A Piece of Iron and a Flame

He shifted, wincing as the tiny pebbles dug into his knees. The only time he was reprimanded was when he made flippant comments, for making light of the concepts instead of engaging with them. In those instances, he was taken over his Master’s knee and punished.

Ashenivir sometimes made flippant comments on purpose. So far, Rizeth had never called him on it.

Today, though, he was not going to make any such remark. He was in enough trouble already, as the tray of white pebbles he was currently kneeling in made perfectly clear. In their last scene he had been so far gone he’d forgotten his honorifics towards the end, and this was the consequence. The memory of that scene still conjured a pleasant shiver—the year had closed out rather electrically for Ashenivir Zauvym, and a little discomfort now was a small price to pay for that. Even if he would be doing it for the next month’s worth of study sessions.

That, and his Master’s summons had meant he hadn’t needed to lie this year when he informed his mother he’d be too tied up at the Arcanum to attend the celebrations she wanted to hold at the Zauvym estate. Three months had not been enough time to clear his head after what had happened with Koros.

Rizeth snapped his book closed. Ashenivir straightened and fixed his posture where it had slackened. The hand on his neck flexed, then lifted, palming the back of his head to tilt it up.

“That is enough for today, Ra’soltha,” Master Velkon’yss said. “I trust you are learning your lesson well?”

“Yes, Master.” 

“Good. Rise.”

Ashenivir got to his feet with a wince, pebbles falling from his knees to click against the others in the tray. He brushed away those that remained, ran his fingers over the small divots they left in his skin. They wouldn’t stay long. The only mark of their arrangement that he got to keep was his collar—anything else was cleaned up and healed away, so that he left his Master’s quarters as pristine as he entered. Much as he might have liked to, he couldn’t exactly walk around the Arcanum with visible rope marks on his wrists.

“You are entering your seventh year of study, correct?” Rizeth handed him a healing salve and Ashenivir dutifully worked it into his knees, soothing away the ache and the minor damage.

“I am, Master.”

“It often seems you have been here much longer.” Rizeth seated himself at his desk, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms as he watched Ashenivir dress. “It is remarkable how quickly you have progressed.”

“I cannot afford to waste time,” Ashenivir said. He fastened his shirt, leaving the collar out for the time being—he could tuck it away when he left, but for now he liked Rizeth to see it on him. “Mastery does not come by waiting for it. I never could understand how others don’t see it that way.”

“On that we can agree,” Master Velkon’yss said, with a wry smile. “Though if you keep on this way, I suspect you shall be graduating before long.”

The thought should have excited him, had used to excite him. Now he found it made him faintly nauseous. His mother was impatient for him to complete his studies, so that he could take Dirius’ place as wizard of House Zauvym, leaving his brother free to marry. He had always known that was his future, ever since he had entered the Arcanum. He knew he couldn’t stay here forever.

“It will be some time before I achieve enough skill to warrant that achievement.” He concentrated on re-braiding his hair to avoid looking at Master Velkon’yss.

“Do not downplay your skills, it is most aggravating,” Rizeth said. “At any rate, I mention it only because I have a reward for you.”

Now Ashenivir did look at him. “Reward?”

“You have studied hard for seven years, do you not think you have earned one?”

“If you believe I have, Master, then I have. May I know what it is?”

“You may not,” Rizeth said, and Ashenivir was not at all surprised. “I suspect you will enjoy it, though it is somewhat different to what we have done so far.”

Ashenivir began to buzz with excitement.

“When, Master?”

“The end of this month.” Rizeth rose and took him by the chin, tilting his head back. “Plenty of time for you to contemplate what your Master might inflict upon you.”

Ashenivir gazed up at him, spellbound by the promise in his ruby eyes.

“Yes, Master.”

Rizeth’s smile was a small, half-crook of his mouth, a subtle twitch that most took for irony. Ashenivir knew better—his Master was enjoying teasing him. Rizeth ran his thumb across Ashenivir’s lip, then dropped his hand to the collar still out over his shirt. He tugged it, once.

“I want to feel you touch yourself tonight, Ra’soltha.”

“May I finish?”

A pause, full of nothing but the sound of his own held breath.

“You may.”

Ashenivir released the breath in a rush, and Rizeth gave an amused hum.

“I shall have to deny you again soon. I have been too indulgent of late—as have you.”

Since Ashenivir never took off the collar, Master Velkon’yss always knew when he pleasured himself, and he was not exactly restrained in that regard. His face heated. Rizeth tugged his collar again, then stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Go to your studies. I will send for you when next you are required.”

Ashenivir bowed, tucked his collar inside his shirt, and left. His mind whirled all the way back up through the Arcanum—just what did his Master have planned for him?

---

“Thinking of branching out into artificing, are you? Or have you felt a sudden call to the bardic arts?”

Rizeth ignored her, difficult as that was to do with her perched on the edge of his desk. His classroom had been quite peacefully and wonderfully empty until she had arrived, and there was never any getting rid of her. Lyzira peered over at his notes, squinting as she tried to decipher his handwriting upside down. A slim red wand toppled free of its place in her messy bun and clattered onto the desk.

“You theorists,” she sniffed, giving up. She plucked up the wand and shoved it back into her hair alongside, Rizeth noted, two other wands and a pencil. “Always playing cat’s cradle with the Weave. You’ll bring the whole thing down on our heads one of these days.”

“Did you have a purpose in accosting me, Master Xiltael, or were you simply starved for other entertainment?” 

“Well, I was going to invite you to dinner. There’s a new restaurant opening in Draix’ress tonight—a few of us thought we’d investigate it.”

“I can eat perfectly well here.”

“That’s not the point of restaurants, Rizeth, and you know it.” Lyzira blew out a sigh. “Goddess, you do like to make it difficult to be your friend sometimes.”

Rizeth marked his place and closed the book, flicking a cantrip over his notes to seal the ink. The spell was stored well enough in his mind now, but the notes would serve to refresh it if it faded. Things that were not wizardry tended to flicker out a lot faster and it would not do to lose a vital detail partway through the casting.

“I appreciate the offer, but I am otherwise engaged this evening. I am certain you can relate the adventures your palate goes on to me tomorrow.”

“Otherwise engaged?” Her voice took on a lighter lilt, and Rizeth immediately regretted saying anything. “With more than just a new spell, I hope? Is there a lucky lady at last?”

“Your ability to leap to conclusions never fails to impress, Lyzira.”

“Lucky gentleman?” He raised an eyebrow. “Lucky drow, at least? Or, oh! A caravan arrived from the surface yesterday—long-distance human lover come to visit?”

“There are no lovers, human or otherwise, and I would appreciate a little less speculation about my personal life.” Rizeth slid the notes into his book and tucked it under his arm. Lyzira pulled a face and hopped off the desk to trail out of the classroom after him, her stride lazy but long enough to easily keep pace with him.

“You need to get out more. No lovers whatsoever, and you hide in the outer reaches of the basement of this place all the damn time. It’s not good for you.”

“I need little in the way of company.”

“Yes, yes, so you always say.”

They reached the south stairwell, and Rizeth touched his Arcanum insignia as he stepped into the central levitation well. Lyzira leaned out over the edge to call down after him. “I’m taking you with us next time. Mark my words, Rizeth Velkon’yss, I will get you a social life—and a lover!”

Rizeth descended away from her, deciding not to dignify such a declaration with a response. Thankfully, she didn’t follow.

He had a visit from his apprentice to prepare for, after all.

---

His Master bound him to the bed, wrist and ankle, exposed and vulnerable beneath his cool, crimson gaze. Ashenivir strained against the rope, testing it. It felt tighter than usual.

“For this,” Master Velkon’yss said, “you must not move. To do so invites more danger than will already be present. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You rarely ask me to stop during a scene,” Rizeth continued. “I hope this is not from some misguided attempt at impressing me.”

“I say no when I need to, Master.”

The corner of Rizeth’s mouth twitched. “But you do not like to.”

“No, Master.”

A small candle flickered daintily in a metal holder on the dresser—Rizeth brought it over to the bed and held the flame a few inches from Ashenivir’s arm. Heat bloomed in that one small spot, not unpleasant, not until Rizeth moved it closer, until the flame almost touched him. Ashenivir flinched away, unable to get far thanks to the rope.

Rizeth followed his movement with the candle, so near it would burn in a moment, the flame would surely touch him at any second, it would—

“Stop!” he cried out, and Rizeth at once drew the candle away, blowing it out.

“Good, Ra’soltha. I needed to know. You will say no tonight, if you need to.”

Ashenivir relaxed back into his ropes.

“Yes, Master.”

Just what was he planning to do? Excitement vibrated in his stomach as Master Velkon’yss re-lit the candle, glancing as he did so at a book sitting by it, whose spine Ashenivir could not make out. He craned his neck, trying to see. Nerves and curiosity warred as his Master slid a glove of dark leather onto his hand, murmuring a faint activation word.

Rizeth took up a thin rod of metal, about half as long as his forearm. He passed it through the flame in a very particular motion, reciting a spell Ashenivir did not recognise. Though the candle was small, the metal came away glowing cherry-hot, as if it had been plunged into the heart of a blazing forge and now Ashenivir understood the magic of the glove—protection against that magically conjured heat.

He knew his Master would have crafted the abjuration himself and hoped that perhaps after the scene he would be permitted to examine it. He liked to see the kinds of delicate adjustments Rizeth could make to even innocuous spells.

Master Velkon’yss approached him now, the rod in his hand pulsing with heat. All thoughts of study left Ashenivir’s mind.

“Are you ready?” The rod hissed faintly in Rizeth’s hand. Ashenivir took a steadying breath, and nodded.

Rizeth brought the rod towards his arm, stopping mere inches above his skin. Even there the heat radiated down, like putting his hand too close to a fire. His Master drew the rod along his arm at that height, never wavering, trailing heat all the way up to his wrist, just below where the rope bound him. Ashenivir watched it go, utterly fixated by the red-hot glow.

By the time Rizeth returned the rod to his shoulder, the glow was already fading. As the heat dissipated along with the spell, he pressed the cooling metal to Ashenivir’s arm. Ashenivir cried out, more from the shock than real pain, for it was not that hot at all. He expected Rizeth to leap away, yank the rod back at his yell—his Master did not. He held the rod to Ashenivir’s skin until all heat was entirely gone and it was no more than cool metal against his arm.

When he withdrew the rod, Ashenivir’s skin still tingled, prickling with heat. His Master spoke a cantrip, then ran a cold palm along Ashenivir’s arm, soothing everything in a rush—that made him cry out too, at the sudden change in sensation.

He relaxed in his bonds with a sigh, as Rizeth returned to the candle and recast the spell. Flexing his hands in the rope, he understood the tighter binding now. He was far safer unable to move; if he were freer, he might accidentally jerk up into the rod and burn himself. A wicked, dangerous part of him wanted to try to do it anyway. It would hurt, he knew that, would burn very terribly, and it would certainly mark him. Which was, of course, what he wanted. His Master might not have anything to remove such a brand.

Only…he would. His Master had planned an evening of playing with fire, there was no chance at all that he had not taken every necessary precaution. Still, the thought of it conjured a thrill of desire. His Master’s mark, burned into him, a part of him.

Rizeth lowered the freshly heated rod back to his skin and Ashenivir was once more hypnotised by the bright glow of the metal, his breath coming in a shaky pant as the rod traced patterns over his chest. Those very breaths, in all their trembling, brought his flesh nearer to the heat and he knew it would be darkening, as flesh did when fire came too close.

All his body was on a knife edge, all his awareness focused on the glowing rod and the lines of heat it drew over his skin. As Rizeth cast the spell a third time and began tracing along his legs, Ashenivir felt almost as though he had been bound again—a rope of fire, wrapping him in glowing knots of brilliant heat. Each fresh pass was a sensual sting of not-pain and tension over too-sensitive skin, an intense ache that sent him floating. Once the rod came so close he was sure it brushed against his skin and he started to scream—

It pulled away, replaced with a cold palm in an entirely different brand of intensity. Ashenivir finished the scream, delighted and overwhelmed, barely catching his breath. Goddess, how beautiful this was! His Master always took him somewhere he hadn’t even dreamt of going, took him higher than he had ever thought possible.

The rod moved on, over his heart, his ribs; then, as it began to cool, it was pressed firmly to his side. It was hotter this time, or so it seemed, and Ashenivir swore he heard sizzling. He screamed again, even as he realised he heard no such thing, that there was no burn, he was not harmed—but he had to scream. There was nowhere else for the pressure inside him to go.

Master Velkon’yss removed the rod, ran his cooled palm once more over Ashenivir’s skin. Ashenivir whimpered, going limp against the bed. His mind was scrambled, dizzy with the comedown as his cry faded away, somehow exhausted despite having barely moved at all.

“Thank you, Master,” he sighed as Rizeth passed the rod through the candle yet again. He watched the red glow come nearer, thoroughly hypnotised. “Oh, thank you.”

---

“I thought you would enjoy this,” Rizeth said, low, pleased at the rapture on Ashenivir’s face. The spell waned again, and when it was almost gone he pressed the rod against Ashenivir’s inner thigh. He screamed out, and a sweeter sound Rizeth had yet to hear. He drew the rod away, and soothed the heated skin with his magically cooled palm, trailing his hand down to caress Ashenivir’s knee for a moment before pulling away.

Why in the world would he ever have chosen going out to dinner over this? What possible meal could hope to compare to the feast that was the look on Ashenivir’s face as Rizeth bound him in lines of bright heat, each pass an inch from burning him, branding him? An evening of inane small talk and mediocre appetisers was absolutely nothing in comparison to this. No wine could ever be as heady as the power Ashenivir gave to him here.

Lyzira was wrong. He did not need a lover—he had a Ra’soltha.

He left Ashenivir to breathe a moment, leaving the cooled rod by the flickering candle and taking up instead the folded cloth that lay nearby.

“Are you warmed up now, Ra’soltha?” he asked. Ashenivir’s reply was hazy—not quite rope-hazy, but getting there. It was still an affirmative. “Very good. Lift your head.”

Ashenivir complied, and Rizeth neatly tied the blindfold across his eyes. The catch of breath as he fastened it was beautiful, that sweet little hitch of nerves and anticipation. He trailed his fingers down Ashenivir’s neck, over his racing pulse.

“What can you see?”

“Nothing, Master.”

“Good. Now, apprentice; I warned you once, but I will do so again—do not move.”

“Yes, Master.”

Rizeth took up the rod again and passed it through the flame. Casting spells not traditionally taught in wizardry was not impossible, such magic was not wholly inaccessible—it simply required thinking around the Weave in a different way. What it was, however, was draining. Drawing upon spells not designed for the shape of his magic weighed heavily on his mind, but he thought he had one or two more left in him.

The rod burned cherry-red in his hand, and he brought it once more to play over Ashenivir’s skin.

---

Glorious heat, winding back and forth across his chest. Watching the rod had wound his anticipation high enough—not seeing it strung him so tight he thought he might snap. Ashenivir was light-headed from keeping his breath so short, for he scarcely dared to let his chest move too much in case his Master was closer than he knew, close enough to burn.

The rod withdrew and Ashenivir was left there, blind, trembling in his bonds and picturing patterns of heat-darkened skin criss-crossing his body. Did they look good, he wondered? Did they please his Master?

He sensed more than heard Rizeth’s return, and stilled himself. The rod swept up his arm, stopping just shy of the rope at his wrist before the heat ran back down and over to his collarbone. The links in his collar heated as it passed, and Ashenivir winced at the bright points of pain they became.

The rod moved on but the collar did not cool. The enchanted metal had taken on the magical heat and the chain burned against his skin. Ashenivir’s hands clenched in the rope. He had thought he’d wanted to be burned and branded, but reality was far less pleasant than idle fancy. Master Velkon’yss was moving the rod still, down over his chest—that heat was now secondary to the collar burning into his neck. Ashenivir shifted, flexed his wrists, bit his lip against the pain.

You will say no tonight, if you need to.

“Stop!” he cried out. “Master, stop!”

For a heartbeat, he was certain Master Velkon’yss would not. For a heartbeat he was back on his knees, unable to speak, and Koros wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t going to let Ashenivir ask him to stop—

The heat against his stomach vanished. Then came the sound of metal slicing rope, and his arms were free and he was tearing the collar from his neck and flinging it away. The blindfold was torn from his eyes, and Ashenivir blinked, the low violet light of the sconces too bright after such pitch darkness. He looked up at Master Velkon’yss and his breath caught. Rizeth looked furious.

“I…I’m sorry, Master, my collar, it—”

“I should have paid closer attention,” Rizeth snapped, and as he slashed through the ropes on Ashenivir’s ankles, Ashenivir realised his Master was not angry at him—he was angry at himself.

With his legs free, Ashenivir sat up. He tentatively touched his neck and winced. Master Velkon’yss moved his fingers aside and set his own frost-cooled hand to the burn. Feeling slightly guilty for how much he enjoyed the feel of his Master’s hand at his throat, given the circumstances, Ashenivir glanced to the floor where the silver chain had fallen.

“I apologise, apprentice,” Master Velkon’yss said. He was still frowning as he lifted his hand, examining Ashenivir’s neck. “I will fix this, before you leave.”

“You don’t have to.” The words were out before he could stop them.

“I do not think you want to be explaining to half the Arcanum why you have chain-patterned burns around your neck.” Rizeth retrieved a small salve from the dresser, dull ochre and scentless.

“Illusion would hide it just as well as healing can remove it,” Ashenivir muttered under his breath, as Rizeth worked the salve into his skin. The clerics knew their art well—it soothed his skin in moments, and he knew the marks were fading almost as soon as his Master’s fingers passed over them.

“Why would you want to keep a mark like that?” Rizeth’s voice was clipped.

“Because you gave it to me.”

Silence. Master Velkon’yss finished with the salve and went over to pick up the collar—it was cool now, and he handled it easily in his bare hands, checking it over. Apparently satisfied that it was undamaged, he handed it to Ashenivir, who ran the links through his fingers. At least he would get to keep this, even if it was always hidden beneath his clothes. At least he could feel it around his neck, this reminder of who he belonged to.

“Master,” he started, then hesitated, unsure how to continue. Ask for what you want. That’s the rule. “Master, I like it when you mark me. I want to keep them—I want to keep the reminders of what you do to me.”

“That is not possible.” Rizeth sat beside him on the bed, lifted his chin with a finger to examine his neck. He made a mostly satisfied sound, so clearly the marks were gone enough not to be noticeable.

“Why?”

“The marks you receive from me are the kind that give others the wrong idea,” Rizeth said. “You have not done this as long as I have. Mythen Thaelas is not a place where you can bear signs of torture without inquiry.”

“It is not torture!” Ashenivir objected. Rizeth fixed him with a level stare.

“You know that. I know that. Does Keszriin Eilist’tra know that? Does your Matron?”

Ashenivir fell silent. Master Velkon’yss was right, of course, and Ashenivir’s selfish desire to carry his marks would only result in Rizeth being punished, if the truth came out. It would not be hard for others to believe that a Menzoberranyr immigrant had harmed him, had perhaps even convinced him he wanted to be harmed.

Rizeth took the collar from his hands and carefully fastened it back around his neck.

“Your dedication is admirable, Ra’soltha,” he said, quietly. “But this request I must deny you.”

Ashenivir nodded his understanding, eyes downcast. Rizeth set the links of his collar smooth, and sat back. 

“And I am pleased you called a halt. Even after your test, I was uncertain if you would—you have a very tenacious mindset.”

At that, Ashenivir couldn’t help a soft laugh, and smiled up at his Master. Rizeth did not return his smile, but at least he was no longer frowning, no longer looked so furious with himself.

“You impressed upon me the necessity of failure,” he said. “It’s hard, and I still don’t like to, but I can fail with you, here. There was no failure in stopping tonight, though—ignoring injury would have been the failure.”

“Very good, Ra’soltha. As always, you learn your lessons well.”

Ashenivir flushed. “Thank you, Master.”

Master Velkon’yss rose, and Ashenivir followed him out into the main room and went to fetch his clothes from their neat pile by the door. Once he was dressed, he looked back to where Rizeth leant against the bedroom doorway, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“You may go, apprentice,” Rizeth said. Then, after a moment, added, “Congratulations on reaching your seventh year—I expect it to prove as fruitful as all prior.”

Ashenivir bowed, and it was only when he was halfway to his rooms that he realised he’d forgotten to tuck his collar back under his shirt. His hand went to it, then paused.

This mark he got to keep. It held no stigma, no danger—by all outward appearances it was just a simple necklace. Boring even, by most standards, nothing but plain silver links.

Ashenivir lowered his hand. This mark he got to keep.

---

He wants to be marked. He likes it.

Rizeth tossed the metal rod into the air, let it slap back into his palm and spun it between his fingers. He lay on the bed, one arm behind his head, the frayed remains of the cut rope still tied to the frame.

He tossed the rod again, snapping his fist up to snatch it out of the air on its descent. Again, he saw the burns around Ashenivir’s neck, the blazing reminder of his own incompetence. He’d gotten caught up, as enraptured as his apprentice, thinking only of the next scream he might draw.

Accidents happen. You do not play safe games.

“An accident and that mark are not the same thing,” he said aloud, speaking against his thoughts in hopes it might silence them. But Ashenivir’s request to be marked had made him think of it again, and now he couldn’t stop.

It ruined everything, the last time.

It was more than a title, more than a collar, more than a handful of rules and rituals. It was entirely beyond the simple agreement between himself and apprentice Zauvym.

Is it?

“Yes.”

He sat up. That mark was not for Ashenivir, it was not for anyone. It had ruined everything, because he had been a fool who didn’t know what he was doing, and the burns on Ashenivir’s neck tonight only proved that he was still that fool. After all these years, he had finally stumbled upon a Ra’soltha worth playing with and he was not about to throw all that away.

He wants to be marked! He asked for it!

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Rizeth murmured, and got up. The candle still had a little wick left, and a cantrip was enough to light it. Even that made his head ache, after pushing so far tonight. It was only what he deserved. He passed his fingers through the flame, dancing with it. “I will not take advantage of that.”

At least no more than you already have.

He toyed with the flame until it burned out.