Sairis looked into the eyes of the horse he intended to kill and reflected on the irony of their situation. Here was an animal who had served some farmer long and patiently. Now, as disease and age overtook him, the gentle beast had been led to the knacker’s yard and left there for a stranger to kill in whatever way he saw fit. This was life among peasants in rural Mistala. It was the unfortunate way of things. Nobody would have criticized the farmer who brought this horse to be slaughtered.
But they would call me a monster, thought Sairis, because I am going to raise him.
In the corner of the stall, the knacker, Merek, stood nervously holding a lamp. It was about an hour after sunset, and rain was coming down in torrents outside, drumming on the roof of the old barn. The horse was the only live animal in the building at present. The stalls contained mostly vats of tallow, ash, and glue. The knackery produced bleach and soap from the animals it rendered, and Merek employed these products liberally. The knackery was a surprisingly clean place, considering what went on here, but the caustic odors of bleach and lye could not quite hide the unpleasant undertones of blood, decay, and rendering fat.
To normal people, the knackery was an unpleasant place. To Sairis, however, it was a beacon. Each transition from life into death fed Sairis’s magic, whether he wished it or not. A ritual death at his own hand provided a particularly potent jolt of energy, but he hadn’t come here this evening in search of power. He’d come for the most ordinary of reasons: transportation.
“I need to get to Chireese,” he’d told Merek. “I’ve never ridden a live horse in my life.” He hadn’t said the rest—that a necromancer with a price on his head couldn’t simply hire a cart, that the walk would take two days and he might be recognized, that he was frankly terrified of living horses. Sairis’s primary experiences with such animals involved knights who were trying to kill him for glory and the king’s bounty.
He’d had little reason to travel in the past. In his twenty-two years, he had never ventured more than five miles from Karkaroth’s tower, at least not since his arrival there as a child. He’d come as an apprentice, and he still thought of himself as such. But Sairis knew perfectly well how the villagers thought of him. A necromancer’s apprentice was, in a word, a necromancer.
Not that fear stopped them from calling on their local monsters when all else failed. Every few weeks, Sairis would come to the bottom of the tower to answer a guilty knock from some terrified, tongue-tied supplicant in dire need. Just as well, since not even magic could make an isolated tower in a salt-poisoned wood utterly self-sufficient. Sairis and Karkaroth sold or traded charms and potions to the wary, desperate people who crept to their door. They handed out protective amulets, love trinkets, and fertility spells in exchange for flour, salt, vegetables, and fresh meat. Sairis snuck into one of the neighboring villages occasionally to sell the armor of knights who made the mistake of trying to collect the king’s bounty on necromancers. In this way, Sairis and his master survived.
Sairis had no one, apart from Karkaroth, whom he might call a friend. However, the knacker, Merek, was a regular customer. His first appearance at the tower had been about five years ago. Sairis was only seventeen. Merek was at least ten years his senior, yet he called Sairis “sir” and “magus” and would not look him in the face for at least the first year of their acquaintance. He’d brought bones and organs in trade. These were useful in spells. Sairis had hoped he’d come back, and he had.
“This is technically a charm, not a potion,” Sairis told the knacker on his second visit. He knew he was wasting his breath, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, and he wished the villagers had a better grasp of the magic they slunk to his tower to procure. “You understand that magic can’t really make anyone fall in love with you, right? Love charms are to make you feel more amorous.”
The knacker had nodded, his lower-class accent coming out thick in his anxiety. “I understand, sir.”
Sairis continued in a business-like manner. “Will you be wanting a fertility charm to go with it? Or an infertility charm?” Most men the knacker’s age wanted one or the other.
“No need, sir.”
Sairis had cocked his head at that, but the knacker had fixed his eyes on his boots and refused to look up. Sairis couldn’t rally his own courage enough to ask the question he wanted to ask, and they’d parted ways. That had been in fall. Merek had returned the following spring with an entire dead sheep in trade.
This time, Sairis had gotten up his nerve to say, “You shouldn’t rely on charms for this sort of thing very often. Your body will forget how to…” He made a vague motion with his hand and focused on the sheep.
“Oh, I’m not, sir,” said Merek quickly. “I like to enjoy myself in the taverns when I go to the capital for business couple’a times a year. But even the littlest bit of wine makes me—”
Sairis could feel himself coloring. “Well, I think this charm will work for you. Thank you for the bones. Good evening.”
That’s why he doesn’t need an infertility spell, Sairis told himself, because whores take their own precautions.
And yet… There was something about Merek that was just a tiny bit different than other men who came to Sairis for charms. Perhaps it was in his demeanor. The way he spoke to Sairis was just a touch gentler than Sairis was accustomed to being spoken to. Merek was obviously scared to death of him. Everyone was. But Sairis had the sense that, if he had not been a necromancer living in a tower, Merek would have held the door for him and never let him carry a dead sheep up twenty flights of stairs.
I am imagining this because I am lonely, Sairis told himself. Get used to it, Sair.
Nevertheless, Sairis took the trouble to learn from other villagers that the knacker was unmarried—a fact no one found surprising, considering his occupation. He was close friends with a group of local farm hands, all of them men. He was well-liked in town, generous with his coin in local projects, but private in his habits and personal life.
And Sairis wondered… He wondered things that he had no right to wonder. Because the answers didn’t matter. Necromancers did not have social lives.
Lightning crackled over the knackery barn, and the ailing draft horse gave an uneasy snort—more of a sigh, really. Sairis could see all its ribs. The ridges of its spine stood out prominently. That’s going to be uncomfortable, he thought, and then, guiltily, Poor beast; the farmer should have put it out of its misery weeks ago.
“Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this on a better night?” asked Merek from the doorway. “You’ll be soaked, and the road will be so dark...”
That’s exactly why I have to do it tonight. Aloud, Sairis said, “You don’t think this is appropriate corpse-raising weather?”
Merek went a shade paler, and Sairis regretted his joke. He was about to try for a better one, when Merek managed, “My granny would have called it romantic weather, sir.”
“Was she fond of heroic ballads?” asked Sairis acidly. The kind where knights slay monsters?
Merek nodded. He was so clearly trying to be brave.
Sairis felt like an ass. “I don’t need thunder and lightning to raise anything, Merek. I just don’t want to encounter anyone on the road. I want to arrive before dawn and exorcise this horse before anyone gets a good look.”
Merek swallowed. Sairis could tell that he really didn’t want to know anything about exorcism. What he’s doing is punishable by death, and I’m making him more complicit with every word. “I’ll be gone in ten minutes,” said Sairis quickly. “You don’t need to stick around. Go home. I’ll lock the door behind me. You never need to pay me for another love charm.”
Merek gave a watery smile. “I’m not all that squeamish, sir.” After a moment, he added, “Did you bring anything to eat?”
Packing dinner had been the farthest notion from Sairis’s mind when he left his tower that afternoon. He shook his head before realizing that he should have lied.
“I’ll just make you a sandwich then, sir, so at least you won’t be hungry as well as wet.”
Sairis bowed his head and adjusted his glasses to hide the sudden sharpness behind his eyes. He could take a beating without a whimper, but kindness unmanned him every time. Good thing I don’t encounter it very often. “You really shouldn’t,” he muttered.
“Why not, sir?” asked Merek with an effort at cheerfulness. “I’m already up to my eyeballs in whatever it is you’re doing.”
Sairis was tempted to tell him what exactly that was. The queen’s letter sat like a live coal in his pocket. “I would value your counsel in the matter of the sorcerer who threatens our kingdom. I am willing to forgive past grievances and to make reasonable recompense for your services.”
There was more. She had arranged a historic council meeting with neighboring monarchs who’d fought with Mistala in the past. They were all threatened by the sorcerer, who appeared poised to take the mountain pass from the sea and march down on Mistala’s once fertile plains. The rise of magic had brought climate change that was wreaking havoc in the countryside. Queen Daphne wanted to put aside her father’s feud with Karkaroth. She wanted to consult, to…forgive?
This could change the world. Sairis’s world, anyway, and perhaps the worlds of people like him.
Be careful, Sairis told himself. Be careful, be careful, Sair.
The letter was, of course, to Karkaroth, not to Sairis. Sairis had thought long and hard about his reply. He kept it brief. His master declined to attend, but he could spare his apprentice. To his shock, Sairis received a confirmation a few days later, delivered by a vegetable girl. The queen would see him at the council meeting.
Sairis wrote and discarded any number of further responses, but in the end, he left it there. He didn’t dare tell her the truth—that his master had been in a deep trance for the better part of a year, that Sairis feared he was dying, and that he was utterly alone. He had tried to follow Karkaroth’s ghost into the Shadow Lands, searched for him a hundred times in dreams upon the Styx. But wherever the old necromancer had gone, it was nowhere Sairis could follow.
Sir, I need wisdom, thought Sairis miserably. I need advice. Please wake up. Please.
But Karkaroth did not wake.
Sairis wasn’t sure he had what it took to bargain with royals, especially a royal family who had persecuted him all his life. He did not know what to make of this new generosity. He thought it might be a trap. He thought that perhaps he ought to be constructing traps of his own. What steps do I need to take to protect myself? Should I strike first before they do? He could think of a few ways to do it.
Sairis filled his pockets with half-completed spells and charms. He perfected his cloaking charm until he could walk all-but invisibly. He wrote a detailed message for his master and laid it beside his bed. Although I may be in more trouble than the queen could devise if he wakes and finds I’ve gone to parlay with our enemies.
The queen had offered an armed escort, but Sairis couldn’t bear the idea of inviting such people into his wood, even if it turned out they were well-intended. He would reach Chireese by his own secret ways. No need for knights of the realm to learn how he came and went.
This had seemed like a smart and careful plan…until he began thinking about specifics. And now he was standing in a knackery barn in front of a gaunt horse in the middle of a thunderstorm, trying the patience of his most trustworthy client.
A client, who had just offered to make him a sandwich. “I’ll put on a pot of tea, as well,” said Merek as he ducked out of the room.
Sairis sighed. He didn’t want to talk about food with Merek or dead horses or even necromancy. He had other questions. Questions about what kind of company one might keep in which one never needed an infertility charm. How did one even find men who…?
Stop, Sairis ordered himself. You are doing something new and dangerous. Mind on your work, Sairis.
The horse had been tethered by two leads to keep him in the middle of the large stall. Sairis made a quick salt circle around him. He didn’t think he needed it, but the ghosts of big animals could be unpredictable. He wished he’d gotten Merek to ask the beast’s name. The ghosts of domestic animals sometimes responded to their names almost as well as human beings.
Sairis wrote a couple of runes in the dirt, activated the circle with a trace of magic, then took out his dagger. It didn’t look like much—an old weapon with a worn leather handle. But a close inspection would reveal runes etched into the blade and a band of silver around the hilt. It was spelled steel, carefully prepared. Sairis had tethered ghosts to this blade before, although there was nothing trapped in it now. He pricked his own thumb, and a bright red drop welled against the pale skin. He brushed it quickly over the sleek fur of the horse’s forehead—a single rune for binding and claiming.
Then he cut the horse’s throat.
Sairis had killed enough horses to know how hard and deep he needed to strike, as well as how to avoid the spray of blood. But those horses had been healthier. They’d usually had knights on their backs who were trying to murder him. This horse was already halfway to the Shadow Lands, and it went down like a sack of potatoes.
Sairis swore as blood speckled his glasses. He’d hoped to keep the animal on its feet. Not very elegant this evening, are you, Sairis?
Although I’m not sure who I’m trying to impress. Merek? The idea of apologizing to his frightened customer for his inelegant corpse-raising nearly sent Sairis into a fit of nervous giggles. He was already whispering the spell that would offer his blood to the horse. He could sense the ghost there, wavering and confused, trapped by the binding rune, and fascinated by the honeyed gleam of necromantic blood.
The animal accepted the offering, consuming some of Sairis’s magic in the process. This would allow the ghost some control over the body in which he was trapped. Sairis felt the firm tug of his connection to the spirit. This was usually the point at which he would give it a command. Ghosts needed goals like ordinary people needed water. Animal ghosts functioned best with very specific, very simple goals. However, in this case, Sairis just wanted it to behave as though it were alive…which was actually rather complicated, now that he thought about it.
The dead horse’s eyes were already going milky. It jerked to its feet in two ungainly heaves, stiff-legged, as unnatural as a puppet on a string. Well, at least no one should be inspecting us closely in this “romantic” weather.
“Stop right there, miscreant!”
Sairis jumped so hard that he nearly bumped noses with the dead horse. Something sharp pressed into the small of his back.
“You are under arrest. Turn around and keep your hands up. No sudden movements or I’ll gut you like a fish. Hands in the air!”
Sairis turned, heart beating so hard that he could see the pulse in his vision. A man stood there, dripping in a bulky raincoat, looking fierce and triumphant. He had a dark lantern in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. “Drop the dagger,” he snarled.
Bounty hunter, thought Sairis.
He wondered whether the man was a magician. Surely he must be, to act so bold. Can I kill him without attracting attention? Without burning down Marek’s barn? Panic clawed at the back of Sairis’s throat. What if he has a posse waiting outside? Can I take them all this far from my tower? Do something, Sairis! Before he binds you, collars you, burns you alive…
“Master Tybalt?” came Merek’s voice.
The fog of panic receded a little, although Sairis still couldn’t quite process what was happening. He realized that he had unconsciously summoned a fireball in the hand not holding the dagger. His palm was facing away from the intruder, and he dismissed the fire quickly, before the glow could become obvious.
The stranger lowered his sword, then sheathed it. “Merek? Gods, are you really at work on a night like this? I thought someone was breaking into your barn. Who is this fellow?”
Relief flooded Sairis with such force that he almost sat down. Night watchman. I almost incinerated the night watchman.
And then, Shit! The horse!
He had to force himself not to turn around and evaluate exactly how unnatural the animal looked. “Take a breath!” he told it fiercely. Ghosts never remembered to breathe.
His bound servant obediently made a wheezing, gurgling sound that strongly resembled a clogged drain. It exhaled noisily, spraying the back of Sairis’s neck with gobbets of half-congealed blood. I am definitely putting the romance in necromancy this evening.
Merek, meanwhile, was the picture of startled innocence, offering the watchman a cup of tea, distracting him from the dead horse, which stood swaying upon its feet, trying to remember how to breathe.
Sairis couldn’t quite remember how to breathe, either. His fear of a confrontation with a band of bounty hunters was replaced by fear of a confrontation with the village watch. He would certainly win that fight, but he would lose what little goodwill the village held for him, and he probably wouldn’t make it to Chireese.
“—traveler from out of town,” Merek was telling the watchman. “His animal fell ill, vet couldn’t help, so here he is.”
“Terrible night for it,” muttered the watchman. His eyes finally focused on the horse.
“Gods, the beast is in bad shape, isn’t it? Looks dead already.”
Sairis forced his mouth to form words. “Yes, I waited too long. He was a well-loved horse, practically a pet. I feel I must do the deed myself.” He waved the dagger, conscious that he was babbling. He wondered if the blood on his glasses was visible from across the stall. Surely not.
The watchman’s eyes fell to the dirt floor, looking more confused than suspicious. Sairis cursed himself for calling attention to the place where he was standing. The horse had dark fur, so it was difficult to see the blood soaking its chest and forelegs. The dirt underfoot was dark, too, but blood stood out brightly where it crossed Sairis’s salt circle.
Sairis wished he knew anything at all about memory magic. A thought occurred to him, and he muttered a spell that made the lanterns flicker and burn low. The watchman blinked in the sudden dimness. For a moment, he looked as though he might walk over for a closer look at the horse, but then he shrugged and turned to the door. “Well, that’s a sad business. I see there’s no thief here, and I won’t disturb you further.”
He turned back around to tip his cap to Merek, and the damned horse’s ghost chose that moment to jerk its head up in a jaunty swinging motion, more like a bird than a horse. It looked directly at the watchman with eyes that had gone milk white, and opened its mouth in a hiss. The “romantic” weather sent a strobe of lightning through the building, gleaming off the teeth of the undead horse.
Sairis shut his eyes and considered how best to incinerate the watchman. He wanted to incinerate the horse.
The watchman took a step back, nearly dropped his lantern. He blinked hard, and then shivered. “Gods, that critter really doesn’t look long for this world. Nasty night.” He seemed to consider for a moment, as though trying to parse something that didn’t quite make sense, and then gave up. “Well, good evening, Merek.”
Sairis waited until the outer door thumped shut. Then he took a few steps over to lean against the wall. After a moment, he realized Merek was leaning beside him.
“Well, that was a close thing,” muttered the knacker.
“I am so sorry,” whispered Sairis. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a shaky hand. “I didn’t mean to involve you in lying to the village watch.”
“S’alright, sir,” said Merek. “You weren’t to know.”
Sairis glared at the horse across the stall. “Some ghosts are just assholes,” he announced testily. I never did like horses. The creature had stopped jerking its head around and was staring at them with its milky eyes.
“Is he really dead?” Merek whispered.
“Haven’t seen him take a breath, have you? Well, apart from that one I made him take, and he didn’t do a very good job of it.”
As though in response, the horse decided to experiment with its lungs again. It drew in a torturous wheeze and let it out as a moaning sound.
Merek skittered along the wall towards the door.
“It won’t hurt you,” said Sairis quickly. “It’s bound. It will obey my commands. Those noises just happen when ghosts try to use lungs and vocal cords…” Sairis realized he was making everything worse. Just leave the poor man in peace. “You said there was a saddle I could use?”
Merek nodded and fled from the stall. Sairis took the opportunity to make sure his pack was secured against the rain. He had gotten a little blood on his clothes, but they were nothing special. He’d borrowed some of his master’s old things for the actual conference—a decision he hoped he would not regret, but Sairis had never owned a gentleman’s coat in his life.
Merek returned with an old saddle and bridle. He was reticent to approach the horse, but Sairis wasn’t sure he could do the job correctly himself. In an effort to distract them both, he blurted out, “Why don’t you ever ask for infertility charms, Merek?”
There was a long pause, during which the knacker did manage to get the saddle over the undead horse’s bony spine. He stood fiddling with the girth strap for so long that Sairis didn’t think he would answer. At last, he said, without looking at Sairis, “Well, sir, there aren’t any people involved who could get pregnant, you see.”
Sairis felt a leap in the pit of his stomach. This was what he’d suspected, but to hear it confirmed… He wanted to abandon the entire evening’s enterprise, to go sit down inside with that pot of tea and have a conversation about romance that had nothing to do with the weather. But there wasn’t time for any of that, and he hardly knew Merek, and…
“Where do you go?” The words fell out before Sairis had time to think about them. “In Chireese, where…?”
Merek’s head came up. He looked Sairis full in the face and smiled—a real smile, kind and open and not at all the way people usually looked at Sairis. “The best place in town is a tavern near the university called the Tipsy Knave.”
The words churned inside Sairis like fire, like a different kind of magic. There are entire taverns in Chireese for men like me?
He was still contemplating this as Merek showed him how to secure his pack behind the saddle, how to get on and off the horse. “I don’t suppose you need to know what to do with the reins?” asked Merek.
Sairis shook his head, shifting experimentally in the saddle. “He will be the best-behaved horse ever.”
“I’d give you blinders if you were going to be out in daylight,” muttered Merek. “His eyes are…”
“Unnerving?” supplied Sairis.
“Very unnatural, sir.”
Sairis sighed. “No one will see us. I’ll exorcise him before dawn.”
Merek hesitated. “Is he suffering, sir?”
You are such a kind soul. “No. He’s a bit confused and uncomfortable. It would get worse if I kept him longer, but right now he’s just having a very strange adventure. He’s probably more comfortable than he was alive in this broken body.”
Merek nodded. Sairis could see he was gathering himself for something. Sairis hoped it wasn’t a flood of moral objections to everything they’d done this evening. We’re almost finished. I know I’ve asked a lot. Just let me go, Merek.
“Do you need me to go with you, sir?”
For a moment, Sairis was too stunned to speak.
“I mean, there’s lodging to procure and food to purchase and you’ll need a ride back and…”
“I have spoken to other humans before,” snapped Sairis.
Merek just looked up at him, his weather-lined face crinkling in an expression of concern.
Sairis shut his eyes, opened them again. He doesn’t even know what I’m going into the capital to do. He’s putting his life in danger to help me, and he doesn’t even know why. “Thank you, Merek. I am very conscious of what you are offering. I know it’s generous. But I don’t want anyone else along.”
Merek nodded. He tucked a leather satchel into Sairis’s pack. “There’s your dinner and a flask of tea, sir. Try to eat it somewhere dry.”
Merek threw open the barn doors. Sairis was about to urge the horse’s ghost into the stormy night when Merek added, “Do visit the Tipsy Knave, Sairis. They’re very kind. I think you’d like the place.”
It was the first time Merek had ever used his name. Sairis felt that damnable sting behind his eyes again. He wanted to say thank you, but didn’t trust his voice. In the end, he just looked down at Merek, nodded, and forced his mouth into an uncertain smile.
Then Sairis straightened in the saddle, issued commands to his undead servant, and sallied forth into the downpour. He was off to see the capital and the queen and perhaps a certain tavern. He was off to change the world. And thanks to Merek he would have tea and a sandwich while he was doing it.
Roland Malconwy adjusted his linen cravat and flipped open one more button on the collar of his plain shirt as he strode into the warm glow of the Tipsy Knave. Gods, it’s good to be home.
The tavern was a den of noise and familiar smells. A lively student debate was taking place near the stage, a game of darts in another corner. A quartet was playing, a few men dancing, two of them kissing.
Roland remembered when this tavern had seemed like the most scandalous, debauched, fascinating place on earth. It had been a sanctuary where he could be himself and—more importantly—not himself. Not Prince Roland Malconwy. Just Jack—a name everyone knew was false. He’d been a scholar’s son, a merchant’s visiting nephew, a butcher’s boy, a farmer’s lad. When his face became too familiar for his parade of invented identities, he’d settled on stable boy. If someone attempted to engage him in conversation about his trade, he could answer knowledgeably. Stable boy was close enough to squire. Eventually, it was close enough to knight.
No one could mistake me for a stable boy now. Roland recognized half the faces that turned towards him as he entered, but he didn’t think any of them recognized him. He’d been gone for four years, living a soldier’s life on the border. He might still pass for a laborer, perhaps a quarryman, but certainly not a stable boy. Please, no one take me for a soldier. I don’t want to be a soldier tonight. He had little fear of anyone taking him for a prince, at least. The extravagances of the nobility made his simple garments as good as a mask.
Roland’s eyes strayed to the corner of the bar where he’d kissed a man for the first time—another boy, really, though a few years older. It had seemed so illicit, so deliciously wicked. Now their fumbling kisses seemed charmingly innocent. Roland had lost his virginity in one of the backrooms here—gasping out his pleasure in another man’s arms. That, too, seemed sweetly innocent.
His partner, Marcus, had known who he was, and had marched with him to the border three years later. Marcus lay in an unmarked grave now, somewhere on the slopes of the new mountain they’d named Cairn for all the blood soaked into its soil.
Roland shut his eyes, opened them again. This is a safe place. He forced himself not to think of Marcus as he walked across the room, threading his way through tables of card-players, men chatting and flirting, established couples out for the evening, young people looking for an anonymous fuck, prostitutes plying their trade. Roland wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, aside from nostalgia and comfort. He wasn’t opposed to a tumble tonight, but he wasn’t set on it either.
One of the prostitutes staggered into Roland, who caught the fellow and set him on his feet. “Well, hello there,” purred the young man. He had dark skin, red lips, and eyes lined with gold paint—too pretty for Roland’s tastes, but a work of art nonetheless. The young man’s gaze slid up and down. Suddenly Roland was sweating. Were his dun-colored waistcoat and trousers enough of a disguise? The sleeves of his undyed wool shirt hid the scars on arms accustomed to wielding a broadsword. His neatly-trimmed beard hid the scar on his jaw where a spiked mace had once caught him. Roland was uncomfortably aware of the way his trousers were not quite baggy enough to hide the muscles of thighs accustomed to gripping a warhorse. Please don’t call me a soldier.
The whore licked his lips. He placed one hand delicately on Roland’s chest and leaned up to murmur in his ear, “No charge.”
Well, that’s new. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or to check that his wallet was still in place.
“No, thank you,” he managed.
The young man rocked back with a playful smile. He really was beautiful. “Well, if you change your mind…” and he slipped a bit of paper into Roland’s breast pocket.
Roland heard someone snicker at a nearby table. He caught the words “specimen” and “gorgeous brute.”
It surprised him, although he supposed it shouldn’t. Four years on the border had changed him physically and mentally. If he had met most of these men on the road, he would have regarded them as a wolf regards lapdogs. However, when he’d stepped through the door of the Tipsy Knave, he’d felt like a teenager again—scrawny and unremarkable.
You can’t go back, I suppose.
He’d finally reached the bar. The stools were mostly empty, better entertainments being available elsewhere. He spied one other fellow drinking at the far end—a slender man in a charcoal waistcoat and black overcoat. He looked vaguely like a student.
Roland could almost hear Marcus in the back of his head. Students will be your downfall, Prince. You know they don’t come with dowries, right?
He smiled at the memory. One of the things that had drawn him to the Tipsy Knave as a youth was its proximity to Mistala University—a school that had been old before the Sundering. The university had offered a magical studies program when magic was only a regional curiosity, good for parlor tricks, and not a dangerous menace that might break the world.
It occurred to Roland that it had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with someone who cared passionately about the true nature of chimeras…or arcane languages…or voles.
He ordered a drink and walked over to the student. The man was sitting with one arm on the bar, watching the room. He had dark brown hair, too short for fashion, and what looked like three days’ worth of stubble on his narrow face.
Roland sat down beside him. “Exams this week?”
The stranger turned slowly. His large, dark eyes seemed even larger behind silver-rimmed spectacles. His gaze had a formidable intensity that belied his size, clothes, and grooming. Roland understood suddenly why he was sitting alone.
Then the man blinked. He gave a quick, shy smile that briefly transformed his intimidating face into something softer, younger, more curious. The smile only lasted an instant, but it was such a startling change that Roland immediately wanted to see it again.
The man looked down at his drink. “Something like that.”
Roland opened his mouth to make a banal remark about exams, but what came out was, “I used to come here all the time. I’ve been away. I missed it.”
The stranger gave him a sidelong look. He was definitely younger than Roland had first assumed. The half-grown beard that framed his mouth and jaw gave his face more weight, but it did not hide his slender throat or the absence of lines around his eyes. He had the pallor of a person who didn’t spend much time outdoors. “It’s my first visit.”
“Are you from out of town?”
The other man nodded.
Roland stuck out his hand. “Jack. What would you like to be called?”
That fleeting smile again. Roland wondered what he could say to keep it in place.
“That’s an odd way to ask a person’s name,” said the stranger.
Roland shrugged. “We don’t always use real names here. Just tell me what you’d like me to call you.”
The stranger considered. “Sair.”
“Welcome to the Tipsy Knave, Sair. I recommend the ale, the eel pie, the house red, and the cider. The house white is terrible. If they offer you moonshine, I suggest asking who took out the contract on your life.”
He was hoping for another smile, but Sair was looking around the room again. “Are there really this many men, who…?”
Roland wondered whether Sair had come from Falcosta to the east. The priests and rulers of Falcosta did not approve of men like Roland, female rulers like Roland’s sister, or many of the university’s courses. Roland had grown up in the shadow of such beliefs, and he had a bitter understanding of what they could do to a kingdom…or to a man.
“Yes,” said Roland simply. He hesitated and added. “Who you love is no one’s business except your own here.” That was true enough, although Sair might have pointed out that it hadn’t always been so.
In a flash of insight, Roland knew that his companion must be part of the emissary’s party. It would explain his wonder at the Tipsy Knave, his shy caution, his uncertainty. He couldn’t be an important politician, of course. Such a person would never risk such a venture. His hands had the look of a scribe or personal secretary.
Roland felt a stab of guilt. Sair probably thought he could not possibly meet anyone from the palace here—no one who might give him away. Roland wanted to say, “You can trust me. Remember that if we happen to run into each other later.”
But he didn’t want to frighten the man, didn’t want to stir up unpleasant memories. He wanted Sair to relax and enjoy his moment of freedom.
Sair had finished his drink and ordered another. Roland thought he was trying to find some courage. “How does one…approach another person…in such a place?” He sounded like he was trying to solve a math problem.
Roland grinned. “Well, you generally start by actually approaching them. Say, sitting down beside them at the bar.”
Sair’s eyes flicked to Roland’s face. That brief smile flashed again—knowing amusement. He might be uncertain about the dance of intimacy, but he was not an uncertain man. Roland found himself wanting to ask what Sair actually did for a living, wondering what he must be like in his native element. “Terrifyingly competent” was the phrase that came to mind.
“Then,” continued Roland, “you might make a bad joke about the food. Any joke will do. You just want to see him smile. Ideally, you’d like to see him laugh, but some people are hard to impress.”
“Some people are just humorless shrews,” said Sair. “It’s nothing personal.”
Roland chuckled.
Sair grinned.
Roland wanted to make him grin all evening. “Next,” he continued, “you want to give yourselves something to focus on apart from each other. Staring into the eyes of someone you just met can feel intimidating.” Staring into your eyes when you’re not smiling is like staring into the abyss.
Sair was leaning forward a little. His voice came out soft and low. “Such as?”
Roland swallowed. He did, in fact, want to focus that gaze somewhere else. “Well, some men would suggest a game of darts or cards, or they would listen to the student debate so that they’d have something to talk about.”
Sair sipped his drink without shifting his eyes from Roland’s. “The students are discussing the desiccation of the land, how far it will go, whether it can be turned by magic or science. This does not seem like the right…topic.”
Roland had to agree. “One would also need to walk among a bunch of shouting, babbling idiots to reach the debate,” he said, “and if your new friend seems shy, that might be torture for him.”
A quirk of the lips. Not a full smile, but it was something.
“Instead,” continued Roland, “you might offer to read his palm, seeing as you have some skill in that direction.”
Sair burst out laughing.
Roland hadn’t expected this. Magic was as illegal in Falcosta as this gentlemen’s club. The most Roland had hoped for was an open-minded response, considering Sair’s romantic tastes. Instead, Sair’s eyes crinkled into pinpoints of amusement and he shook on his stool. He regained control quickly and said, “You’re a magician?”
“I have some skill,” said Roland with an air of mystery.
Sair raised one eyebrow. He looked like a parent humoring a child. Roland didn’t much care for that, so he said, “If a man does not want to engage with you, there’s really nothing you can do to make him. You should just walk away.”
Sair turned his hand over on the counter between them and advanced it infinitesimally towards Roland. He still had one eyebrow raised. He didn’t say anything.
Roland slid a large, callused palm under Sair’s smoother one. He sensed Sair’s intake of breath. You’re not accustomed to being touched. He could have encircled Sair’s wrist with ease. Instead, he rested thumb and forefingers lightly against the delicate bones. Roland set his drink down and ran a finger over Sair’s palm, pretending to study it.
The part of Roland’s brain that evaluated a battlefield noted that Sair offered his right hand, but he’d been picking up his drink with his left. You’re left-handed. A thoughtless man would have passed me his dominant hand, but you fear traps and you think. So you passed me the other one. He let his eyes drift to Sair’s clothes at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t see much under the black coat, but he glimpsed the edge of the waistcoat. The material looked fine, but that cut had not been fashionable since Roland’s grandfather’s day.
“Well?” said Sair with a new edge to his voice. “How long am I going to live? Have you any idea how I can become wealthy and find love?”
Roland ran a finger up over Sair’s wrist, along his arm where blue veins shone beneath the smooth skin. Sair stopped talking. Roland was pretty sure he stopped breathing.
“You live alone.”
“Good guess,” hissed Sair, “but wrong.”
“You feel alone,” continued Roland, refusing to be irritated. “You feel trapped. You’re wearing someone else’s clothes. Someone else’s ideas. You’d like to change, but you don’t know how. You don’t trust anyone. Not even yourself.”
Sair snatched his hand away. Roland raised his eyes and saw an expression of real anger. Why did I say that? He tried to recover. “If you’re going to engage a man with a parlor trick, you should probably keep it light and funny. No one appreciates a mountebank. If you make a mistake, you should probably tell a joke, although it might be too late.”
Sair was breathing quickly.
Roland licked his lips. “I’m not very good at magic.”
“I know,” snapped Sair.
Roland’s shoulders sagged. “And to be perfectly honest, it’s been a long time since I tried to flirt with a stranger. I’ve lost the knack. I apologize. You should get lessons from someone else. This is a good place. I hope you are able to enjoy it.”
He rose to leave. He did not expect to be called back, and was surprised when Sair’s hand shot out to take his arm. “Wait.” The smaller man pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut. “Please…just…wait.”
Roland sat back down. “It’s alright,” he said gently. “I overstepped myself. There are plenty of men here who won’t—”
“I have never attempted to flirt with a stranger,” interrupted Sair. “I don’t know what’s normal. I want to learn.”
Roland made a face. “It’s not actually normal to tell someone they’re lonely. Or that they don’t trust themselves. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Sair wasn’t quite looking at him. “I live with my stepfather, who is dying. I certainly feel alone. These are his clothes.”
Roland blinked. Before he thought about it, he blurted, “My father just passed.”
Sair’s eyes flicked to his face. Roland couldn’t read that expression, but it might have contained sympathy. He chose to think so.
“It’s why I came home,” said Roland. “It was unexpected. I feel terribly bad that I wasn’t here. My family is squabbling. It’s unpleasant, but…” He let his eyes skip over the room. “I missed this place. It feels safe. That’s why I came tonight.”
A long pause. Then Sair said, “So…if I’m taking my lessons correctly, the next step after ‘perform a party trick for your companion,’ is ‘pour out your hopes and fears’?”
Roland swallowed a laugh. “I defy you to produce a source that says otherwise.”
“You have the advantage of me.”
Roland dared to let his knuckles brush Sair’s again. When Sair didn’t pull away, Roland curled their fingers together. He looked directly into those dark eyes and continued in a low voice, “Even if you’re no good at magic, I still recommend palm reading because it gives you an excuse to hold a fellow’s hand.”
Sair swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Their faces were inches apart. Sair’s glasses caught the light and made his eyes look huge.
“If you want to kiss a stranger,” whispered Roland, “it’s a good idea to ask first.”
Sair blinked at him. His long lashes brushed his glasses. “Doesn’t that rather spoil the moment?” he whispered back.
“It spoils it more if you frighten him,” said Roland. He put his other hand gently against Sair’s chin and the barest contact made him jump. “Especially if it seems like he’s not accustomed to being touched.”
Sair blinked again, this time more slowly. Roland’s thumb smoothed the stubble of his jaw. “I don’t mean to be so stupid,” breathed Sair.
“You’re not stupid,” murmured Roland. “May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Sair’s mouth was warmer than his hands, but just as cautious. Roland cradled his face, letting his fingertips trace the contours of his throat and cheek. When Sair finally opened his mouth a fraction, it felt like a gift—the trust of a wild animal. Roland brushed his tongue against Sair’s and felt him shiver. He wished they weren’t sitting on stools, but curled together on a couch, perhaps even a bed in one of the backrooms. Roland wanted to unbutton that old-fashioned waistcoat and that borrowed shirt—to satiate the longing he sensed. You’re not accustomed to being touched, but you want to be.
Sair pulled away at last. He was breathing deeply, his right hand clamped tightly around Roland’s. His left hand had come up to Roland’s chest. “I have to go,” he whispered.
Roland swallowed his disappointment and nodded.
Sair licked his lips. “This has been…instructive.”
Roland tried not to wince.
Sair seemed to realize he’d hit the wrong note and added, “I would stay, Jack. But I have a difficult meeting tomorrow. I need to be rested and thinking clearly.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel that I’m thinking clearly right now. You may take that as a compliment.”
Roland smiled. “I have a meeting tomorrow, as well. I’d tell you where my thoughts will wander during the boring parts, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
That grin again, and the faintest hint of color in his cheeks.
“You’re adorable when you smile,” said Roland.
Sair hesitated. “I could perhaps come back tomorrow evening.”
Roland’s heart gave a painful flutter. At the same time, his cock reminded him that tomorrow was twenty-four hours off. And besides, Sair was still a long way from wanting to fuck. Why couldn’t you have picked someone who knew what he was about? But Roland’s mouth was already moving. “I can be here by seven.”
Sair’s smile had an edge now—the pleased look of a man who realizes he has more power than he expected. “Seven,” he said and extracted his hand from Roland’s. He walked away, and although the Tipsy Knave still seemed safe, it also seemed a little less interesting.
Sairis knew that his choice to visit a gentlemen’s club on his first night in the capital was among his more foolish decisions. He told himself that he would just observe—see what ordinary people did in their free time. With other men. In public.
The Tipsy Knave seemed like a good place for that. The force of his glare quickly turned aside the few fools who dared to speak to him. And then the knight walked in.
Sairis had seen plenty of knights. Even dressed in unremarkable clothes, there was something about the way they moved—confident as only predators can be. This one looked like he’d stepped out of a tapestry—golden hair that curled at the ends, sun-kissed skin. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of the cheap shirt and waistcoat he’d elected to wear on his pleasure outing.
The prettiest dancer in the tavern immediately flung himself into the knight’s path. Sairis couldn’t help but admire the contrast of the snake-hipped dancer, dressed in red silk, pressed against the knight’s massive bulk. Sairis wasn’t sure which of them he would have chosen…if he were the sort of man who chose such things. He assumed they would go off together.
Sairis was surprised when the knight politely disengaged the dancer and kept moving towards the bar. He was astonished when the knight sat down beside him and just…started talking. Sairis turned to give the man his customary fuck off stare. The knight’s friendly, square-jawed face was just as perfect up close. His eyes were blue. His blond eyelashes shone against his sun-darkened cheeks.
No real person should look like that.
Sairis realized he wasn’t glaring anymore and looked away. The knight seemed to think he was a student. Before Sairis quite understood what was happening, they were engaged in a conversation.
And why not? demanded that small, traitorous part of Sairis’s brain that wanted things. Why the fuck shouldn’t you walk into a gentlemen’s club and be a human being for a few hours? Why shouldn’t you learn how to flirt with strangers? You’ve done things that would make any man here lose his dinner and probably his sanity. Flirting can’t be that difficult.
The trouble was, they hadn’t been talking for ten minutes before Sairis wanted to do more than flirt. Jack was so easy to talk to. He decoded their complex social dance with cheerful patience and shared his own feelings with apparent sincerity. Sairis found himself revealing more than he ought.
And then Jack kissed him. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Jack was a stranger—a knight, for gods’ sakes. Jack wasn’t even his real name.
Sairis found himself wondering what kisses were supposed to feel like. Was it normal to feel that, by opening your mouth a quarter inch, you’d somehow opened your soul? Did it always feel like your stomach was melting? Did it normally make the skin of your entire body feel like a stuttering heartbeat?
He didn’t know.
He wanted to.
When Sairis left the tavern, he supposed he should feel worried. Tomorrow, he would go to the palace and try to make history. Afterward, assuming he survived, he had a…a… “Date.” Sairis said the unfamiliar word aloud. “I have a date tomorrow evening. If no one murders me.”
Roland was shocked to find Daphne waiting for him upon his return. She sat in his study, wearing a gold dressing gown, reading at the desk that no longer felt like his own. Her long, chestnut hair had been twined in an elaborate braid when she’d greeted him upon his arrival that morning, but it hung soft around her face now.
“Daph,” he began. She looked up, and his father’s gray eyes looked out from his sister’s face. Roland was momentarily startled into silence. “Your Grace,” he corrected himself.
Daphne sighed and closed the book. “Roland, it’s just me in here.” She folded her hands and looked away. “Although I appreciate the ‘grace’ elsewhere.”
Roland inclined his head. Daphne was four years his senior. She was their father’s recognized heir, groomed for the task from childhood, and highly capable. However, like the laws regarding the men in the Tipsy Knave, it had not always been so. Until fifteen years ago, a woman could not have inherited. Arnoldo Malconwy had made many changes that were now in jeopardy due to his untimely death and the crisis facing their country.
“Sit down, Roland,” said Daphne.
Roland sat, feeling oddly young and wondering if he was about to get a lecture for whoring. He was conscious of his plain clothes, the odors of cheap booze and tobacco that lingered about his person, and the conclusions that his queen sister must draw.
Then she opened her mouth, and he realized that her concerns were more substantial. “I intend to make an alliance with Lamont. Specifically, I intend to marry Prince Anton.”
Roland blinked. “He’s close to forty.”
Daphne said nothing.
Roland considered. “That will make Falcosta uneasy.”
Daphne toyed with her pen. “I know. King Norres does have an unmarried younger daughter…”
Roland took a long moment before his brain caught up with his ears. “You’re…considering marrying me off to Falcosta?”
Daphne did not quite meet his eyes. “We’d have a neat alliance. We could stand united against Zolsestron with some confidence in each other.”
Roland sputtered. “Daph, you know…” You know my tastes. You know that would make me miserable.
Daphne set down her pen and massaged her temples. “If I could marry you off to a prince, I would, Roland.”
“I don’t want to be married off to anyone!”
Daphne witnessed his distress with maddening patience. “Zolsestron is poised to take the pass: yes or no?”
Roland let out a long breath. “Yes. The fighting this last year has been terrible. They’ve taken garrison after garrison. The way Hastafel’s soldiers behave, Daphne… You’d think they were the ones defending their homeland. They act like men possessed. They keep coming even when they’re torn half to pieces. And not just men, either. Sometimes he sends these creatures—” He stopped himself.
Daphne’s compassion slipped through her politician’s mask. She leaned forward and squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry about Marcus. I’m sorry about all of them.”
Roland clamped his other hand over his sister’s. “We’re fighting monsters on the border. Not just men, Daphne. Monsters.” He willed himself to be here in this softly lit room, this safe place.
“We’re losing,” said Daphne quietly. “If our neighbors would help, we might be able to stop Hastafel. It just so happens that we’ve scrapped with our neighbors constantly for the last two hundred years, so it’s taken some talking to bring them around. But if we fall, they’re next, and they know it.”
“You’re going to be a great queen, Daph. If you pull this off, it will be a first.”
She squeezed his arm and let go with a grimace. “And all it will cost is my little brother’s lifelong misery.”
Roland made a face. “Do you want to marry Anton?”
“I do, actually. We’ve been corresponding this past year and we’ve met twice, including yesterday. I like him.”
Roland licked his lips. “Good. I would hate to see you unhappy.”
“Or I you. I haven’t made any promises yet. Roland, I need to know what you want.”
“What do you mean?”
“You prefer men; does that mean you never want to marry at all? Or do you simply want a wife who will look the other way and doesn’t care for bedroom sports? You’re a war hero like Father. People love you. That makes you a little dangerous for me.”
Roland didn’t want to understand, but he did. “Have the barons suggested I be crowned? Is Uncle Winthrop behind it?”
Daphne licked her lips. “I’ve heard rumors. I cannot afford a civil war right now, Roland. I can’t fight Zolsestron and our barons and perhaps our neighbors. We need to have one enemy. Just one. Then we might be able to win.”
“So you’ll marry me off to Falcosta,” said Roland bitterly. “That removes me neatly from the board, gets you a new ally, and silences the barons. Queen takes rook.”
Daphne almost lost her temper. “Damn it, Roland, tell me what you want! I will at least consider it. Do you prefer to be sent back to the border at the head of our armies? I could argue that your place is in battle. I doubt we will have an uncontested border in our lifetimes, no matter what happens with Hastafel, so you can make a career of it. You can replace Uncle Jessup when he dies. Is that your wish?”
Roland scrubbed a hand across his face. They hang men like me in Falcosta. A princess from there will not be understanding. He thought of the fighting, of the pass with winter coming on, of the fresh troops and supplies delivered to Hastafel’s army by sea while Roland’s own men made do with thin rations trekked in over the mountains. He thought of the mad gleam in the eyes of their enemies, driven by whatever devilry Hastafel had cast upon them. I believe they would kill us with their teeth if they ran out of weapons. Within the privacy of his own mind, he let himself say the words, Like the dead.
Roland fully expected to be fighting them again within the month. He’d hoped for a few weeks at home to mourn his father and see his sister on the throne. Then he would return to his friends and officers with a few fresh troops, though they were likely to be too old or too young, certainly too green. Mistala had been bled dry. Falcosta, on the other hand, had trained soldiers standing idle. They had considerably more than Lamont, being an inland country less affected by the Sundering. Those troops might make the difference. Am I letting my people down if I don’t marry this girl?
“Daphne, have our own magicians made any progress in matching Zolsestron’s techniques?”
She shook her head. “I think they’re too cautious. They have a thousand rules. Father didn’t go far enough.”
Roland nodded. The use of magic had been another of those prohibitions that his father had lifted when he announced that women could rule and boys could kiss each other without facing the noose. Admittedly, magic had a more complex history in Mistala. The laws against it had only arisen in the terror immediately after the Sundering.
“There’s something else,” said Daphne, “something you won’t like. I need to tell you so that you won’t be alarmed tomorrow.”
Roland grimaced. “Something worse than marrying a Falcostan princess?”
Daphne quirked a smile. “Probably not worse than that.”
“What?”
“I invited a representative from Karkaroth.”
Roland blinked. He was quite certain he had misheard. “You…what?”
Daphne spoke with maddening patience. “I invited Magus Karkaroth—”
The honorific “magus” was more than Roland could take. “The necromancer Karkaroth? Scourge of the realm? Father’s sworn enemy?”
“Father’s defeated enemy,” said Daphne. “He hasn’t stirred from his tower in over a decade, Roland.”
“Because we haven’t let him!”
“He rules a burn-blackened tower amid a tiny swath of dying forest. Forgive me for not quaking in fear.”
Roland was still sputtering. “He’s the reason our dead are still buried without their heads attached!”
Daphne wore a longsuffering expression. “So, I’m sure you will be comforted to know that he is not coming himself, but has sent his apprentice.”
“An apprentice necromancer. Also known as a necromancer.”
“If the dead start walking, we’ll know whom to blame.”
“It’s not funny, Daph. Grandfather would turn over in his grave.”
Daphne started to respond, made an unladylike snort, and covered her mouth with one hand. She and Roland stared at each other for a moment. Then they were both laughing.
“It’s not funny,” repeated Roland, but it felt good to laugh. More than that, it felt good to see Daphne laugh. So he added, with real levity, “I do hope he doesn’t raise Grandfather.”
Daphne wiped tears from her eyes. “We would have some explaining to do.”
“Starting with why you’re being crowned.”
“And ending with who you were out with tonight.”
Roland shook with mirth.
Daphne composed herself. “If we don’t make Grandfather roll over in his grave, no necromancer’s apprentice will do it.” She took a deep breath. “You tell me you’re fighting monsters on the border. Maybe we need to fight back with something equivalent.”
Roland’s shoulders sagged. “This is not the answer, Daph.”
“You may be right, but I intend to try everything.”
“Will our magicians put some kind of collar on him, at least?”
“That would not be an act of good faith.”
“No, it would be an act of self-preservation.”
“I intend to start with good faith.”
“This is a mistake, Daph.”
“Your objection is noted, Roland.”
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