Chapter Five
“Back for more reading, Master Zauvym?”
Ms Thorne offered him a friendly smile as he stepped into the foyer. Ashenivir returned it. “Lord Stillgleam’s collection is very engaging.”
And a good distraction. Rizeth was acting like nothing had happened, which was almost worse than the first time they’d argued and he’d turned too sweet. Ashenivir didn’t want to broach the topic himself—how would he even do such a thing? Please, Master, tell me about the woman who broke your heart, I’m dying to know exactly how she did it. Spare no detail. It was stupid to be hung up on it when it was none of his business.
“Ms Thorne,” he said, “do you know a woman called Elian’la? A drow, from Mythen Thaelas like me?”
Ms Thorne pursed her lips. “The name sounds familiar, but you know how I am with faces.”
“Couldn’t you look her up?”
“You know the rules,” she said, tapping a nail on her ledger. “You’re a lovely boy, but I can’t go giving out private information just because I like you. If she visits, I’m certain you’ll run into her sooner or later.”
That’s what I’m worried about. Ashenivir made his way to the library and laid out his notes. He’d avoided going to the Haven since Catriona had told him about Elian’la—his desire to run into her again to learn more of her dancing had turned to dread at the idea of having to talk to her. Did she know Rizeth was here? Catriona must have told her. Did she know Ashenivir was with her former partner, resent him for not saying anything?
And what had happened between her and Rizeth?
He sighed, and went to collect his current tomes of study from their shelves. Rizeth didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn’t want to fight, so the question would remain unanswered. At least he had this to occupy him, and it had captured his attention far more than the final, difficult details of mastering demiplanes.
Service and Mastery—the art of submission, and all the many forms it took. How had he ever thought he’d known what he was getting into based on a handful of what he now knew were wildly out-of-date manuals and a few pornographic books? It was as if he’d studied magic by reading children’s stories and somehow learned to cast spells from them. He hadn’t felt this aware of how little he knew since the first time he’d walked into the Arcanum library.
His notes had, over the past half-tenday, started to form into something of a thesis of his own. Every dynamic he read of, every manner and shape of relationship Kelran’s books presented him with; each offered a new facet to slot into place. What he wanted was taking shape in the scrawled pages he’d amassed, and it was not the litany of total control Rizeth had thrown at him.
That, he’d learned, was a power exchange all of its own, and Rizeth was right; it wasn’t what he wanted. But full-time service was merely a part of that dynamic, not the whole of it. There were as many ways to live with roles in permanent effect as there were ways to live.
One of which was exactly what they were doing already. The only difference Ashenivir could see between what someone like Catriona did with her Sir and what he did with Rizeth was the fact that they hadn’t sat down and planned it out first—they just did it. Nothing felt more natural to him than being Ra’soltha; it was as much a part of him as his Weave. Rizeth could deny it all he liked, but they existed in a dynamic that extended out beyond bedrooms and playrooms and parties, and had done for years. Why it should be something contentious and complicated now was as confusing as it was frustrating.
“That’s quite the collection you have there.”
Ashenivir glanced up. Catriona’s Sir ran a manicured finger down the stack of books before him, tracing the spines. He offered a half bow. “I must apologise, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. Dayereth Aloro, at your service.” He straightened, tucking one of his locs back over his shoulder. “And you are Master Zauvym outside of these walls, is that correct?”
Ashenivir nodded. “Catriona told you?”
“Lord Stillgleam, actually.” Dayereth was far warmer in tone and affect than Ashenivir had expected; more like Kelran than Rizeth. “What is it you’re working on? I can’t assume magic, given the nature of Kelran’s collection.”
“I…” Rizeth hadn’t wanted him to talk to Catriona; he’d said nothing about her Sir. It was skirting an order, but what harm would it do? “I’m studying service—full-time dynamics and such. They…interest me lately.”
“You ought to talk to my kitten,” Dayereth said. He plucked one of the books from the pile and chuckled. “Miss Eveline’s Treatise—I remember her reading this very same copy. She kept arranging to be reading it in my eyeline. Not particularly subtle, but rather effective.”
Ashenivir brushed his palm over his notes. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t pictured Rizeth coming to find him whilst he was studying here, seeing what he was working on and knowing—as he always knew—exactly what Ashenivir wanted. And not arguing with me about it.
“You’ve been together a while, then?”
“Oh, years and years.” Dayereth returned the book to the pile. “I’m sure she’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, if you and your Master are considering a similar arrangement to ours. There’s only so much you can learn from books.”
He hummed idly to himself as he perused the shelves. Ashenivir, who’d gotten to know the small library reasonably well by now, saw him take one of the volumes on rope suspension. Dayereth flipped through it, nodded, and tucked it under his arm as he turned to go.
“Shall I arrange a playdate with my kitten?” he asked, pausing by the door. “Purely platonic, of course. I know enough of your Master to know he isn’t fond of sharing.”
“I…that’s very kind of you, but I…I’d need to ask my Master first.” Ashenivir hurried out the last part, so it sounded even more like an excuse than it was. Dayereth inclined his head.
“Of course. Enjoy your studies.”
The door swung shut behind him, leaving Ashenivir once more in silence. He tapped the end of his pen on his notes. It was impossible to wrap your head entirely around a spell without trying to cast it. You could examine every aspect of the Weave the wizards before you had diagrammed out, but theory was always an entirely different beast to practice. Having someone show you the spell, on the other hand…he’d grasped a great deal of spells technically too complex for his skills at the time simply because Rizeth had demonstrated them, first-hand.
Catriona had lived what he’d been reading about. It wasn’t theory for her, it was her life.
He shook his head. No. He’d talk to Rizeth first. Ask again, with all the newfound knowledge he possessed; use his own words, not someone else’s. Just like when Rizeth had asked for his desires when they’d first started, he’d present what he wanted, as clearly as he could. He’d learned enough to refute any inaccuracies Rizeth threw at him—though he suspected Rizeth knew what he’d said wasn’t right, and had been trying to…not scare him off, but impress upon him the harsh reality of what might happen if he engaged in this with incomplete knowledge.
Well, it wasn’t incomplete anymore. And before he went disobeying orders, he’d do as a Ra’soltha should and present his request to his Master. Ashenivir sealed his ink with a cantrip and shut his notebook with a firm snap. He couldn’t learn everything from books, that was true enough, but he’d far rather learn the rest with his Master than from having to talk to Catriona again.
Dealing with Lyzira’s teasing was an altogether more difficult endeavour when one had under one’s chair a package from one of Waterdeep’s most talented carvers of intimate objects. She was decidedly displeased at how little Rizeth had taken Ashenivir out for dinners and suchlike, and insisted on bringing the matter up every few minutes.
“Master Xiltael, if I promise to take him to a restaurant in the near future, will you focus on the details of this counter-proposal?” he’d said eventually, rubbing his temple.
“Consider me focused,” she’d replied, grinning.
It had been a relief to end the meeting early, though one dampened by the intolerable heat that lay over the city like a physical weight. Even the cooling charms struggled to do much against it—Rizeth was in something of a fugue state contemplating how he might summon the energy to adjust them into a more effective configuration when Ashenivir returned, drenched in sweat, from his morning’s studies. He tugged his shirt off the moment the door closed behind him and dropped to the floor by the couch with a groan, leaning his head against Rizeth’s knee.
“Master, I’m dying.”
“For once, I will concur with your melodrama,” Rizeth said. He trailed his fingers lightly over Ashenivir’s neck, and even that gentle touch came away sweat-slick. The balcony doors stood wide open, but what faint breeze deigned to wend its way through them carried naught but salt and heat.
At his feet, Ashenivir was in the process of stripping out of the rest of his clothes, tossing them into a messy pile at the end of the couch. Rizeth was more than glad to have him so comfortable around him as to do that—after the way he’d snapped, he worried he’d done more harm than intended. He hadn’t raised the subject since, and nor had Ashenivir, both of them apparently happy to pretend as though it hadn’t happened. Rizeth wished it hadn’t. Forbidding him to talk to someone…if he was trying to be the kind of partner Ashenivir wouldn’t wind up resenting, that wasn’t the way to go about it.
“Master,” Ashenivir said, shifting to kneel with his chin resting on Rizeth’s thigh, arms twined around his calf, “do you have any of the ice you used to punish me back at the Arcanum?”
“I have the enchantment in my spellbook, yes.”
“Could we use it?”
“You are not in any trouble.”
Ashenivir bit his knee lightly. “There. Now freeze me. All over.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Rizeth caressed his jaw, running a thumb over his lips. “I picked up a new toy for you earlier.”
“If it isn’t made of ice, it can wait.”
“You truly must be dying,” Rizeth said. “Never are you so patient for new things. Very well, then—let us cool you off, Ra’soltha.”
He sent Ashenivir ahead into the bedroom in part to watch the smooth motions of his bare form. He’d always been lean, kept himself well enough in shape, and the short time he’d returned to dancing had already made him stronger. The changes were subtle—a more defined curve here, a firmer muscle there—but Rizeth knew him well enough to mark them all. The gleam of sweat on his back stirred heat in him, despite how hot the day was, and Rizeth swallowed, craving the taste of him. Fortunately, the spell took only a few minutes, and then he had a tray of ice that wouldn’t melt until he told it to, and an apprentice stretched out on their bed, ready and willing to endure its cold.
They hadn’t played much these past few days. Sex, yes, and Ashenivir gave himself to it as he always did, but not proper scenes. Not anything where the point wasn’t pure release, pure need for physical contact—and Rizeth had, he was forced to admit, in a deep, oft unlooked-at place, needed it more than usual. Had needed to know his outburst hadn’t inspired the beginnings of a rejection all his own fault.
He set the tray on the nightstand. Cold sank into his fingers the moment he picked up one of the ice chips, a fog of chill radiating around his hand. Ashenivir eyed it hungrily, shifting in place as Rizeth knelt on the edge of the bed. The arch of his back was all playful brat; the way his thigh settled against Rizeth’s hip a simple touch that soothed the shifting uncertainty within him.
Rizeth held the ice chip to Ashenivir’s stomach, a half-inch from skin, as he leaned forwards to taste the hollow of his throat. Salt and warmth, a gasp and a sigh at the twin sensations he gifted. He kissed his way down Ashenivir’s chest, drawing the ice up at the same time. It left a marking of frost in its wake, enchanted and glittering, and Ashenivir squirmed beneath him as he circled one nipple with it, sucking the other tenderly into his mouth, licking and biting at the sensitive flesh. He tugged with his teeth, and Ashenivir moaned.
“Master, you’re meant to be cooling me down, not heating me up.”
Rizeth called frostbite to his palm and pressed it to Ashenivir’s side. The sudden, sucking gasp was sweet as anything. “Cold enough for you, Ra’soltha?”
“More,” was Ashenivir’s reply. Rizeth bit his nipple. “Please, Master. I want more.”
Sighs and small, high sounds of pleasure rose from his lips as Rizeth laid the ice chips over his body, setting them beneath his nipples, balanced along his ribs, spaced at intervals down his waist and hips and thighs. They didn’t melt, only emanated an endless cold that numbed Rizeth’s fingers, turning his nails an arcane, translucent white.
It was easy enough to warm them on Ashenivir’s skin. He traced patterns around and between the ice, following the looping map of them with his tongue. Back and forth and up and down he went, over and over and over until Ashenivir’s voice turned to incoherent honey, his body limp against the sheets.
“Open your mouth,” Rizeth said.
He took one of the ice chips from Ashenivir’s stomach and set it on his tongue, as he had years before as a punishment. Then, Ashenivir had knelt for him most of an evening, mouth numb, as he paid off the self-pleasure he’d indulged in unbidden. Rizeth hadn’t denied him that lately—what point was there, when they were so close, always? He didn’t want to spend enough time apart for there to be a need to forbid him.
Ashenivir made a noise of complaint around the ice in his mouth. Rizeth leaned forward and kissed him, coaxing Ashenivir’s lips open with his tongue as he whispered the dispel against them. The ice melted instantaneously, a flood of cold water between their lips. Ashenivir gasped, choking slightly as he struggled to swallow. Rizeth held a palm to his throat to feel it, and the working of muscle was glorious. He pressed his tongue to Ashenivir’s and drank of his whine—the heat of Rizeth’s mouth would burn after the cold, twin sensations of overwhelm, entirely too much. Exactly as his Ra’soltha liked.
Ashenivir kissed him back, clutching at him with fumbling hands. Rizeth caught his wrists and pinned them, then dismissed the rest of the enchantments. Ashenivir cried out at the sudden rush of freezing water now drenching him.
“Master!”
“Are you quite cool enough now, xi’hum?” Rizeth asked. Ashenivir, breathing hard and shivering, let out a breathy laugh.
“I’m fine,” he said, a glint in his eyes Rizeth knew all too well. “But you are too clothed and likely far too hot, Master. Let me help.”
He dived forwards, catching Rizeth’s arms with a pair of frostbite cantrips. Rizeth inhaled sharply, then grabbed for him with a growl, ice in his own fingers.
“I think not, Ra’soltha. Come here.”
A combination of prestidigitation and the heat of the day cleaned up the bedroom in short order, and Rizeth let Ashenivir recover whilst he made lunch. They ate in comfortable silence, and for most of it Ashenivir had his foot hooked around Rizeth’s ankle beneath the table. Simple touch—the kind he’d wanted for so long, and now it was his. Theirs. He swallowed a sigh as Ashenivir got up to clean the plates away.
When they returned to Mythen Thaelas, what chance was there to hold on to this? None at all, not without somehow convincing Ashenivir to live with him, instead of going to serve his Matron. The problem was that Rizeth knew very well he could convince him—Ashenivir was far too eager to outsource difficult choices, particularly when it came to his mother. Rizeth could have all the opinions he liked—and he had plenty where Matron Zauvym was concerned—but in the end, it had to be Ashenivir’s choice. Otherwise, it was meaningless.
Finished with the lunch things, Ashenivir began tidying the rest of the table, collecting mugs and setting scattered papers and books to rights. Rizeth settled his chin in his hand, watching him flick cleaning cantrips with neat rolls of his wrists, and a tea-warm domestic ache filled his chest.
And then Ashenivir started putting the mugs back upside down.
“Other way up, Ra’soltha.”
He kicked himself the second the words were out of his mouth. Wrong voice, and entirely unneeded—the scene was long over. Ashenivir started, then ducked his head.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
Rizeth could hear the submission in his voice. His motions smoothed out as he started turning the mugs the other way, and it would be so easy to keep going, to follow his urge, and—no, you know where that leads. Exactly how fast do you want to lose him? Rizeth cleared his throat.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Leave them as they were.”
Ashenivir hesitated, one hand in the cupboard. He withdrew it slowly, and shook himself as he turned, blinking quickly. A frown creased his forehead.
“Please don’t do that,” he said, and before Rizeth could ask what, continued; “Don’t start ordering me and then stop—if I’m your Ra’soltha, then let me be that. I want to be that.”
“You do not need to be right now.”
“I always am. It’s always my duty to serve you, isn’t it?”
Rizeth had hoped he’d lost interest in this idea. Clearly not. “I told you, that is not the kind of relationship we have.”
“You told me a lot of things, and they weren’t all true,” Ashenivir said. Rizeth’s stomach dropped. “It’s not about total control at all. I’ve spent hours reading about how full-time works, the different variations there are and what they mean, and—”
“I was under the impression you were still working on extradimensional spaces,” Rizeth cut him off, an old, sick dread pooling in his gut. Out with friends, she’d say; out with friends, and it wasn’t her fault he assumed she was going somewhere she wasn’t. Never quite a lie, never quite the truth, because he couldn’t be trusted with the truth.
“I am, I’m just working on this as well because I wanted to understand, and now I do.” Ashenivir’s hand went to the back of his neck. “And I know you do too—I found my mark in one of Kelran’s books.”
“That has nothing to do with what you’re asking for.”
“It has everything to do with it! You marked me. You’re my Ehmtua and I’m your Ra’soltha; you command and I obey—I don’t understand what the problem is. We already do all the things I’ve read about, I just want more of it. I want you to be my Master all the time—in public, in private, all of it.”
“This is not up for discussion.” His voice came from far away, mined out from some hard, awful place. “I am not going to take over every aspect of your life because you read one book that made such a thing sound briefly appealing.”
“But I want—”
“You have no idea what you want!”
Shock and hurt flashed across Ashenivir’s face—expressive as always, the most open of books. The hurt was bad enough; the poor attempt at hiding it was worse. Rizeth started to stand, but Ashenivir darted away, shaking his head.
“I need to…I’m going to the Haven.” He shoved into his boots, not looking at Rizeth. “I…I’ll be back later.”
The door thudding shut behind him made Rizeth flinch. He gripped his wrists against the urge to go after him, drag him back here and stay until he understood that Rizeth would give him anything and everything but this. If I give you what you ask, you’ll hate me!
Rizeth put his head in his hands.
And it seems if I don’t, you’ll hate me anyway.
His breath came heavy and hard. Step, turn—too hard on the pivot and he was scraping his knee on stone again. Ashenivir pushed to his feet and flicked his hands up into the starting position. Left high, right low, sweep through clockwise and follow his wrist in the spin. Breath and motion, nothing else.
A faint, hot breeze brushed his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his spine, all cool comfort of the scene burned away, the warm altar beneath his feet doing little to ground him. Step, turn—you have no idea what you want—and down he went once more. He shoved his hair back with a curse, hating the sweat and the tangles and the tight ball of frustration under his ribs.
I know exactly what I want. What I don’t know is why you won’t listen to me!
He rose, forcing his movements to be smooth as a river, slow and steady. He’d brought it up badly, like an accusation. Pushed, when he already knew Rizeth was hesitant about the idea. The heat hadn’t helped; it made everything too sharp, set frustration to the fore. He just needed to breathe, and calm down, and go home and make it right. Once he’d done that—and when it was cooler, perhaps—he could try again.
Step, turn, pivot light as a pixie and his other foot came down and there was the spin, arms down almost to his ankles and back up, hands thrown high for the moon. Well, for the sun right now, but close enough.
Applause to his left. Chest heaving, he turned to see Mara darting ahead of Xalin and Zelka as the trio approached the altar. Mara leapt up onto the platform. “That was amazing! How do you spin like that and not get dizzy? I wanted to show Xalin what you taught me, but now I’m just going to look like a baby compared to you—Xalin, did you see that?”
“I saw,” Xalin said, laughing. “The time away has done you good, it seems.”
“It’s certainly been a while since we’ve seen you,” Zelka said. Her gaze lingered on his waist—he’d thrown off his shirt to dance, and realised then that, in his haste and frustration, he’d forgotten to put on his illusions, and a glittering, blue-tinged handprint sat clearly on his waist. Ashenivir covered it with his hand, as casually as he could.
“So, what have you been up to?” Xalin asked.
“Oh, just studying.”
He grabbed up his shirt, grimacing at the way it stuck to his sweaty skin, but at least Zelka stopped staring at him. He didn’t really feel like answering awkward questions about how he’d come by such marks. Mara wrapped herself around Xalin’s arm.
“Since I can’t possibly show you my terrible dancing now that Ashenivir’s shown me up, what about those cold drinks you promised me? I think Ashenivir could use some cooling off.” She gave him a look that suggested she’d also seen the marks, and knew exactly how he’d come by them. Fortunately, he was already flushed from dancing, and so a little extra heat in his face made no difference.
Zelka led the group through to the rear of the Haven’s gardens, where one of the small wooden pagodas had become an ongoing picnic. Baskets of fruit and trays of picked-at food lay scattered about, along with buckets marked with cooling runes and filled with water and the odd bottle of wine. A half-dozen priestesses, and an equal number of cats, sat or sprawled around, with others coming and going at a lazy summer pace. Ashenivir downed three cups of chilled water in quick succession, then had to lie down at the cold spike of pain in his temple.
The grass was warm beneath his back, the mingled sounds of Drow and Common and faint city life washing over him. He pressed his fingers into the earth, wishing for familiar ones to fit between them. Why didn’t Rizeth understand what he was asking for? I’m yours, just let me be yours.
“No, I haven’t seen her,” someone was saying. “I think she’s staying out in the city—she mentioned the Yawning Portal at supper the other day, she might be there?”
“That is hardly the place for a High Priestess.” Zelka sounded annoyed. Ashenivir cracked an eye open—her expression was tight, her lips pressed thin.
“It’s a good inn,” Mara said. “It gets rowdy down in the Dock Ward, sure, but it’s fun! The way she danced at your party, I can see why she’d stay there.”
“She is not here to have fun, she is here to continue the work of the Maiden’s Hands. Already she has upset Lady Alvanriel with her irreverence—frankly, it borders on blasphemy. Eilistraee is not Elian’la’s drinking partner”—Zelka’s lip curled on the words—“she is our Goddess.”
Elian’la. Ashenivir sat up, hoping his sudden nervousness didn’t show too obviously on his face. One of the other priestesses—a Maiden’s Hand herself, he thought—rolled her eyes.
“Alvanriel’s still a militant Maendirath at heart. Her brand of evangelism doesn’t work out in the real world. If someone’s meant to find the Maiden, they’ll find her; bullying and browbeating them into it goes against everything Eilistraee stands for.”
Mara huffed. She had her head in Xalin’s lap, their hands linked. “Stop arguing, she’s not even here.”
“Would that she ever was,” Zelka grumbled.
“She’s not staying here?” Ashenivir asked. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Rizeth more, but she wasn’t here and talking about her wasn’t the same as talking to her.
“She’s supposed to be,” Xalin said. “But she’s supposed to stay here whenever the Hands visit, and she never does.”
“How long has she been with them?”
Xalin chewed her lip, thinking. “Since before I joined the Haven. Half a century, I think? I know she’s been a priestess longer than that, though.”
“She came to us because she was hurting,” the argumentative Hand said. “She needed work to do, real work, not just petty shrine duties. Complain about her all you like, cooped up here in your cosmopolitan cage, but she makes a difference with us. She was the one who took us to Elturel when it came back from the Hells. She taught healing spells to anyone with a scrap of faith to turn into magic, prayed herself hoarse to fix every broken limb and cursed heart, and still found the time to dance devotions morning, noon, and night.” She stood. “With what she does out there, I’d say she’s more than earned a little irreverence when she comes here.”
No-one had a rebuttal to that, and an awkward silence filled the pagoda. Ashenivir grabbed himself an orange for something to do with his hands, and peeled it in tiny strips. Everything he learned about Elian’la seemed to contradict itself. Wild in the dance as the most devoted, and apparently avoiding the Haven in favour of some Dock Ward flop-house. Compassionate enough to throw herself head-first into a Hells-ravaged city to provide aid, and cruel enough to have broken Rizeth’s heart so completely even the mention of her name made him hurt again.
Ashenivir sucked on a slice of orange. It was none of his business. And as long as Elian’la kept up her habit of avoiding the Haven, it wouldn’t need to become his business at all.