to the point

It’s easier than Zeth’rinn expects to get into the Nydalla compound. He slips through the dark grounds, cloaked in silence courtesy of a borrowed earring which Jarlaxle will only miss if he doesn’t return it; and really, if his father didn’t want to share jewellery with him, he ought to change the lock on the box.

A flourish of tension wrench and pick later he’s through one of the servants doors on the lower level. Night-cold kitchens lead to empty hallways until eventually he finds himself in the grander environs he expects of a noble estate. Intricate wall carvings shift in the glow of enchanted sconces, whose flames lend false life to the faces of well-chosen sculptures. Every door he pokes his head into reveals another exactingly tidy room, yet though elegance and expense are evident in abundance, it’s nothing he couldn’t see at any other estate. Nothing heretical. Nothing scandalous. Nothing interesting.

He’s closing yet another disappointing door when something sharp jabs into the small of his back. Zeth’rinn freezes.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The voice is smooth, a hint of a purr in the syllables.

“Which answer doesn’t get me run through?”

A laugh, almost surprised, as if startled from its source. “Turn around. And keep your hands away from your weapons.”

Zeth’rinn does as he’s bid and comes face to face with what can only be Matron Nydalla’s consort. Iphis, his name is, and he’s prettier than Zeth’rinn expected. Short hair, ice for eyes, a shade of blue Zeth’rinn’s not seen in a drow before, with skin a shade or two lighter than his own. A shade or two shorter than him, too, but with a confidence in his stance—and the way he holds his sword—that says underestimating him would be a fatal error. Iphis motions with the rapier.

“Move, spy. Or thief, or assassin—whichever you fancy yourself.”

“Not going to kill me?” Zeth’rinn starts in the direction the blade indicates. “I’d heard you had no compunctions about that sort of thing.”

“Your life is my Matron’s now,” Iphis says.

Given the rumour that Minisstra Nydalla beheaded someone for speaking ill of her, this statement does not fill Zeth’rinn with reassurance. Iphis’ footfalls make no sound behind him, so Zeth’rinn, with a subtle scratch at his ear, disengages the charm to let his own ring out. A soft snort from his captor could be either annoyance or amusement at the petty play. With how handsome he is, Zeth’rinn hopes it’s the latter.

A short while later, they reach the grand hall at the heart of the compound; a room whose high ceiling vanishes into deep shadow. The lights here throb in bruise-tones, purple and blue glinting off of stained glass. Zeth’rinn is afforded little time to admire it—Iphis smacks him in the back of the legs with his rapier.

“On your knees.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Zeth’rinn retorts, because he can’t help himself.

The blade flicks up to his throat, Iphis’ lips suddenly at his ear, voice a vicious whisper. “You don’t want to make me ask twice.”

Zeth’rinn kneels. Silence hangs between them for long, painful minutes as they wait for the Mistress of the House to arrive. Iphis breaks it first, asking his name.

“Zeth’rinn,” he says. Then adds, because it can’t make the situation worse, “Baenre.”

Iphis scoffs. “You’re no Baenre.”

“Tell that to my father when he comes to claim my corpse. Or is your new House so powerful already it can afford to get on the wrong side of Bregan D’aerthe?”

“Oh. That Baenre.”

“Yes, that Baenre. So if you’re dead-set on pissing him off, then by all means—”

The sharp click of approaching heels stops his tongue. Zeth’rinn looks up and gets his first glimpse of Matron Nydalla.

Calculated, refined, every aspect constructed to devastating effect even though he’s disrupted her in the middle of the night, Minisstra is a presence as overwhelming as she is beautiful. Bare arms folded over a bodice crawling with silver spiders, rubies at her throat, her dress offering a glimpse of leg high enough that to admire it invites repercussions likely to be administered by the knife serving as her hairpin—if her consort didn’t deliver the reprimand first. Her winedark eyes pin him like an insect for display, and when he opens his mouth to talk his way out of his imminent execution, she cocks her head and arches one eyebrow, and his teeth click closed.

By every god there ever was, none of the rumours did her justice. Many were cruel, to her and Iphis both, and such gossip was what inspired his espionage in the first place. Zeth’rinn knows he’s not unique in his becoming, but he’s met just one other up until now, and Fel’rekt is nothing like the Nydallas.

Iphis’ blade digs into the soft place beneath his jaw, tipping his head back. The prick of metal sends a hot flash racing through him, and he can’t suppress a shudder not entirely born of fear. Minisstra’s lips curve—not quite a smile, but something so close that Zeth’rinn suddenly wants to know what would make it one, what he could do to please her.

“Interesting,” she says. “Disrobe him.”

The rapier flashes down, across, up; back and forth and back, each slice so skilled and so fast he can’t follow the motion with anything but his ears. His breath comes shallow as his shirt falls away in ragged ribbons. Blood trickles down his stomach, and he waits for the next strike, which will surely take more than his clothing.

It doesn’t come.

“Mistress, look,” Iphis says, a hint of wonderment in his voice. The point of his sword traces over the spiderweb-shaped scars beneath Zeth’rinn’s pectorals, wounds which were clearly inflicted by some unnatural source. Interest sparks in Minisstra’s eyes as they follow the rapier’s path.

“And to which god did you pledge yourself for your transformation, little Baenre?” she asks.

“None,” Zeth’rinn says. “Well, technically Lolth, I suppose; some of Her priestesses are fairly bribeable, as it turns out. Hardly cheap, but very discreet. If you’re looking for recommendations, I’d be more than happy to point you in the right direction.”

Iphis presses the edge of the blade to the underside of one nipple. “He talks too much.”

“I would tend to agree on that point,” Minisstra replies. “See if you can silence him.”

“If you’re thinking of cutting out my tongue, I should tell you I know a great many uses for it which I’m sure either of you would find most pleas—”

He stutters to a halt as the rapier drops to land, with unsettling accuracy, on the seam of his breeches directly above his clit. Since the change the priestess bestowed upon him it’s become something more akin to a cock, and now it decides to act like one, hardening beneath the blade.

Iphis smirks—the kind of expression Zeth’rinn has both practised in a mirror and kissed from many a mouth—and he knows that Iphis knows exactly what he just did. The sword flicks left, traces a line down the inside of his thigh to his knee, taps the floor, then taps his other knee. Zeth’rinn’s breath catches, tight as the heat building between his legs. Iphis pauses, then taps each of his knees again, firmly. He gets the message and widens them, daring a glance at Minisstra as he does.

No approval on her face. Slight interest perhaps; no arousal, only a desire to see what happens next. The lack inflames something deep in Zeth’rinn’s core, conjuring an ache that has him clenching his fists atop his thighs.

The blade returns to his chest, and now its exploration of his scars is a tease, its avoidance of his nipples a tragedy. He arches into its cold kiss, biting back a complaint when it withdraws. It instead drifts low, drawing a hair-thin scratch along the skin above his belt, and as Iphis makes his mark, a hand touches Zeth’rinn’s head. Minisstra trails her fingers along the shaved side, then digs them hard into the messily bound knot of his hair and yanks his head back so there’s nowhere to look but her.

All thought of moving is gone. He’s at once very light and impossibly heavy—if Minisstra let go, he’s not sure whether he’d sink through the floor or float into the shadows above.

With a controlled shift of his wrist, Iphis dips the rapier down, pulling the leather of Zeth’rinn’s breeches away enough to allow the point to slip beneath them, just an inch. The metal isn’t touching skin, but it almost is, and Zeth’rinn is so wet he can’t think straight. His swollen clit throbs painfully. A tiny whimper—much too close to a moan—escapes him, and the look in Minisstra’s eyes now sets his face aflame.

“Much better,” she says.

“May I keep playing with him, Mistress?” Iphis asks, the words deferent but drenched in hunger. The pause that follows is so deliberate it hurts, consort and captive awaiting their Matron’s decision. Despite the danger of the moment, Zeth’rinn doesn’t want it to end. He wants to see just how skilled Iphis is with that blade, what else his taunting mouth and dextrous hands can do.

Minisstra releases his hair, stepping away. “No,” she says. A wave of disappointment sags his shoulders. “On your feet, Baenre.”

The rapier withdraws, allowing him to rise, but he can’t keep his gaze off it. Iphis catches his look, and taps the point very deliberately on the toe of his boot in a series of somehow suggestive flicks. Another surge of liquid heat pools low in Zeth’rinn’s gut.

“Be on your way,” Minisstra orders, voice hard, cutting through the fog of lust. “And if you dare show your face here again without my explicit invitation, Iphis’ blade will be far less gentle.”

Zeth’rinn bows, instinct adding a flourish he stole—or perhaps inherited—from his father. “Yes, Mistress Nydalla,” he says, which makes Iphis narrow his eyes. Zeth’rinn flashes him a grin and a wink, then bolts from the hall before they can change their minds about letting him live. The chances of receiving an invitation to return are slim to none.

He’ll find a way back with or without one. He’s a Baenre, and a Baenre, even a bastard one like him, always gets what they want.