Chapter Eight
The late-afternoon air hung heavy and humid, with not the slightest breeze to stir its weight. The inside of A Maiden’s Tears was thankfully cooler than outside, though not by much. Ashenivir tugged at his shirt, grimacing at the way it clung to his back, and made a mental note to see if an embroidered cooling charm was feasible. This surface weather was becoming intolerable.
Mara had directed him to the small tavern when he’d asked, curious as to why he was going—frowning when she learned he was meeting Catriona. She hadn’t tried to stop him, though. He still wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing.
Set in an alley so small it lacked a name up in the top corner of the North Ward, the Tears was as quiet as Catriona had said it would be. Old, dark wood fashioned the interior, brightened with glass wall-lamps and seascapes in antique gilt frames. The open taproom held a half-dozen tables, all with a good view of the bard tuning her harp on the performance platform, but most were empty. Ashenivir glanced around for Catriona, not finding her until he looked to the booths along the west wall. Most of them were curtained off, but she caught his eye from one that wasn’t and motioned him over.
“You came,” she said as he joined her. He didn’t draw the curtain—it was stifling enough as it was.
“I did.”
“I wasn’t certain you would,” she said. “I thought perhaps your Master would talk you out of it.”
Ashenivir shifted in his seat, picking at a whorl in the table. He hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t exactly told the truth, either. Going for a drink with a friend from the House, he’d said, and Rizeth hadn’t asked for more details, because he trusted him.
“Oh,” Catriona breathed. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“We’re not here to talk about him. I’ll leave if you do, I said I would.”
He hoped, then, that she’d press. Give him an excuse to walk away. Instead, she shrugged. “So you did. A drink?”
He nodded, and she ordered chilled wine for the both of them. He didn’t argue. He didn’t care. He wasn’t planning to drink anything anyway; he felt he might throw up if he did. Once the wine arrived, the glasses frosty with enchantment, Catriona sat forwards.
“Let me tell you what you want,” she said. There was none of the usual coyness in her voice—she sounded more like Kelran, or her Sir. “You want to belong to your Master—and I mean really belong to him. Service and sex aren’t enough; you want to be owned, in no uncertain terms. You want your every action to please him, and his every displeasure to be explicitly made known to you. You want your life to flourish around his, to be better because he wants you to be better, because the more power you have, the more you can give to him.”
Ashenivir’s mouth had gone dry. “How do you know all that? I never told you—”
“You didn’t have to.” Catriona took a sip of her wine. “It’s what I wanted—and what I now have. You asked me to tell you what it’s like outside of books, and I will, but I needed you to understand that I understand. I polish my Sir’s boots every morning because it pleases him, and his pleasure is my own—”
“‘It pleases me to please you,’” Ashenivir interjected, the phrase one he’d written over and over in the margins of his notes.
“Miss Eveline’s Treatise,” Catriona supplied, with the slightest smirk. “I swim three times a week because it keeps me in shape to look good on his arm, and I adore being his trophy.”
“‘...and he shall shape himself according to his Owner’s desire, that his Owner might appear most favourably to others.’”
“The Doctrine of the Perfect Slave—you are a studious thing, aren’t you?” He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers as she spoke, her voice low now. “I make myself available to him at home for his use however and whenever he likes, because although I know I can make him stop if I wish, to be pulled to his whim, to bend to his desire…” She sighed. “It is like nothing else, to know exactly how wanted you are.”
“When he looks at me,” Ashenivir whispered, “and I know it’s my Master looking—”
“—you become something more than yourself,” Catriona finished. She smiled, more sincerely than anything he’d seen from her before. “You didn’t learn this desire from books. That feeling, that knowing—that doesn’t come from words on a page. We are as alike as I first thought, you and I. You like me little, but we share a bond in this.”
“You imply things about my Master I don’t like,” Ashenivir said. “And you dance around what you intend to tell me until I do as you please. For someone who likes to give up her power, you certainly enjoy wielding it over others.”
She didn’t try to deny it, which oddly lessened his bitterness towards her. She knew what she was—who she was—and lived fully in her skin.
A barmaid drifted over with a plate of bread, redolent with garlic and melted all over with a dulled rainbow of cheeses. On the house, apparently. He and Catriona pulled at the pieces in silence for a few tense minutes before he found the nerve to speak.
“Alright,” he said. “You’ve proved you know what I want. Now tell me what you promised to. Tell me what it’s like.”
“Satisfying,” Catriona said. “Fulfilling. Arousing, challenging, full of desire and dedication. Out in public, upholding protocol is a secret puzzle for me to solve; in private, it is a matter of pride to keep to my Sir’s instructions. I suspect you understand the feeling.”
He did. Intimately. He almost wanted to cry, throat tight with frustration.
“I know you don’t wish me to speak of Rizeth,” Catriona said quietly. “But surely you must have asked him about all this. When I knew him, he was always very forthright—I cannot imagine he refused to answer you.”
“He said no.” Ashenivir picked at the torn remains of the bread. “And I thought it was because I didn’t understand, so I studied, but he still acts like I don’t know what I want.” The reprimand still stung. His jaw tightened. “And we almost are the way I want, or at least we were. Ever since we started a relationship, not just an arrangement for playing, he’s been pulling away. It’s like he doesn’t want me to be his Ra’soltha outside the bedroom anymore even though I have been for years, and I hate it!”
He grabbed his wineglass and threw back half of it. Too cold and too sweet; it froze one side of his head painfully. He grimaced and downed the rest of it. He hated feeling like this. Why couldn’t Rizeth have just listened to him instead of shutting him down so that he’d had to come out here and talk to Catriona when he’d promised he wouldn’t.
You didn’t promise, a weaselly little voice whispered. He just said he didn’t want you to have anything to do with her, and you said you understood.
Which was a promise. In their dynamic, whatever that even was now, the call and response of understanding was a promise, no matter the words it used. It was a promise, and he’d broken it. Worse, Catriona hadn’t even given him anything he could use—all he’d gotten was confirmation that he wanted what he wanted, and that what he wanted was just out of reach because Rizeth wouldn’t listen. He could go home and say the same things he’d said before with as much fresh conviction as he liked; it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.
He looked up, intending to tell Catriona thanks, but he was leaving, only to find her eyeing him curiously.
“What?” He tried not to sound too belligerent. It was himself he was upset with, not her.
“Nothing,” she said, toying with the stem of her wineglass. “Only that it’s interesting to hear he won’t indulge you in this.”
“Why?”
“Oh, that’s not for me to say. I wasn’t involved.” Catriona sat straighter, lifting a hand to someone behind him. “You could ask her yourself, though.”
The wine turned sour in Ashenivir’s gut. He turned in his seat, and dread locked him in place.
Elian’la had just stepped into the tavern.
With his last meeting of the day cancelled, Rizeth decided to take advantage of the spare time to pay a visit to the Lightfist residence. It was late in the afternoon, and hot enough to satisfy an Archdevil, but Emmyr was as cheery as ever, and all too pleased to see him.
“Master Velkon’yss! What are you after this time, my friend?”
“Am I correct in thinking you produced the armbinds for Lord Stillgleam?”
“You are—I’ve got some ready-made, if you’re wanting a set.”
They were nice enough, in light-brown leather with bronze fastenings. Rizeth ran his fingers over the straps, and couldn’t picture them around Ashenivir’s arms at all. In their time together he’d bought so many toys, and he didn’t want another just to give Ashenivir what he wanted, to see the look on his face when he received it; he wanted something for them.
So he asked for black leather, silver accents, and his own initials, and rubbed at the cuffs on his wrists as he left, wondering at how just placing an order made him want to smile like a fool.
It wasn’t that much to wonder at. It was only love, after all, wrapped around his heart and imbuing it with a quiet calm he hadn’t felt in far, far too long.
He thought about going home, then changed his mind and headed for the House instead. Ashenivir was going for drinks with his friends later, and most likely he’d meet them there beforehand, especially in this heat. It was early yet, they might still be there, and while Rizeth wasn’t what anyone would call a very social person, today he felt capable of joining them.
Voluntarily going for drinks—Lyzira would have a great laugh at his expense when she heard about it. He found he didn’t much care. He would endure the social discomfort and the hot tavern and the overpriced alcohol if it meant spending more time with Ashenivir. Words still failed him, but he could show with his presence how much their relationship meant to him, how deeply and dearly he wanted to be a part of Ashenivir’s life.
Even if that meant finding out what ‘fun drinks’ were.
He found Mara and River on the back porch, camped out around a map of the city and a spread of what appeared to be various business almanacks. River had a stack of scrawled-on papers next to him, more crossings-out than notes, and a look of great consternation on his face.
“Might either of you know where my Ra’soltha is?” Rizeth asked.
River huffed. “Not helping me figure out where the Hells I’m getting married, that’s where.” He flipped a page in one of the almanacks, marked an X on the map up in the Sea Ward, then surrounded it with coinage notations. Mara looked up at Rizeth, brows drawing together.
“He said he told you,” she said. “He’s meeting Catriona at the Tears.”
Ice ran down Rizeth’s spine. “I see,” he said flatly. “I shall make my way there, then.”
“Tell him to get his ass over here!” River called after him as he strode back through the ballroom. Rizeth made no reply. He tried to hold on to the calm, pleasant feelings of earlier, even as decades-old anxiety screamed at him.
He lied to me.
No, he’d said drinks with a friend. Not friends, a friend, and he’d never specified which one, so no, it wasn’t a lie, but it was skirting the edges of the truth in a way that soured Rizeth’s stomach.
Distant thunder rumbled overhead as he stepped out into the heavy air. His skin prickled in the close heat. Damn Catriona Hanali and her petulant grudge! What nonsense was she filling Ashenivir’s head with? She’d talk him into wanting something he didn’t understand, twist his idle fantasies into some false desire Rizeth would have to refuse, lest their entire relationship come crashing down—and in such refusal quite possibly bring it all to ruin anyway. And along the way she’d no doubt spin him a pack of half-truths about Elian’la, paint Rizeth in full glorious colour as the monster she’d decided he was from the moment they’d met.
He tapped his thumb rapidly against his fingertips, back and forth and back and forth as he hurried through the streets. He wasn’t going to spiral. He wasn’t going to cause a scene. He was better than that; had worked damn hard to be better than that. He was going to go over there, and Ashenivir was going to come home with him, and they were going to talk and Rizeth was going to listen and they were going to resolve this.
Another roll of thunder split the air, closer now and louder. Rizeth quickened his pace. With any luck, he’d make it there before Catriona did any more damage than she already had.
“You could’ve chosen somewhere a little livelier, Cat.”
Elian’la dropped into the chair beside Catriona, propping her feet on the empty seat at Ashenivir’s side. She had her circlet on—askew, on the verge of sliding all the way off—but otherwise bore no sign of her rank. Her dark vest, strong arms, and worn boots made her look more adventurer than priestess, not to mention the fact she appeared to have a dagger strapped to her belt.
“I like the atmosphere here,” Catriona said. Elian’la rolled her eyes.
“You would. Next time you’re coming to me at the Yawning Portal. After that troll last night, Durnan owes me a pint or three.” She flapped a hand at her face. “Maiden’s tits, it’s hotter than Asmodeus’ taint today. You sharing that wine?”
She took Catriona’s glass without waiting for an answer, drained most of it, then wiped her mouth with a sigh of relief. Ashenivir sat frozen. He should go. Get up and leave, right this second—meeting Catriona was one thing, but he absolutely should not be anywhere near Elian’la. He’d just about convinced his legs to move when Catriona spoke up.
“Elian’la, this is Ashenivir. I think you’ve met.”
“We have!” Elian’la grinned. “Good to see you again, greenhorn. Surprised I haven’t bumped into you at the Haven—then again, I don’t exactly spend much time there.” She took another swig of Catriona’s wine. “Tell you the truth, I find it kind of boring.”
“But you’re the High Priestess of the Maiden’s Hands,” Ashenivir said, startled into the words.
“Yes, but when I’m in Waterdeep, I’m here to have fun.” She winked. “So, how did you and the minx meet? I could make assumptions”—her eyes flicked to his collar—“but people keep telling me that’s rude.”
“You’d be correct this time,” Catriona said. “We met at the House.”
“He’s playing with Kelran?”
“Oh, no, he came already attached.” Catriona plucked her glass back and locked eyes with Ashenivir as she raised it to her lips. “To Rizeth Velkon’yss.”
Elian’la’s smile turned brittle. “Right. Neat. Very neat! Thanks, Cat, you’re a gem, truly you are.” She shoved to her feet. “I need a real drink.”
She strode off towards the bar, graceful even in clear irritation. Ashenivir rounded on Catriona, trying to keep his anger to a whisper.
“Why did you invite her? Why are you toying with me like this? What are you trying to do?” He started up. “I need to go.”
Catriona caught his wrist. Her fingers were delicate, but her strength was elven iron. “One drink,” she said. “You can be polite, can’t you? The two of you are practically colleagues! It would be a shame not to get to know one another, wouldn’t it? Unless of course your Master’s already told you everything you need to know about her.”
No-one I want you having anything to do with. He glanced at Elian’la, leaning on the bar. Everything he knew about her came second-hand, and none of it from Rizeth. Why had things ended between them? What had she done?
What had Rizeth done?
“Fine.” He sat. “One drink.”
Catriona didn’t need, he thought, to look so smug at his staying. The bard finally finished her tuning, and soft harp music filled the tavern. The turn toward evening had brought in a steady flow of patrons, and the central tables were filling out, providing a comfortable murmur of background chatter. After a few minutes, Elian’la returned with a foaming tankard. She thunked back into her chair, took a swig, and narrowed her eyes at Ashenivir.
“So,” she said. “How long?”
“Excuse me?”
“How long have you been with him?”
“I…that’s a complicated question.”
“I thought it might be.” She drummed her fingers on the table; hard, deliberate taps. “Well, what do you want to know? That’s why you’re here, right? To get the dirt on the mysterious bitch who ruined his life?”
“That’s…no, I…I came to talk to Catriona about something else.”
“He’s interested in full-time service,” Catriona said mildly. “Apparently, his Master is less than enthused with the idea.”
Ashenivir resisted the urge to kick her under the table. Elian’la snorted into her drink. “Now that I don’t believe. You sure he hasn’t been begging you for it?”
“No,” Ashenivir said, fidgeting with his wineglass, wishing it wasn’t empty. “Every time I ask, he shuts me down. He thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“It is Rizeth Velkon’yss you’re playing with, yes? You didn’t mix him up with some other Menzoberranyr bastard who likes glowering, sulking, and not listening to a word you say?” She took a large swallow, as if she had something to prove, and eyed him more closely. “You’re from the Arcanum, right?”
She had him as off-balance as when they’d danced, moving too fast to keep up. “I…yes, why?”
“I knew it.” She drained her tankard and slammed it down. “Not a lot of other places to make wizards in Mythen Thaelas, I suppose.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That he should know better than to go around fucking his students.”
Ashenivir glared at her. “One, I graduated last year, and two, he never interfered with my studies. He’s only ever wanted the best for me, so don’t you dare imply he—”
“Damn, you’re in deep!” She barked a laugh, leaning forwards. “You seem sweet, Ashenivir, so take this as friendly advice: get out while you can. He’s not worth it. You think he is now, probably because you don’t know any better—you’re what, a hundred? Hundred-and-fifty?—but take it from someone who spent almost half a century there—he is not worth it.”
“I’m old enough to know jealousy when I see it,” he shot back. “You’re not with him anymore, you don’t get to sit there and tell me I can’t be.”
“Jealous! Ha! I left him, greenhorn, he tell you that? No, because that would mean admitting he made a mistake, and Rizeth Velkon’yss doesn’t make mistakes.”
“If you were like this the whole time you were together, I’m glad you left. He’s clearly better off without you.”
“Clearly.” She went for another drink, found her tankard empty, and scowled. “He’s got you to defend him now. And to shine his shoes and wash his clothes and suck his—”
“Volume, darling.” Catriona put a hand on Elian’la’s arm. She shook it off.
“I’m getting another drink.”
She stomped away across the taproom. Ashenivir realised his nails were digging into his palms, and forced his hands to uncurl. How dare she? Her and Catriona both, trying to scare him off, make out there was something wrong with Rizeth, and for what? Some petty payback for a relationship gone wrong?
Oh, he wasn’t leaving. Yes, he was young, but he wasn’t some spineless little student, all ink and insecurity. She might be a High Priestess, but he was a Master of the Mythen Thaelas Arcanum, and he was Rizeth’s Ra’soltha—Rizeth’s partner.
If Elian’la wanted a fight, he’d damn well give her one.
Thunderclouds darkened the sky, bringing an early evening to the city. The storm hadn’t yet broken by the time Rizeth arrived at A Maiden’s Tears, but it was close. The air strained with it, a discomforting imminence.
The tavern was quietly busy, half-full, with a tiefling plucking a saccharine tune off to the side and the bar clustered with liveried servants, off-duty for the evening. Rizeth paused just inside the door, searching the room. The west wall was lined with booths, some with curtains drawn, but there, in one of the few whose occupants were left unhidden, sat with his back to the entrance, was Ashenivir. Across from him was the familiar smug face of Catriona Hanali, whose eyes lit up with predatory glee as Rizeth approached.
“There you are,” she drawled. “I was wondering when you’d show your face.”
Ashenivir twisted sharply in his seat, wide-eyed with guilt and shock. “Master, I…you…she…” he stammered, then shot a glare at Catriona. “Did you invite him too? Why are you doing this?”
“I didn’t need to,” Catriona said, her smirk as infuriating as ever. “As soon as he found out you were with me, he couldn’t help but run over here to shut me up. He can’t bear to have his partner outside of his control.”
Rizeth ignored her, looking only at Ashenivir. He opened his mouth to ask him to come home, please just come home, when from behind him came a voice he hadn’t heard outside of memory in almost seventy years.
“Rizeth. Why am I not surprised?”
Ale in one hand, the other on her cocked hip, Elian’la looked just as he remembered. The confident set of her shoulders, the challenging gleam in her lilac eyes—the lift of her chin inviting all the world to take her on, because she knew she’d win. She wore her hair longer, the loosely tangled curls reaching almost to her waist, and though the circlet of a High Priestess sat crooked atop them was new, the angle was all Elian’la.
He couldn’t bring himself to say her name.
“High Priestess.”
“Wizard.” She thunked her drink down. “Doing well, are you?”
“Quite. Yourself?”
“Spectacular. Finally gracing the surface with your presence again, I see.”
“Yes.”
“How’s Mythen Thaelas?”
“Intact.”
“T’sonri still the Archmage?”
“For now.”
She dropped into the seat beside Catriona and kicked her feet up onto the table. Even angry, she moved like a dancer, grace and power in every inch of her, and he’d never forgotten how beautiful she was, but the years had dulled the memory of what kind of beauty she possessed. She was no fine painting, no sweet song—Elian’la was a tempest, a summer storm, the majesty of a hurricane; bright like lightning, fierce as a wildfire, every part of her fully alive in a way he’d always envied, and once upon a time, she’d been his. Once upon a time, he’d been hers.
“And Ashenivir I’ve already met,” she said, motioning to him. He was staring at the table, digging his nails into opposite knuckles. “He’s a heck of a dancer, if you’ve bothered to take the time to watch. Or do you still not care about anything that happens outside a playroom?”
Beautiful as ever and combative as ever—he wasn’t going to rise to it. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of exposing Ashenivir to the old him, the person he’d become towards the end. That maybe he still was, beneath all his effort otherwise, because he wanted to snap at her, remind her of all the ways she’d been just as bad; to drag Ashenivir home as he’d once dragged her, and—
Ashenivir scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over. “It’s late,” he said. “We should go.”
He reached for Rizeth’s hand and, without thinking, Rizeth snatched his arm away. He spun on his heel, away from the flash of hurt on Ashenivir’s face—the triumph on Catriona’s, the flat anger on Elian’la’s—and strode across the taproom without a backward glance. He couldn’t speak, didn’t trust himself to right now. His chest burned with something hot and awful; some toxic, hideous thing that wanted to take the hate and the heartache and the old, resurfaced pain and turn it on whoever was closest.
Rizeth clenched his teeth. Decades-old arguments squabbled in the back of his mind, stinging needles of memory punctuated by slamming doors and raised voices. He fought them down, pushed them all behind an iron wall. Feel nothing. Say nothing, nothing at all until he had himself under control.
The sky had gone black when they stepped outside. The air was nigh unbreathable, pressure squeezing his temples. The storm was right on top of them. It wouldn’t be long before it broke.
Rizeth just hoped they’d be inside when it did.
They waited for a hire-coach in silence. Thunder boomed overhead as one rolled up, and Ashenivir flinched, squeezing his eyes shut against the bright flash of lightning that followed, hurrying into the coach away from it. Rizeth sat stiffly at the far end of the bench, arms folded, glaring out of the small window set in the door. Ashenivir knotted his fingers in his lap and stared at his knees. He didn’t speak until they were halfway home.
“I didn’t go there to meet her.”
Rizeth said nothing.
“I didn’t even want to talk to her, she just showed up. And I was going to leave, but she was so awful about you, like it was a mistake for me to be with you, and…and I couldn’t let her talk about you like that! Not when it’s not true!”
Still Rizeth said nothing. Didn’t even look at him, just sat there like a statue, eyes fixed on the grey streets rolling past.
“I only went in the first place to talk to Catriona about…you know what about. What choice did I have—books weren’t enough for you, what I wanted wasn’t enough for you, so I went to get the reality, the one you said I didn’t understand, but you know what I really don’t understand?” His voice shook, too loud in the close confines of the coach. “The fact that you don’t want to be my Master all the time, but you’re perfectly happy to tell me who I can and can’t talk to!”
Another roll of thunder split the sky, followed by a near-blinding flash of lightning. It was so hard to breathe, why was it so hard to breathe? “I know it was stupid to go, and I shouldn’t have stayed to argue with Elian’la, but you wouldn’t listen to me and I just wanted to know what to say to make you—”
“Ashenivir, will you please shut up!”
Ashenivir’s heart cracked in two. He blinked rapidly, trying and failing to keep back the tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but either Rizeth didn’t hear him, or was simply ignoring him.
The rest of the journey passed in dead silence. The skies opened up as they arrived at the apartment, and Ashenivir stood there and let himself be drenched while Rizeth paid the fare. One boundary. Rizeth had set one boundary, and would it have been so hard not to go tearing across it as if it didn’t exist? A vicious wind snatched at his hair, ripping apart his braid. He couldn’t tell if he was still crying or not—his face had gone numb.
Inside, the noise of the storm lessened, dimmed to a dull roar. He paused to unlace his boots, glancing up when the balcony door thudded open.
“But it’s still raining,” he called, stupidly. Rizeth didn’t turn, just threw up a rainshield with a sharp flick of his wrist. Ashenivir hugged his elbows, wishing Rizeth would shout at him, scream at him; say something, anything. Anything other than this awful silence.
Outstanding work, Ashenivir. You had this for all of five minutes before you ruined it.
He fled to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Tomorrow. They could talk about it tomorrow. He could apologise, make up for how stupid he’d been. Whatever Rizeth wanted, whatever he needed, he’d do it. He’d never go near Catriona again, never leave the apartment until Elian’la left the city, left the Sword Coast—
He threw himself to the bed with a sob. Tears broke from him in waves as he curled into a ball, breath hitching painfully. Thunder boomed, the window rattling with the force of it, and he whimpered, unable to even try to control the fear.
Please come to bed, please come to bed. The thought pounded over and over against the dull confines of his head. Please, I’m sorry, please just come to bed.
At some point he cried himself all the way to reverie, and not once through the long, uneasy night did Rizeth answer his silent pleas.