Chapter Four
The past few days of meetings had made Rizeth feel as though he were right back in Mythen Thaelas. The meeting rooms at the Tower of the Order were dark enough to pass for the Underdark, and the maze of petty paperwork required to even begin arranging a face-to-face with the Blackstaff about this as-yet hypothetical exchange program between her college and the Arcanum was as familiar as his own reflection.
The comfortable bureaucracy of it all served to set him on an even keel. An unease had lingered within him since his argument with Ashenivir, but nothing more had come of it. Ashenivir seemed entirely focused on his studies again, and hadn’t brought up anything related to dynamic—theirs or anyone else’s—at all. So Rizeth decided he’d managed, however clumsily, to set things right, and put the whole incident from his mind.
This afternoon’s meeting, in contrast to all the others he’d attended on the top floor of a tower in whose stairwell no-one had thought to construct a levitation well, was apparently to take place on the ground floor, in a private cubby in the back offices. Rizeth accepted the key from the goblin at the front desk with a degree of scepticism, and made his way through several short, cramped corridors to a smaller, more cramped set of rooms. Study holes, was what they were, and they barely fit one wizard, let alone two—perhaps the Blackstaff had finally deigned to come down and see him, and wanted the privacy.
The Archmage of Waterdeep was not what greeted him. Instead, on the small shelf-desk bolted to the wall, there sat a contraption. There was no other word to describe the tangle of metal wires and small stone tablets carved all over with sigils and arrayed around a two-foot-high crystal lens set upright like a mirror. The frame was copper, engraved with yet more sigils in a densely complicated tangle he was peering at intently when the whole thing lit up like a beacon and emitted a startling, insectoid buzz.
“Rizeth? Can you hear me?”
He stepped back the single pace the cubby afforded him. “Master Xiltael?”
“It is working! Never doubt a T’sonri, huh?”
Lyzira’s face—distorted by the curve of the lens yet as clear as if she were right before him—appeared in the crystal. Rizeth shook his head.
“How in the world did he manage this? The faezress barrier is impassable.”
“Not anymore,” Lyzira said. Her image flickered, and the buzzing rose briefly to a painful pitch. “It’s a work in progress. Seldszar figured out how to force a channel, but it needs an absolutely ridiculous amount of power—and a good few days to recharge. It took a small eternity to get the folks up here to put your end together right. That city has more of a fetish for paperwork than the Arcanum.”
Rizeth took a seat before the device, lost for words. The faezress that cocooned Mythen Thaelas, embedded in the very rock of the cavern, was both protection and hindrance. Magic, especially divination magic, couldn’t get through it. It kept the city safe from Lolthite interests and a myriad of other dangers, but it engendered the need for outposts beyond the barrier for outside communication of any kind. If Seldszar had truly found a way to pierce it…
“Impressive, right?” Lyzira said.
“I assume this meeting is his test run?”
“Seemed as good an excuse as any. But before we get down to boring business about swapping students with Blackstaff Academy, spill. I want to know what you’ve been up to.”
“Master Xiltael, if this device requires as much energy to function as you’ve implied, we ought to limit our discussion to—”
“Oh, come on, five minutes won’t hurt.” Lyzira rolled her eyes. “At least tell me how apprentice—sorry, Master Zauvym is doing.”
“He does not like that title.” The correction came on instinct, and he hoped his image was poorer on Lyzira’s end than hers was on his, so she wouldn’t catch his wince. He cleared his throat. “His Common has improved markedly since we arrived. He has mastered the sending spell, and at present is making steady progress with extradimensional spaces. I expect him to be competent with the construction of basic demiplanes within the month.”
“That’s our boy! Is he still planning to go back to his Matron when you’re done up there, or have you managed to talk him out of that yet?”
Rizeth hesitated. “It is not a subject we have discussed in detail. But yes, I believe that is still his intention.”
“You’re not happy about it.”
“It is a waste,” he said bitterly. “He will not enjoy it.”
“And neither will you.”
The crystal went suddenly dark, sparks flickering across its surface as the sigils whined. Rizeth massaged his forehead. He hated to think of returning as much as Ashenivir did. This city, the House, the apartment—all of it was a temporary paradise, a conjuration that must, by its very nature, eventually collapse.
A bright shimmer and a series of thuds heralded Lyzira’s return, her face excessively close and large in the crystal. “There you are! Fantastic—thought I’d lose you before I got a chance to ask when the wedding is.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You and your pet project.” Lyzira grinned at him. “Don’t make that face, Velkon’yss, you’re not as good at keeping secrets as you think you are. Why do you think I poked you to take him with you?”
“Master Xiltael, you—”
“What, you thought I didn’t notice? You were miserable when his Matron dragged him off to Sshamath for six months, and you’ve spent all your free time the past few years tutoring him and waxing lyrical about how incredible he is.” She set her chin in her hands, smirking like the cat with its proverbial cream. “And then you, Master lives-at-the-Arcanum, decided you were staying up there with your ‘assistant’ indefinitely for a suspiciously vague research project you never even logged with the Archmage?” She snorted. “Please. I might not be as smart as your favourite apprentice, but I’m not stupid.”
He wanted to deny it. He’d put so much effort into ensuring nothing about his relations with Ashenivir would be known by the Arcanum, and apparently they’d all been for naught. Who else knew, the Archmage? The whole damned college?
“Rizeth,” Lyzira called, softer now, less teasing. “Does he know how you feel about him?”
“Yes,” Rizeth said quietly. “He does.”
Her whoop exploded from the crystal in an ear-splitting shriek. Rizeth flinched back from the apparatus, holding up a hand to ward off the sparks that leapt from the copper frame. “Control yourself, Master Xiltael. Archmage T’sonri will not be amused if you shatter his device.”
“Pfft, he’d get over it.” She wriggled in place like an overexcited child. “I want details! What’s it been, hm? Fancy surface dinners? Romantic boat trips on the Sea of Swords? Have you kissed him yet?”
Not quite as observant as you think you are, Master Xiltael.
“That,” he told her, “is none of your business. You have more than received your quota of gossip for the day; there is work to be done.”
She huffed. “Fine. But don’t think you’ve weaselled your way out of this. I’ll get my answers one way or another.”
At last they got down to the business at hand—though Lyzira made teasing comments throughout, much to Rizeth’s chagrin. The hours passed swiftly enough, and by the time they were done he had a much clearer idea of what shape the Arcanum wanted the exchange program to take, and more than a handful of ideas on how it might best fit with the way the Blackstaff ran her Academy. When at last the machine was shut down, Rizeth sat back and stretched. The impending avalanche of arcane bureaucracy was hardly a pleasant prospect, but within he felt an odd lightness.
Lyzira knew. Someone at home knew, and it was…fine. He was fine, Ashenivir was fine—Lyzira wasn’t going to cause trouble. She’d only noticed his apparently ill-hidden longings, and those were safely behind him now, replaced with very real reciprocated affection.
He tipped his face to the sun as he emerged from the Tower of the Order and allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps returning to Mythen Thaelas wasn’t something to dread quite so much after all.
The porch was pleasantly cool this morning, helped along by the frosty white charms Lord Stillgleam had ordered painted on the railings. Little puffs of chilled air emanated from the snowflake-shaped sigils at regular intervals, fluttering the end of Ashenivir’s braid. He hardly noticed, so absorbed was he by the book in his lap.
He’d been too impatient to wait longer than a few days, and had rushed to the House from the Haven after joining the morning devotions. When he wanted to know something, it was like a frantic beast gnawing at him from the inside, a relentless creature that wasn’t satisfied until it had feasted on fresh knowledge. The Font wouldn’t have what he needed but the House, he felt, would. And he’d been right.
Ms Thorne had been more than happy to show him to the library, which was small but, she assured him, very well-stocked.
“Everything here was hand-picked by Lord Stillgleam,” she told him. “Some were written right here by various guests. If you find an author you like, we may even be able to arrange a meeting for you.”
Unsurprisingly, he immediately wanted to read everything. He forced himself to stay focused, and had for today selected Play and Power; a Beginner’s Guide, which was so far only telling him things he already knew, but the author took a much more playful tone than anything he’d read on the topic before, which was refreshingly novel. He finished the chapter and rolled his neck, marking his place with a finger. Half a book still to go. He should really shelve it and go looking again; if he wanted to prove to Rizeth he knew what he was asking for, he needed to actually know what he was asking for.
Things had, for the most part, settled back to normal between them. Rizeth was still being excessively nice, but he hadn’t asked permission to kiss him again at least.
The ballroom doors clicked open, and he gripped the book tight as Catriona and her Sir stepped out onto the porch. She was dressed much the same as the first night they’d met, only this skirt had high slits up the sides, revealing elegant wraps of narrow rope knotted around her legs. Her Sir spared Ashenivir only the briefest glance.
“Wait,” he said, and Catriona went to her knees as smooth as a river. She knelt with her legs wider than Ashenivir did, palms atop her thighs, head angled down. Her Sir smoothed her hair back over her shoulders and kissed the tip of her ear. “I will return when the room is ready, salen’cath.”
The charms on the rail blew cold. Ashenivir shivered as the ballroom doors swung closed again, and tried to concentrate on his book. Catriona knelt in silence, unmoving as a statue. Her posture was perfect, from the angle of her wrists to the curve of her neck.
“Are you allowed to talk?” he asked.
She replied without raising her head. “I was not forbidden to, so yes.”
“So if he told you not to, you wouldn’t? Even if I asked you something?”
“Correct.”
“But you aren’t…this isn’t a scene. Or one of Lord Stillgleam’s parties.”
“You want to talk about my rules, do you?” Catriona said. “Was I right in my assessment? Are we alike?”
“I…” Ashenivir chewed his lip. She could answer his questions better than any book, but he got the feeling that getting those answers would be costly. “What did you mean the other night, trying to warn me away from Rizeth?”
“Is that what I did?”
Even kneeling, she was apparently determined to be as coy as possible. “You like to dance around questions, don’t you?”
“And you like to dance.” She shifted her weight, adjusting her ankles. “Did you have fun with my friend at the Haven? Elian’la was rather taken with you, you know. It’s so…interesting that you two met.”
“If you have something you want to tell me, then stop being so cryptic and tell me.”
“You are a curious thing, aren’t you? Careful where you go digging, little Ra’soltha, you may not like what you find. But, since you so dearly wish to know…” She sighed, as if what she were about to say was a great burden to bestow upon him. “Your Master and my friend played together for a long, long time. He was never any good for her. I told her that from the start, and it broke my heart to be right.”
“What do you mean?” Ashenivir frowned. “Is…is Elian’la the one Kelran set him up with?”
The one things had ended so badly with that Rizeth had been alone ever since. The priestess he’d danced with couldn’t possibly be her; she was far too bold to be Rizeth’s type. Ashenivir couldn’t picture her following anyone’s orders but her own.
Footsteps sounded in the ballroom. Catriona broke her posture then, fixing him with an intense look.
“Ask him where he learned the word Ra’soltha,” she said, and dropped her head just as the doors opened and her Sir stepped into view. He touched her shoulder, and she rose without a sound. Neither of them looked at him.
Ashenivir stared after them, the brightness of the day making the ballroom dark by contrast, a swallowing shadow. Elian’la. A part of him wanted to run back to the Haven and look for her—another part felt sick at the thought. She’d broken Rizeth’s heart. He’d danced with her, laughed with her, and Rizeth didn’t know.
What game was Catriona playing, telling him these things? Stringing him along with insinuations, toying with him for her own amusement, implying they were alike—he was nothing like her. He opened his book and forced himself back into it. Catriona could play games with someone else. He had work to do.
Rizeth had just finished fitting the new sheets when he heard Ashenivir kicking off his shoes in the entryway. He straightened, tugging the topmost blanket into place. The new bed was a large, solid creation—dark oak, sensible and sturdy, the only adornment a series of alternating moons and eight-pointed stars carved into the posts. The oak had been his choice; the decoration Ashenivir’s.
“It arrived.”
He turned to find Ashenivir in the doorway, staring at the bed with an odd expression on his face.
“Shortly after you left this morning,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir approached and trailed his fingers over the top rail of the footboard, tracing the carvings with something close to reverence.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “I…it’s a bed, Master.”
“Very observant, apprentice.”
A wide grin split Ashenivir’s face. “It’s our bed.”
He flung his arms around Rizeth’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. Rizeth’s hand went to the small of his back, holding him closer—he could feel the smile in the lips moving softly beneath his, and returned it. A moment later his legs hit the edge of the bed and Ashenivir was pushing him down onto it and he had a warm, lovely, already-breathless boy atop him.
Well, now. That wouldn’t do at all.
With a growl, he rolled them over—joy of joys, to no longer fear falling off the other side of the bed in doing so—and pinned Ashenivir beneath him. He was flushed, bright-eyed, laughing, more perfect than any painting.
“Ours,” he repeated, and captured Rizeth’s mouth once more. Rizeth devoured him, licking deep into his mouth to taste every inch he could reach, sucking Ashenivir’s tongue with a graze of teeth to draw a sweet, humming moan. One ankle hooked up over his back, simultaneously pulling him closer and allowing Ashenivir a better angle to grind against him. The neat, new sheets were a complete tangle already.
“Hungry today,” Rizeth murmured into the crook of his neck.
“I’m always hungry for you, Master,” Ashenivir said. “I always have been. And now I don’t have to wait for a scene. If I want you, I can have you—if you let me.”
“And why would I not let you?”
Ashenivir rolled his hips, the hard line of his cock pressing into Rizeth’s thigh. “Because I misbehaved. Or because you need to remind me of my place.”
The shift in energy was so tangible Rizeth could taste it. Ashenivir continued to grind against him, eyes fathomless—he’d already decided to fall, and Rizeth knew he’d fall with him.
His hand slid to Ashenivir’s throat. “And what is your place, Ra’soltha?”
A flicker of something across Ashenivir’s face, just for a moment, then it was gone. He tipped his head back. “To serve my Master.”
His pulse fluttered sweetly beneath Rizeth’s palm. Here, in the safety of their bed, he could have this the way he’d always had it. As long as he didn’t let it follow them out of this room. Ashenivir rocked his hips, and Rizeth tightened his grip.
“Is this how you want to come today? Grinding yourself fully clothed on my leg? Because if you do not stop, that is all you will get.”
In response, Ashenivir surged up, breaking Rizeth’s grasp to drag him into a rough kiss. “I want to test the bed, Master,” he whispered hotly. “I want to see what breaks first: me, or it.”
“Then you had better take off your clothes.”
Ashenivir’s refusal was only half playful. His eyes were dark, his breath hard, and when Rizeth pushed him down, he grabbed at the arm holding him and shoved at it as though he wanted to escape. Rizeth tapped the mark and drank in the thrum of need, the feral hunger writhing, beastly, beneath the deceptively innocent skin of his beautiful boy.
“Are you going to do as you’re told?”
The defiance flashing in Ashenivir’s eyes was intoxicating. “No.”
It took skill to rip someone’s clothes off without damaging them, and Ashenivir fought him every step of the way, thrashing and shoving and even biting the hand Rizeth put over his mouth, which earned him a slap. The sharp volume of it—and Ashenivir’s accompanying gasp—reminded Rizeth to cast out a mage hand to close the windows, lest the general public get far more involved in their intimacy than he preferred. Immediately it was too hot, even with the cooling charms he’d laid, and the slick of their sweat made holding Ashenivir still a challenge in and of itself, but eventually Rizeth got them both naked and held him pinned face down, gripping both arms behind his back with one firm hand.
“Fuck me,” he panted, twisting his head to look back at Rizeth. “Please, Master.”
“You asked to test the bed, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth said. With his free hand he made a twisting pass to call the Weave into the frame. “Thus, the bed you shall have.”
All four posts came alive at his word. He released Ashenivir’s arms into the care of the upper set, which twisted with a creaking groan to wrap around each wrist. The lower posts caught his legs as he continued to struggle, fighting fruitlessly against unyielding oak.
Rizeth ran a hand up the back of his leg, over the firm muscle of his calf and the twitching tendons behind his knee. At a flicker of his will, the bed yanked Ashenivir’s legs apart, spreading him wide and ready for his Master. His cock bobbed beneath his stomach, pre-cum drooling to the messy sheets. Rizeth swept two fingers through it, using the wetness to call the usual cantrip, then kept the spell going, allowing cool lubrication to slide over Ashenivir’s entrance.
“Well, apprentice?” He traced a teasing circle, allowing just the tip of his forefinger to press inside. “Identify the spell.”
“Animate object, Master,” came the answer, quick and confident. Far too quick and confident; Rizeth flicked a command into the Weave as he slid his whole finger in, and Ashenivir gasped as all four bedposts tightened their grip. The ones holding his wrists bent to pull his arms above his head until he was scrabbling at the slats of the headboard. The scrape of his nails on the wood sent a thrill down Rizeth’s spine. He added another finger and pressed deeper, stroking over the place within that had Ashenivir keening with pleasure.
“My apologies, Ra’soltha—was there some other part of this bed you wanted to test?”
“Mattress,” Ashenivir gasped. “The mattress, Master.”
He whimpered as Rizeth worked his fingers slow and steady, the wooden restraints preventing him from taking anything more than what he was given. “What manner of test would you like to perform?”
“It would be good to…good to know,” Ashenivir said, fighting for every word, “…how much weight it can take.”
“A fine proposition. But, Ra’soltha, do you really expect your Master to make all the effort of maintaining the spell necessary to keep you in your place”—he curled his fingers and Ashenivir cried out—“whilst also giving you the fucking you deserve?”
“I’ll hold it. Give me the spell, Master, I’ll hold it.”
“Is that a promise, xi’hum? You aren’t going to try and slip free?”
Ashenivir shook his head fervently. “No, Master. Never.”
“Very well, then. As you wish.”
Rizeth withdrew his fingers slowly enough to make Ashenivir fight his wooden bonds again—already there were dark marks appearing at wrist and ankle, the kind of mark that would leave the loveliest of bruises. He knelt between Ashenivir’s legs and took hold of his hips.
“Take the spell,” he instructed.
Their Weave entangled, the abstract texture of Ashenivir’s magic as familiar as his own. Threads of power probed at one another, Ashenivir’s Weave flexing and twisting, working its way deep into Rizeth’s casting as piece by piece he took the spell, and, inch by inch, Rizeth slid into his ready heat. If the bed hadn’t been holding him in place, Ashenivir might have collapsed then and there, so much did he tremble.
Rizeth dragged his nails down Ashenivir’s spine, and bit out a moan of his own at the feel of Ashenivir flexing around his cock. He started slow, drawing out almost all the way before burying himself deep, digging his nails into Ashenivir’s waist, but managed only a half-dozen such thrusts before the torment towards himself became too much. He fucked into Ashenivir hard and fast, reaching for the mark as he did so. Pain and pleasure danced in the connection; straining muscles, aching joints, the bruising grip of the bedposts tighter under Ashenivir’s control than it had been under his.
“Good boy,” he whispered, nipping at Ashenivir’s ear. He put a hand to Ashenivir’s cock, easily slicking his palm with the mess of arousal that spilled from it already. He stroked fiercely and without pause, base to tip, until Ashenivir near enough wailed for release. Rizeth kept his mind in the mark as he cast Ashenivir over the edge, and his own orgasm seemed to crack every one of his vertebrae, so entwined was it with the spike of pleasure that burst through their connection.
The spell collapsed as they did, the bed snapping back into solid, inanimate form around them. Rizeth rolled to his back, a hand over his thudding heart.
“Ra’soltha, you will be the death of me.”
Ashenivir managed a scratchy laugh. “Bed works.”
“Indeed it does.”
They lay there a long while, recovering—despite how large the new bed was, Ashenivir curled up close to him, as if even an inch away was too far. Rizeth stroked his sweat-damp side, adoring the way his muscles shook in the aftermath.
Maybe Kelran was right. Maybe he could do this, be a good Master in the bedroom and a good partner outside of it. Maintain the separation a romantic relationship required. He closed his eyes and rested his chin atop Ashenivir’s head. For so long, the fear of repeating every awful mistake of his past had kept him frozen and alone.
Here, now, with Ashenivir—at last his heart felt warm.
A faint fog of healing magic swirled over the bath, filling the room with the gentle scent of lavender. Rizeth, perched on the edge, held Ashenivir’s wrist carefully as he probed at the ring of bruises—the magic had done its work swiftly, and the angry marks had already faded to a dull near-black.
“I am disinclined to leave you in charge of your own restraints again,” he said.
Ashenivir held his other arm up, turning it admiringly. “I like them.”
“Your wrists are delicate, xi’hum, and rather necessary to your chosen profession.”
“You don’t think they look nice?”
Rizeth kissed the inside of his wrist. “I think you look beautiful. That does not mean I want you to injure yourself.” He set Ashenivir’s wrist back into the fog. “Sit up now, so I may tend to your hair.”
He flicked out a mage hand to bring over a comb and a detangling oil, and set to work. Ashenivir’s hair had gotten much longer since they’d left Mythen Thaelas, and the one time Rizeth had mentioned it, he’d been adamant that cutting it was not to be considered—his Matron liked it short, it transpired, which meant that Rizeth at once decided he preferred it as long as possible. But as wonderful a handhold as it was, it took a good deal of looking after. Restoring it after a scene had become one of his favourite parts of the aftermath.
From the noises Ashenivir made when he did it, Rizeth thought it was one of his favourites, too.
“How was your meeting this morning?” Ashenivir asked, as Rizeth worked the comb through a particularly stubborn snarl.
“Interesting,” Rizeth said. “It seems Archmage T’sonri has discovered a—rather complicated and inefficient—way to bypass the faezress barrier. I had a most unexpected conversation with Master Xiltael. Face to face.”
“Bypass the barrier?” Ashenivir twisted around, eyes wide. “That’s incredible! How does it work—is it a runic tunnel? I read something a few years back about it working in theory, but the researchers couldn’t find a way to keep the sigils from burning out. And what did Master Xiltael say? I thought your meetings with the Order were about an exchange program; were they really about this?”
Rizeth chuckled—his enthusiasm was as endearing as ever. “I am certain if you wish to examine it, the Archmage would have no objection. As to what we discussed…” An unexpected flicker of apprehension darted through him. He dropped his gaze to Ashenivir’s hair as he spoke. “Work-related matters, eventually, though she asked after you and your studies, and…”
“And?”
He took a breath. “She wanted to know if you were aware of my feelings towards you. It appears she has been somewhat more observant than I believed her to be—and I less discreet than I imagined. Suffice to say, she is rather pleased with our current arrangement.”
“How much does she…I mean, does she know that you…that we…?”
“No. She is apparently under the impression I might not even have kissed you yet.”
Ashenivir’s expression turned mischievous. “Do you think she’d be pleased to know you’ve done quite a lot more than that?”
Rizeth tugged his hair. “Behave yourself, Ra’soltha.”
He settled back into place and sat quietly whilst Rizeth finished with his hair. With it finally untangled, Rizeth set to rebraiding it—a task he never undertook for himself, for elaborate hairstyling reminded him too much of the expectations House Velkon’yss had held for his appearance. But Ashenivir’s simple half-braid was nothing like that and, as he wove a new one, he found himself idly contemplating how it might look on him. The idea of Ashenivir taking care of his hair spawned a curl of liquid sunlight beneath his sternum, and he opened his mouth to say it, finally say it—
“Master? Could I ask you something?”
His fingers stumbled, dropping a section of braid. He hurried to gather it again. “Of course.”
“I was just wondering where you first learned the word Ra’soltha.”
On a borrowed bed, with a warm body pressed to his; soft lips at his ear, a whisper whose memory still sent a shiver down his spine. Rizeth pushed it away. “What makes you so curious about that after all this time?”
“Well, I was thinking you must have learned it somewhere more sensible than I did,” Ashenivir said. One hand drew patterns in the cooling bathwater, too-fast figure-eights. “I read it in a very bad erotic novel, and you don’t like those.”
He was lying. Worry shot through with anger he couldn’t entirely suppress tightened Rizeth’s chest. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not, that’s where I learned it, I—”
“Not about where you learned it, about why you are asking.”
“It…I…” Ashenivir locked his hands together. “Someone at the House said to ask you. Catriona Hanali—I met her the other night when we were there, and then again at the Haven because she’s friends with the High Priestess of the Maiden’s Hands, and she’s…she keeps implying she knows all these things about you, and today she told me you and Elian’la used to be together and she only said it because Elian’la liked dancing with me, and—”
“You danced with her?”
She was here. She was at the Haven and Ashenivir had not just spoken with her but danced with her—maybe even more than once, he went there nearly every damned morning now—and Catriona Hanali was doing what she always did, shoving her nose where it wasn’t wanted because she couldn’t stand him, she’d never been able to stand him.
“Yes,” Ashenivir said. “I told you I danced with the High Priestess, didn’t I?”
“You never mentioned her name.”
“I didn’t know who she was! Master, is she—”
Rizeth stood abruptly. “She is no-one I want you having anything to do with.” The snap of his accent filled the small room with its knife-sharp edges. “And neither is Miss Hanali. I do not want to hear either name from you again, am I understood?”
“But—”
“Am I understood?”
Ashenivir dropped his head, sinking down into the water. “Yes, Master.”
Rizeth hated himself then. He took a too-shallow breath that did absolutely nothing and gripped his wrists tight behind his back. “Can you finish bathing by yourself?” A silent nod. “I will make something to drink. Call if you need my assistance.”
He didn’t slam the bathroom door and he didn’t slam the bedroom door and he didn’t hurl the teapot across the room to smash into a thousand pieces. He set it brewing and stood with a hand pressed over his eyes, heart thundering in his ears. Why the Hells was she in Waterdeep? In all the times he’d come here since she’d left, not once had their paths crossed, but now, the one year he was here with someone he cared about—such care having been beyond him for decades because of her—she elected to visit? And to dance with Ashenivir—he wasn’t supposed to know her, he was never supposed to know her; he couldn’t go back to the Haven, he’d see her again, and she’d tell him every awful thing, and then he’d leave and—
Rizeth dug his nails into his forehead. Elian’la, here again in Waterdeep.
What a cruel joke.