’s work. Seregil felt a little spark of hope.

He felt the eyes of the others on him as he passed them on his way to the front of the room.

“What is this?” Emidas asked, holding up the manifest for a shipment of armor Seregil had completed yesterday. He’d done it in the form of an illuminated manuscript, with dragons, sea serpents and griffons intertwined with the fancy capital letters at the beginning of each paragraph. He done it partly out of boredom, and partly in the hope that Emidas would give him something more interesting to work on.

“I thought, maybe—”

“You thought you could impress me by wasting time creating something utterly useless?”

Seregil clenched his fists inside his sleeves. It was good work, as good as anything he’d seen here.

“It does show some promise,” the man sniffed. “Perhaps in a year or two, when you’ve mastered the basics, I will consider instructing you in the more elaborate styles.” He handed it back to Seregil. “Please copy this over in the proper form. Immediately.”

“But I’m in the middle of that field report. Duke Nirus needs it today.”

“Well then, you’d better get started.”

A year? Two? Seregil swallowed his anger and hurt as he walked back down the long aisle to his desk. Everyone in the room must have heard. He caught a few smirking down at their parchments as he passed and someone snickered. Pimple-faced Baleus, no doubt. Not that he was the only one who liked to see Seregil taken down a peg. Being known to be queen’s kin hadn’t done him much good.

Probably his miserable attitude hadn’t, either. Sometimes he regretted getting off on the wrong foot with just about everyone. He hadn’t been like this—before.

The extra work kept him in the scriptorium long after night had fallen and everyone else went off to supper, leaving him at his desk with a single lamp to work by. He moved to a desk closer to the fire, but it was dying and the day’s supply of wood was gone. Shivering made his script a little crooked, but at this point he didn’t give a damn.

A year before Emidas let him do anything he was capable of? He’d go mad!

His fingers were cramping with cold when he finally put the manifest on Emidas’ desk, tucked the field report in a leather folio with the queen’s crest on it, and blew out the lamp.

It was a long walk to the duke’s private chambers on the far side of the palace, he thought glumly, feeling his way toward the door. He’d be lucky to find any supper now. He’d probably just go back to his room. Alone.

He used to love this time of day—supper with his sprawling extended family at the clan house, then music or out for nighttime games with Kheeta and their friends. Or those summer trysts with Ilar ...

He paused by the door in the darkened room, one hand braced against the wall as pain flared in his heart. Don’t think of home, not any of it! Don’t think of him!

But it was too late. Grief and loneliness and shame rolled over him in a suffocating wave. He slid to the floor, tears he couldn’t hold back dripping onto the folio clutched in his hands.

“Damn it!” He hadn’t cried since he came here.

At times like this, which came all too frequently lately, he regretted that he hadn’t loaded his pockets with ballast stones and thrown himself off the ship that carried him into exile when he’d had the chance. But he knew how to tie a noose. Or he could find some high place and jump. Or open a vein in a warm bath. That last one held the most appeal.

As he knelt there, feeling very sorry for himself, he heard footsteps approaching. Before he could collect himself the door swung inward and struck his shoulder.

“Seregil?”

It was Prince Korathan, the last person Seregil wanted to see him in this pathetic state. Caught in the light of the open doorway, he wiped his face hastily on his sleeve and stood up.

Korathan had a mug of ale in one hand and a meat pasty in a napkin in the other. “What’s wrong? Why are you here in the dark?”

Seregil held up the folio. “I just finished. I have to deliver this to Duke Nirus. What are you doing here?” The words came out much harsher than he’d intended.

But Korathan just smiled. “I heard Emidas kept you late again, so I brought you some supper.”

He put the mug and the pasty down on a desk, then took a lamp and lit it from one in the corridor. “Go on and eat,” he urged, shutting the door again. “Then I’ll walk with you to the duke’s rooms.”

“Thank you.” It was hard to speak with a lump in your throat. Korathan and his sisters were really the only friends he had in this wretched place, and he seldom got to see them. The queen was kind and the princesses were pleasant, but only the prince sought him out.

He knew Korathan must have seen that he’d been crying, but the prince didn’t say anything. Seregil deeply appreciated that. Instead, Korathan talked about a new horse his father had given him while Seregil ate. Between the food and the companionship, Seregil began to feel a little better.

“Say, after we get those papers delivered, we could go back to my rooms and play some bakshi,” Korathan offered. “You’ve almost got the hang of it.”

Seregil managed a smile. “You’re a good teacher.”

When he was finished eating, he blew out the lamp again and they set off together. There were still many nobles strolling the halls and they all bowed respectfully to the prince, who mostly ignored them as he told Seregil more about the strategy of the game. Seregil got a few curious looks, as he always did. He’d heard there were other ‘faie in the city, but he was the only one in the palace, and a bit of a mystery. Or perhaps it was seeing the prince with a lowly junior scribe. Still, with Korathan beside him, Seregil didn’t feel so lonely and out of place.

The scriptorium was in a wing of the sprawling palace reserved for various functionaries like Emidas. After several twists and turns, however, they entered the palace proper, where there were tapestries on the walls and carpets on the floor. These did little soften the dour ugliness of the place, to Seregil’s eye.

“I know a short cut,” Korathan said, taking him by the hand and leading him out into a very large, dark garden. The pathways had been cleared, but snow lay deep on either side.

As they headed for a lighted doorway on the far side, Korathan didn’t let go of Seregil’s hand. He was wearing a wool surcoat and boots. Seregil was shivering in his cloak and slippers. It was a long way across this garden.

“You’re cold. I’m sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t have come this way.” Korathan stopped and put an arm around Seregil’s shoulders. “Is that better?”

 

 

“That’s all right. We’re almost there.” Seregil started to walk but Korathan’s arm tightened around his shoulders, holding him fast.

Then the one-armed embrace became a two-armed hug. “You’re miserable here, aren’t you?”

In all the time Seregil had been here, no one had ever asked him that. Or hugged him. A feeling very akin to relief welled up in his heart, and he nodded as he hugged him back.

Korathan stroked Seregil’s hair, then kissed him gently on the forehead. “I’ll speak to Mother.”

“Thank you!”

Korathan looked down at him for a moment, the kissed him on the lips. It lasted too long for a family kiss. Seregil froze, not knowing what to do.

“Why did you do that?” he asked when Korathan was finished.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I—uh—” Korathan’s arms were still around him but he released Seregil when he stepped back to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t know that you liked men.”

“I heard you do.”

Seregil had guessed there might be rumors about him, but not that. Then again, the queen knew the whole sordid story. Maybe she’d told Korathan? “What else did you hear?” he demanded, angry now.

“Just that you’re here because of something that happened with a lover. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“Is that all you heard?”

“Yes! Seregil, I’m sorry. It’s just that you look so sad all the time.”

Seregil pushed past him and started back the way they’d come. “I don’t need your pity!”

“It’s not pity!” Korathan called after him. “I like you.”

The words, and the sincerity with which they were spoken surprised Seregil in equal measure. Turning, he looked back at the prince, who was standing where Seregil had left him.

“I like you,” Korathan said again. “And I’m sorry I kissed you. Please, let’s play bakshi, like we planned.”

Seregil wavered a moment as memories of betrayal threatened to overwhelm him again. At least Korathan hadn’t claimed he loved him. Seregil would have kept walking if he had. Instead, he went back to Korathan and fell silently into step beside him as they continued through the garden.

 

***

 

The prince’s fine suite of rooms was just down the corridor from the queen’s, and opulently furnished. There was a large main sitting room and a bedroom beyond. The sofa and armchairs were soft leather, and there were hunting trophies and murals of hunting scenes covering the walls. A fire crackled in the ornate marble fireplace. They moved the bakshi table and two chairs in front of the fire and Korathan sent a servant for wine.

Settling at the board, Korathan took out his leather bag of stones, and another one like it, which he handed to Seregil. “A gift, cousin.”

Seregil opened it and found a collection of gaming stones made of blood red carnelian. They bore an incised design of fighting dragons. “Thank you! They’re beautiful.”

“I thought of you when I saw them. Dragons for Aura and Illior?”

“Don’t say that,” Seregil said with a smile. “They’re fighting. I’ll just think of them as real ones.”

“Have you seen real ones?”

“They’re common as sparrows in the mountains.” Somehow it didn’t hurt, talking about home with him.

They drank wine and played game after game. Korathan made Seregil laugh, and made him feel welcome. Only when he was with Korathan did he ever really enjoy himself.

They continued to play and talk and laugh until the candles burned down almost to the sockets. Seregil finally won a game, and in only a few moves, too.

“Excellent! I think you’re ready for the gambling houses,” Korathan told him. “It will do you good to get out of this place.”

“I’d like that.” Seregil yawned and looked around at the guttering candles. “It’s late. I should be going.”

“It’s a long way back to that kennel of a room they have you in. Stay here tonight, why don’t you? We can have another game.”

That certainly was better than going out into those long, cold corridors, and the wine had made him a little dizzy. “All right. Thanks.”

They cleared the board and started another round. Seregil thought again how comfortable he felt with Korathan, and grateful. Being around him made life in this strange land bearable. He felt he owed him something for that.

As Korathan was concentrating on his next move, Seregil blurted out, “It’s all right that you kissed me. I—I don’t mind.”

Korathan looked up at him in surprise. “I’m glad. I was afraid I’d hurt your feelings.”

“No, I was just startled.”

Korathan smiled as he pushed a piece across the board, blunting the spear Seregil had been building. “Then I’ll give you better warning the next time.”

“Next time?”

“If you want there to be a next time,” Korathan replied. “I really do like you, Seregil.”

Seregil’s cheeks went hot. Korathan wanted to kiss him again, and right now that didn’t seem such a bad idea. It felt like a lifetime ago since Ilar had. That thought hurt.

“There’s that sadness,” said Korathan. “Do I need to apologize again?”

Seregil slowly shook his head. “No, you don’t. I think I’d like that.”

Korathan immediately took him up on the offer. Standing, he pulled Seregil to his feet and took him in his arms for a long, intense kiss that left Seregil a little unsteady. Taking Korathan’s face between his hands as Ilar used to do with him, Seregil kissed him back. He could feel Korathan’s cock hard through their clothes, next to his own. Reaching between them, he stroked Korathan’s erection. The prince let out a low groan and did the same for him with far more skill than Seregil possessed. He had Seregil panting in an instant.

Korathan smiled down at him. “I think you want more than kissing.”

Seregil managed a nod. Korathan unbuttoned Seregil’s coat and eased it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Seregil undid the lacings of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Korathan took off his own coat and shirt, then kissed him again. His body was warm and hard against Seregil’s. It felt good. So good that he didn’t mind at all when they somehow ended up naked on Korathan’s big bed. He’d never been completely naked with Ilar and found himself caught between excitement and embarrassment. His own pale body looked so scrawny next to Korathan’s lean muscle. But Korathan soon overwhelmed any hesitancy, kissing him and touching him all over. Seregil gasped as the prince nipped his neck just to the point of pain. It immediately turned to pleasure again as Korathan swirled his hot tongue around Seregil’s left nipple. He ran his hard, sword-callused hands down Seregil’s sides to grip his hips for a moment, then caressed the insides of each thigh with fingers and lips.

Seregil’s whole body was consumed with heat, both by the feeling of being touched so intimately, but also the sight of the handsome young man doing the touching. Korathan knelt beside him, pale hair hanging down around his face to tickle as he kissed Seregil’s belly. When Seregil tried to do the same for him, however, Korathan laughed and pushed him down on the bed again, then wrapped his hand around Seregil’s cock and stroked him until Seregil was moaning between clenched teeth. Just as he was about to come in Korathan’s hand, however, the prince stopped and stretched out close beside Seregil, kissing him and running his fingers through Seregil’s tangled hair. “You’re very beautiful, you know.”

 

 

“No—”

“Yes, you are, and you know it,” Korathan teased, stroking Seregil’s belly just beyond reach of his cock.

“Please!” Seregil groaned, shivering with raw sensation.

But Korathan continued to tease him until Seregil could hardly stand the intensity of the feelings coursing through every fiber of his being. He’d never been more aroused in his life. At last Korathan kissed his way down the length of Seregil’s shaft, licked at the bead of honey that had formed there, then took Seregil’s cock firmly in his fist again and quickly brought him to a long and blinding climax that left Seregil feeling like he was floating several inches above the bed.

Before he could gather his wits enough to thank Korathan, the prince rolled Seregil over onto his side and spooned in behind him, gently fondling his softening cock. Korathan’s was still very hard and hot against Seregil’s backside.

Nuzzling Seregil’s ear, Korathan slid his hand back to cup Seregil buttock and whispered, “Have you ever had a man here?”

“No ... “ Seregil knew what he meant, though. Male unions were not uncommon in Aurënen and people talked. Ilar had even hinted at it, though they’d never gotten that far. “I hear it hurts.”

“Just a little, at the start, then it feels very good.” Korathan licked Seregil’s ear and squeezed his bottom again. “I’d be honored to be the first.”

Still awash in pleasurable sensations from all that Korathan had done to him so far, and glowing with wine, Seregil nodded slowly. “I suppose we could try.”

 

***

 

They made love often after that, but always in secret. It was Korathan’s wish, and Seregil was happy not to give anyone more reason to gossip about him.

Korathan was rougher with him than Ilar had been, but it was only passion and Seregil didn’t mind. Not at all, even on the nights when Korathan kept him until dawn, making Seregil late for work. Once there, Seregil had a hard time not thinking about him during the day—Korathan’s hand tight and merciless around Seregil’s cock as he rocked against him, into him, nipping his neck and shoulders…

This sort of wool gathering earned Seregil more frequent thumps from Emidas’s stick.

 

***

 

He was later than usual one morning near the end of winter, having had to fetch a heavy, crumbling tome from the palace library to be copied over. He’d forgotten to do it yesterday in his haste to meet Korathan.

For once he was excited about an assignment. The book was very old and fragile, and had illuminated capitals at the head of each chapter. He was quite proud that Emidas had entrusted it to him and anxious to escape the monotony of manifests and letters.

Seregil was relieved to see that Emidas wasn’t at his desk yet. As he started for his own, however, someone pointed at him and laughed. He tried to ignore it, but soon most of the room was laughing and talking behind their hands.

“What?” Seregil demanded.

“Nice love bites on your neck, Master Seregil,” Amidas snickered from across the aisle.

Seregil blushed hotly, which only drew more laughter. He always tried to be careful, and not let Korathan mark him anywhere that showed, but the prince had been more ardent than usual last night. There must be something showing above his collar.

If they knew who my lover was, they wouldn’t be laughing in my face, he thought angrily and had to resist the urge to blurt out the truth. As it was, he had no choice but to continue on down the aisle and hope they’d lose interest soon. Just as he reached his desk, however, his chief nemesis, Baleus, said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I bet he paid you well. I hear ‘faie tail doesn’t come cheaply!”

The sheer magnitude of the insult stunned Seregil. An exile he might be, but in this benighted land he still had some honor. Lacking a sword, he hit Baleus over the head with the book as hard as he could. The fragile volume fell to pieces in his hands, pages fluttering down around the two of them.

“You little bastard!” Baleus staggered up and swung his fist at Seregil.

Seregil dodged the clumsy blow but couldn’t escape this second, vile accusation. As he raised his fist, however, someone caught his arm and yanked him away.

Seregil pulled free and found himself facing a furious Emidas.

“Stop, the pair of you! What is the meaning of this?” the scribe demanded, glaring at both of them and the scattered remains of the book.

“He called me a whore, and a bastard!” Seregil told him.

“Is that all?” Emidas regarded him in disbelief, then slapped him across the face. “For that you destroyed a three hundred-year-old book?”

“Is that all?” Seregil gasped as more laughter broke out. The words hurt far more than the slap. Knowing better than to strike Emidas, Seregil instead snatched up an inkwell and emptied it over the man’s head, then snarled in his face, “You have no honor! Not one of you!”

Shoving Emidas out of the way, Seregil stalked off for the door, pulling off his scribe’s robe as he went.

“The queen will hear of this!” Emidas shouted after him.

Seregil tossed the robe on the floor as he went out. “Yes, she will!”

And so would Korathan.

 

***

 

Research had kept Nysander busy in his tower for most of the winter. Being without an apprentice at the moment, he had to do everything himself, but he didn’t mind. As much as he missed Alia, he was happy that she’d found a place with a noble household. She wrote him regularly of her progress, as did his other former students.

The tower was a bit empty without her, he had to admit, but he wasn’t about to take on just anyone. A poorly chosen apprentice was nothing but a nuisance and a burden. His thoughts turned once again to the lonely Aurënfaie.

Given the close ties between the Orëska and the court, it was only natural that gossip should flow back and forth and Nysander had always found it useful to pay attention. Now and then one learned something of use.

It was his friend Magyana who brought him word of Seregil.

“I was just over at the palace,” the old wizard told him over tea. “It seems that young Aurënfaie has been dismissed from another post.”

“What for this time?”

“Apparently he attacked another scribe, and Lord Emidas himself.”

“Indeed?” Unhappiness such as he’d sensed in the young ‘faie eventually found some outlet. “What were the circumstances?”

“I don’t know, but Seregil’s with the household guard now. Word is he’s quite the swordsman. Perhaps this will suit him better.”

Nysander sighed. Another missed opportunity.

Magyana refilled her cup from the old brown teapot. “I heard something else of him, as well. Or rather, overheard it from the servants.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“That young Seregil is Prince Korathan’s current lover.”

Nysander raised an eyebrow at that. “I see. I wonder if that is a good idea?” Korathan was known not to stay with anyone for long.

“There was some debate as to who seduced whom.”

Nysander thought of the unhappy young man he’d met. There had been an air of innocence about him, or so Nysander had thought.

“My money is on the prince,” Magyana said dryly.

Nysander shrugged. “Well, it’s no concern of mine, but I wonder how it will end?”

 

***

 

Spring rain lashed against the bed chamber windows as Korathan tumbled Seregil onto the bed and stretched out on top of him. “I missed you! Three nights is too long. I don’t think I like this new post of yours.”

Seregil wrapped his arms around his tall lover, inhaling his rich scent. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten it for me, should you?”

“But you’re happier with the guard?”

“Yes!” Seregil kissed him soundly and grinned up at him. “I’d almost forgotten the feeling of a sword in my hand.”

“Really?” Korathan pulled Seregil’s hand to his cock and had him wrap his fingers around it. “Not much different, is it?”

Seregil laughed and took advantage of their position, rocking his hips to rub their two erections together and pulling a sigh of pleasure from his lover. He loved Korathan’s body, loved knowing what do to do make him hard, make him come ... And Korathan could play Seregil’s body like a harp.

The prince wasted little time on foreplay tonight. Making use of the flask of oil he kept beside the bed, he prepared them both, then gripped Seregil by the hips and plunged in. Seregil hissed at the brief pain, but as Korathan had promised him that first night together, it only lasted a moment and was well worth the pleasure that followed, especially when Korathan wrapped his hand around Seregil’s shaft and pumped him in time to his thrusts. Heat blossomed through Seregil’s body as he leaned back against Korathan, moving in perfect unison.

So lost in pleasure were they that neither one heard Phoria enter the sitting room, didn’t even know she was there until she appeared in the open bedroom doorway.

“What in Bilairy’s name—?” She was paler than usual and looking at them aghast. “Seregil! How could you?”

“Damn it, sister!” Korathan pushed Seregil away and pulled the corner of the comforter over the two of them.

“Get out!” Phoria growled.

Seregil knew she was speaking to him. He looked to Korathan to defend him, but the prince just murmured, “You’d best go.”

Shocked, mortified, and deeply hurt, Seregil struggled off the bed, grabbed what he could of his scattered clothing and hurried past her. She slammed the door after him and he could hear her shouting at her brother. Yanking on his breeches and shirt, he was almost out the door and free before he caught the word “whore.”

Barefoot and coatless, he ignored the looks he got from servants as he ran back to his room and shut the door. Fighting back angry tears, he collapsed into a chair by the window and waited for Korathan to come explain himself.

But the night passed and Korathan never came.

 

***

 

Nysander had forgotten all about Seregil again, until word came in early spring that he was in disgrace, dismissed from his post with the household guard, though no one seemed to know why.

It was raining as Nysander as set off for the palace, and the bleak color of the sky reminded him of the Seregil’s eyes the day they’d met. At the palace the wizard was directed to the family wing, though to the end of it furthest from the royal quarters. A young page led him through several passages to the archway that led to the south garden.

“He’s out there, my lord,” the page told him. “I tried to make him come in, but he won’t.”

The rain was coming down even harder now, and he could just make out someone wrapped in a dark mantle hunched on one of the marble benches. Nysander dismissed the page, then pulled up the hood of his cloak and walked out to join the young man.

Seregil ignored Nysander until the wizard sat down beside him and said in Aurënfaie, “Hello again, young Seregil.”

“Who—” Seregil turned to look at him with what appeared to be annoyance, but his expression changed to one of respect when he realized to whom he was speaking. His face was thinner than Nysander remembered and his mantle was soaked through. Nysander couldn’t tell if it was rain on his cheeks, or tears. “Hello, Lord Nysander.”

 

 

Nysander was impressed. He’d seen Seregil at banquets, and now and then with Prince Korathan, but they’d spoken only once and briefly.

He cast a shelter spell to keep off the rain. “This is not a very pleasant place you’ve chosen. But perhaps it suits your mood?”

“I suppose it does, my lord.”

“I take it you are not very happy here in Rhíminee.”

Seregil shrugged.

“You are wasted here at the palace, you know. What post do you hold now?”

“None, thanks to that bitch Phoria!” Seregil replied bitterly.

“That’s no way to refer to the Princess Royal, especially here,” Nysander cautioned. This one had spirit, at least.

“What will they do? Cut off my head? Lock me in their Red Tower? That’s fine with me. Anything would be better than staying another day in this miserable place!”

Nysander suppressed a smile at the childish outburst. “I see. Well, then perhaps you would like to come have tea with me at the Orëska House. Look, you can just see the towers from here, above those roofs. The one on the right is mine. Really now, I think you are in need of some dry clothes, too. In fact, given how you are shivering, I think we should get you inside at once.”

Seregil let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t have a horse.”

“You do not need one, dear boy. I am a wizard, after all.”

 

He made a cage with his fingers and summoned the translocation spell. It began with a tiny speck of darkness, but as he opened his hands and spread his arms, it expanded to a black, spinning disk large enough for a man to step through, which was its purpose.

“What is that?” Seregil exclaimed, leaning closer to see.

“A quicker way back to my rooms.” Nysander held out his hand. “You should hang onto me this first time.”

He was surprised at how readily Seregil did so. The magic clearly interested him. The lack of fear was also encouraging.

“Stand close to me and step in. It is just like going through a doorway.”

Holding onto Nysander’s sleeve, Seregil stepped into the darkness with him.

It truly was like simply walking into another room—Nysander’s casting room in this case—but as he emerged he found Seregil on his hands and knees, vomiting violently on the polished stone floor. Nysander was glad he hadn’t taken them to his sitting room; he’d have ruined the carpet.

“What—what did—do to—me?” Seregil demanded between heaves. Nothing was coming up now, but he was still retching.

“Nothing, I assure you!” Nysander said, cleaning up the mess with a spell. He’d never seen anyone react this way before.

Seregil got to his feet with Nysander’s help and staggered out into the main work room. Once there he stopped and gazed around with his mouth open, taking in the towering stacks of manuscripts around the room, and the crucibles, books, and general clutter covering the work benches. The polished brass astrolabe on the mezzanine above glinted dully in the grey light coming down through the round glass dome that capped the tower. “You live here?”

“I work here. I live downstairs. Come along.”

Holding Seregil by the elbow, Nysander got him downstairs to Alia’s old room. He found a blue-and-white apprentice robe in one of the clothes chests and gave it to him. Seregil took it with shaking hands and looked down at it as if he couldn’t fathom what it was. It appeared he was still a little dazed.

“Put it on, dear boy. Leave your clothing here for the servant and come to the room across the hall when you are ready.”

Nysander went out and closed the door to give him privacy, then walked across the corridor to the sitting room. The servant had stacked wood and kindling in the fireplace. He tossed in a fire chip and flames quickly licked up.

Seregil came in a few minutes latter, dressed in the robe, his wet hair looking as if he’d tried to comb it into some order with his fingers. The soft robe had been Saren’s and was too big on him, but at least it was dry and warm. Seregil was still shivering, so Nysander guided him to one of the armchairs in front of the fire and spread a lap robe over Seregil’s knees.

“Better now?” he asked, swinging the kettle on its iron hook over the flames to heat.

“Yes, thank you.” Seregil pulled his knees up against his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, looking very much younger in his oversized robe, bare toes just visible below its hem, curled over the edge of the armchair. “So, you use magic to stop the rain, go from here to there, and clean up your floor, but you make the tea yourself?”

“Yes. It comes out much better that way.” Nysander settled in the chair across the hearth. “Magic has its place, but not for everything. Besides, I enjoy it.”

“Oh.”

They sat there in awkward silence for a few moments, but soon Seregil was looking around the room with apparent interest. That was odd.

“What do you think of my mural?” the wizard asked.

Seregil glanced at the thin band of paintings that ringed the room. It possessed more than a minor magic; it was the room’s chief defense. Seregil should have been mesmerized by it by now.

“It’s pretty,” Seregil replied. “Whoever painted those dragons must have seen a real one. They’re better than anything I saw at the palace.”

Nothing. No effect at all. Nysander had never seen this before. That, and the way the translocation had sickened Seregil were most interesting.

“Tell me, Seregil, have you had any training in magic?”

“Me?” Seregil gave another of those humorless laughs. “I’m no wizard.”

“That is very odd, my young friend, because you do have some ability. I saw it in you the first time we met.”

“With all respect, my lord, you’re wrong.”

Nysander let that go for now. “Do you know any wizards in your land?”

“A few.” The mention of his homeland drove the smile from his face, which only increased Nysander’s curiosity. Someone must know his background.

“When you feel better, I will show you the museum. I think you will find it of interest.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

The kettle was hissing. Nysander took the brown teapot down from its shelf and added some Zengati leaf and hot water.

“That’s good quality,” Seregil noted.

“And how do you know that?”

That won him the hint of a smile. “Fine tea smells good.”

“I suppose so. Seregil, I would like to try something. A test of sorts. Would you please say the words altra amal?”

“Altra amal.”

For just an instant every lamp in the room and the fire flared purple.

Seregil’s eyes widened. “I did that?”

“You did,” Nysander assured him, leaving out that the spell should have put the fire out, and not affected the lamps. Nonetheless, a genuine look of wonder had come over Seregil, and it transformed him, just as his smile had, the day Nysander met him. This young man intrigued him more and more.

“Can I try something else?” Seregil asked.

“Tea first.”

He filled two earthenware cups and gave one to Seregil, who held it to his nose first and inhaled softly with eyes closed before taking his first sip. “It’s excellent. Is it from the Koromba Mountains?”

“It is,” Nysander told him, impressed. “Are you a connoisseur of tea?”

“No, it’s one of the ones my sister always—” He broke off, and kept his attention on his cup.

So, you do have some family. Nysander wondered if this was how he’d get any information from the young ‘faie, bit by tiny bit.

 

 

He let Seregil finish his tea, then took him back to the workshop. Once again Seregil looked around with keen interest, and began asking questions. A lot of questions.

“May I ask your clan?” said Nysander asked as he showed him how the astrolabe worked.

Seregil looked out through the glass dome. There was little to see at the moment. The pouring rain cloaked the city in a veil of grey. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Running away again, Nysander thought. One moment he was as eager as a child, the next he was that sad, tightlipped young man again, full of secrets and pain.

“Very well. Would you like to try another spell?”

“Yes, please.”

Nysander carried an unlit candle in a holder into the casting room and set it on the polished stone table at the center. “I want you to light this. Just say or think the word ‘magistal’ and snap your fingers while concentrating on the wick.”

With a look of eager anticipation, Seregil snapped his fingers. Instead of lighting, however, the candle flew across the room and stuck to the wall in a melted mass. “I must have thought it wrong.”

“Perhaps.” Nysander placed another candle in the holder. “Try again and say it aloud.”

“Magistal.” Seregil snapped his fingers. This time the candle softened and drooped like a wilted flower. “I guess I was right. I don’t have any magic in me.”

“If you didn’t, then none of the spells you have cast would have had any effect at all,” Nysander explained. “So you do, but there is something odd about it. Those were beginner’s spells. Are you still feeling sick from the translocation?”

“A little.”

 

 

“Perhaps that is the problem. And of course magic works a bit differently with your people. Well, your clothing will be dry by now. Change and I will show you the museum.”

When Seregil was dressed they wended their way through the piles of documents stacked by the tower door, and out to the mezzanine that overlooked the glass-domed atrium. From here one could see the mosaic that covered the floor below; the scarlet dragon of Illior crowned with a silver crescent, flying above the harbor and walled city of Rhíminee.

“You have dragons in Skala?” asked Seregil, peering over the railing.

“Not for a very long time. But it is still one of the symbols of Illior.”

“Your god that’s like Aura?”

“Yes. We believe them to be one and the same.”

Seregil looked doubtful as he followed Nysander down the five flights of stairs and across the atrium to the corridor leading to the museum.

It was a huge vaulted room filled with large glass cases. A whale’s skeleton hung from the ceiling.

“There is a great deal to see here,” Nysander said. “Let me show you a few of my favorites.”

For nearly an hour Seregil moved eagerly from case to case, looking at the various artifacts as Nysander explained their use or history. There were jewels and weapons, as well as magical items that posed no threat. That sort were stored in the maze of chambers under the House.

Seregil asked more questions and Nysander was again impressed by the young man’s native curiosity and quick mind. Some of the artifacts were Aurënfaie, and he seemed to take particular delight in telling Nysander what he knew of them. One case held a display of sen’gai, the distinctive head cloths each clan wore.

“That one’s Khatme,” Seregil said, pointing to a red and black weave. “And that’s Golinil, and Virésse. What are they doing here?”

“Gifts to various wizards who traveled in your land, before the Edict of Separation. Do you recognize the green one?”

As he’d expected, a brief look of pain betrayed the young man. “Yes. That’s Bôkthersa.” He moved on to a case filled with Zengati seal rings and after a few minutes Nysander noted that he was now avoiding any case that contained Aurënfaie things.

“It would take weeks to see everything!” Seregil exclaimed at last.

“Indeed. And you are welcome to come back any time to you like to explore. We also have a very fine library.”

Seregil looked like he’d just been given his heart’s desire. “Thank you, my lord!”

“Please, you must call me Nysander, if we are friends now.”

Seregil smiled. “Thank you, Nysander. I deeply appreciate all that you’ve done for me.” Just then his belly gave a loud gurgle.

“Dinner time already?” Nysander laughed. The afternoon had flown by. “Dine with me, Seregil, and then I’ll send you back to the palace in a carriage.”

Seregil grinned. “Better than the way I got here.”

Over dinner they talked of what they’d seen in the museum, and a little about Seregil’s life at court.”

“I understand you are no longer a junior scribe,” said Nysander, chancing a conversational dead end. “May I ask why?”

Seregil gave him a rueful smile. “Emidas slapped me, and I dumped an ink pot over his head.”

“Why would he slap you?”

“I hit one of the other junior scribes with a book,” he replied with an almost crooked smile. “But only because he insulted me.”

“I see. And what have you been doing, since?”

“I was in the household honor guard.”

“Was,” Nysander noted. “Did you hit someone else?”

It was as if a wall had come down between them. “No,” Seregil replied, looking down at his plate.

Seregil had admitted so readily to his other infractions; what in the world had he done? Something to do with Phoria, judging by his outburst in the garden, and something that had left Seregil furious rather than shamed. Nysander again resisted the urge to touch the young man’s mind. He had other, more scrupulous channels of inquiry, palace gossip being what it was.

 

***

 

Within the week Nysander learned that Seregil’s last offense had been his affair with Prince Korathan. Apparently it was Princess Phoria who’d taken exception. She had far too much hold over her brother, as far as Nysander was concerned. The prince was old enough to make his own choices, and why in the world would Phoria care, anyway? Seregil didn’t speak of Korathan, and was evasive when Nysander tried to sound him out. Apparently that relationship was truly over. That was regrettable; as far as he knew, Seregil hadn’t made any other friends.

He kept this knowledge to himself, and Seregil came to see him nearly every day, exploring the museum and library. The boy seemed even more thrilled by the Orëska House’s elaborate bath chamber, but that wasn’t all that surprising with an Aurënfaie, the cleanest of people. Much of the science of the indoor bath, including the piping of hot water under tiled floors to warm them, had been learned from them.

Seregil began to be known around the House. In fact, he seemed to be spending as much time as possible here, even when Nysander was too busy to visit with him. The keepers of the library and museum welcomed him, and Seregil began to make friends. People seemed drawn to him, whether for his good looks or sharp mind. He had winning ways, too, when he wanted to, and could be very charming and humorous. He made friends readily, apparently, and Nysander often found him talking or gaming with some of the apprentices.

Nysander watched and evaluated, and gave him little magical tests now and then, though these seldom went as planned. Seregil did have a way with animals, though and simple tricks concerning them directly came more easily to him.

As they sat over tea one day, Nysander said, “Seregil, I have a proposition for you, and I want you to consider it very carefully before you answer.”

Seregil looked up in surprise. “All right. What is it?”

“You still are not happy at the palace, are you?”

“No.”

“Because of what happened with Prince Korathan?”

Seregil blushed to the tips of his ears, but his tone was slightly defiant as he replied, “No, because Phoria made him stop seeing me. Korathan and I got along fine.”

 

 

“But not any more?”

Seregil said nothing.

“Are you are in love with him?”

He snorted at that. “Love is for fools. I just liked him, that’s all.”

“I see. Thank you for being honest. I do hope you change your stance on love someday, though.”

“Not likely! So, what is your proposition, exactly, and what does that have to do with it?”

“Nothing, except it is important that I know what sort of person you are before I make my offer.”

“Well, you already know I’m the sort who whacks people with books and dumps ink on them. I’m no whore, though, no matter what Phoria says.”

“Certainly not, dear boy! I was not thinking anything of the sort, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I would like to take you on as my apprentice.”

Seregil stared at him. “You—You’re serious?”

“Very.”

“But why? I’ve hardly gotten a spell right.”

“You have had a few successes and I find that heartening. And you have a quick, inquiring mind, and a good memory. Those are as important in a wizard as the magic. I also enjoy your company. Given that we would work together for decades, maybe even centuries, that is important, as well. So, would you like to be my apprentice, and live here at the Orëska with me?”

“Yes!” Seregil exclaimed with no hesitation.

The wizard wasn’t surprised to see tears glisten in the young man’s eyes, even as he broke into the brightest smile Nysander had seen. It had no doubt been a while since anyone had told Seregil that he was wanted. Except, perhaps, for Korathan. Nysander didn’t think much of how that had turned out.

“So what is your condition?” Seregil asked.

“That you tell me why you were exiled from your homeland.”

In an instant Seregil’s expression changed to one of pure betrayal and shame. He stood and headed for the door.

Nysander cast a lock on it from where he sat. “I will not give up on you so easily.”

“Let me go,” Seregil whispered, not looking at him.

“Not until you tell me.”

 

 

“It doesn’t make any difference! Once you know, you won’t want me.”

“I should like to be the judge of that.”

Seregil turned to him, voice trembling with anger. “All this time—You being so nice to me. All so you ask me that?”

“Certainly not. As I said, I simply need to know what sort of person you really are.”

Seregil drew himself up, glaring at him. “All right then. I killed a man. Can I go now?”

“Why did you kill him?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters a great deal.”

Seregil bit his lip. “I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, and he surprised me in the dark and grabbed me. I—I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to get away. But that doesn’t change anything. So I was exiled.”

“I have one last question.”

“What?”

“Aside from killing that man, do you always lash out at people the way you have here?”

Seregil sighed and shook his head, hand on the door latch. “No. Can I go now?”

“That’s entirely up to you, dear boy. My offer stands.”

“But—after what I just told you?”

“It is up to you whether you become my apprentice or remain simply my friend who visits from a place where you are miserable. Come have some more tea while you think it over.”

Seregil slowly returned to his chair by the fire, looking baffled. He took the mug and drank in silence. At last he looked up. “Why?”

“Because you were honest.”

“That’s it?”

“I can see how badly you want to join me here. Yet you told me the one thing that you believed would make me reject you. That shows character. Besides, wizards are sometimes called upon to kill.” He sipped his tea, letting that sink in. “So?”

Seregil “Yes. I accept your offer, Nysander, with all my heart. I will try to be worthy of your regard.”

Nysander leaned forward and extended his hand. “Welcome to the Third Orëska, apprentice Seregil.”