Chapter One
“I see you’re still planning to abandon us.”
Matron Illiavra’s sharp voice echoed through the entry hall. Ashenivir flinched, feeling Nilaena tense in his arms, and a hot flash of guilt ran through him, as though comforting his sister were a crime his mother had caught him at red-handed.
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“Is it not? And what else do you call running off to go gallivanting about on the surface with a Menzoberranyr you hardly know?” Her heels clicked hollowly on the stone as she descended the stairs. “If you weren’t running—knowingly—from your responsibilities to this House, why did you wait until the last possible moment to tell me?”
Because he’d known she’d react like this, that she’d throw anything and everything at him to find the right manipulative barb to make him stay. Because there would be one. With her, there always was. Ashenivir squared his shoulders.
“Master Velkon’yss is as Mythen Thaelan as you or I,” he said. “The opportunity to assist with his work on the surface is a rare honour, not to mention it will allow me to continue my studies—”
“Oh, haven’t you studied enough?” Her face twisted in statuesque anguish, tears appearing with stunning suddenness to track down her cheeks in two perfect, glittering lines. Her voice cracked with all the skill of a poet reaching crescendo. “The surface is no place for you. You belong here, at home.”
Nilaena clutched at him desperately, and her tears, he knew, were real. “You can’t go, you only just came back.”
Ashenivir pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“It’s just for a little while,” he whispered. “Keszriin will visit you as often as she can, alright?”
“I don’t want to see Keszriin, I want you to stay!”
His heart ached, and he could feel his resolve crumbling with every second his sister clung. Leaving his mother behind, that was no great sacrifice, but Nilaena? His arms around her weren’t nearly enough of a shield, but they were all he had.
“I’ll come back.” He looked up at his mother. “Haven’t I always promised to come back?”
“You have,” Matron Illiavra said. “Though what your promises count for now, I do not know. Nilaena, enough.”
With a start as though she’d been burned, Nilaena broke away from him. He tried to keep hold of her hand, but she tugged free, dropping her head to hide her tears beneath her hair. Matron Illiavra didn’t spare her even half a glance as she crossed to Ashenivir. The sharp points of her nails dug into his arm, and he had a sudden, nightmarish vision of being marched back to his room, locked away as the caravan left, taking Rizeth and his last chance of freedom with it.
“You will not fail this family again,” she said.
“No, mother.” He didn’t wilt beneath her gaze, didn’t cower, his voice steady, calm—he almost sounded confident. “I need to get going. I do not want to delay the caravan.”
Matron Iliavra’s immaculately painted lip curled as she motioned at the door. “By all means, do not inconvenience Master Velkon’yss on our behalf.”
As he left the estate he wished, pointlessly, that he didn’t have to come back. She couldn’t make him. He could stay on the surface, run wherever he wanted, live a hundred years and more without his mother and her expectations breathing down his neck. He shook the blasphemous thoughts from his head. He had an excuse to delay his future for another year, that was all.
Ashenivir headed south towards Mei’q district, and with every step he took further from House Zauvym, his mood lifted. Yes, the future lurked, awaiting his return with infinite patience, but between then and now was the surface, and freedom, and…he bit his lip over a smile.
And Rizeth.
Mei’q was packed, as usual, the bazaar already in full swing. Ashenivir hurried through the stalls and the sound baffle enchantments, going from one pocket of noise to the next so quickly his ears popped twice. He wasn’t late, he was sure of it, but this would be his first day as Rizeth’s assistant and he wanted to make a good accounting of himself.
His chest warmed. Graduate of the Arcanum, a Master of magic in his own right with full claim at last to the title of wizard, and now, best of all, assistant to Master Velkon’yss. No matter his mother’s ire, no matter how bad he felt at leaving Nilaena again, he wouldn’t let himself regret this decision. His life, his choices. Rizeth had taught him that.
Soon enough, he found the caravan. Drow swarmed about a collection of wagons, filling them with barrels and chests and crates, calling to one another in a clamour of incomprehensible terms that sounded as strange to Ashenivir as he supposed magic might to them. A pack lizard flicked its tail lazily, eyeing him from beneath half-lowered lids, whilst a pair of drow clambered over its stocky body with a tangle of buckles and leather straps.
He worked his way through the crowd, trying not to get underfoot. An elderly svirfneblin, whose face was more wrinkle than skin, crinkled her eyes in a smile as he passed.
“Careful, dearie,” she called to one of the drow loading crates nearby. “That cargo’s worth more than you’re paid for this trip.” Her sweet voice was laced with iron, and she accented her words with sharp clicks of her heavy knitting needles. Ashenivir skirted around the large chest she was perched on, then past a duergar guard delivering an earful of dire warnings to one of the scouts. The bright-eyed young drow was hardly listening, too busy bouncing in place and trying to look everywhere at once.
“If you don’t screw yer head back on, Xullzalle, I’m goin’ to pop it off yer spine,” the duergar growled.
“I’m twice your height, and thrice as agile as you’ll ever be, Bhalrom, I shall be fine,” Xullzalle said, grinning. “Care to wager on which creature we’ll spot first? Of course, you’ll have to keep up with me if you want a chance of winning!”
Ashenivir tuned out the argument and continued on, searching the crowd for—
“There you are, Master Zauvym.”
It had been nearly two months since Ashenivir had last seen him. Scenes had been few and far between after graduation, and impossible to arrange at all recently—Rizeth too busy with preparations for the trip, and him trapped in Dirius’ old room, buried beneath the pile of work Matron Illiavra had dropped on him. Nearly two months and it felt like twice that. He hid the sudden leap of his heart with a polite bow.
“Master Velkon’yss.”
Rizeth adjusted his grip on the heavy, carved wooden staff he held. The two of them were, technically, part of the caravan’s protection, and in his dark piwafwi, holding that staff in a grip that made Ashenivir decidedly hungry, Rizeth certainly looked the part. He cast a cool eye across the rowdy caravan—Xullzalle and Bhalrom were still arguing, voices ringing out over the general din.
“Master Do’tyl will be pleased to have two wizards with him on this trip,” he said. “Particularly since he is paying for neither.”
“Is it that dangerous a road?”
“It can be.” Rizeth beckoned one of the drow workers over. “Please inform Master Do’tyl that Master Velkon’yss and Master Zauvym are present and ready.”
The drow nodded and darted off. Ashenivir grimaced.
“I still can’t get used to that. Can’t you keep calling me apprentice?”
Rizeth arched an eyebrow. “You are not one.”
“No, but…I am sort of your apprentice still, aren’t I?”
“Assistant, and paid handsomely to be such, it ought to be noted.”
“I still don’t think that necessary. I can pay my own way.” Years spent secreting away this coin and that outside of what allowance his mother permitted had netted him a modest cache, and though what the Archmage had offered vastly outnumbered it, in all honesty seeing the World Above was payment enough.
“The Arcanum has funds to spare; it might as well spend them on something worthwhile,” Rizeth said. “But if you prefer the title of apprentice, I shall concede to your comfort.”
“Thank you, Master.”
A decisive shout cut through the noise, and the cavern floor reverberated with the scraping of stone as the enormous city gates slowly swung wide. The caravan at once shifted from a creature of chaos into a disciplined animal—scouts on their slim, fast riding lizards darted out ahead, whilst drivers stirred the stockier reptiles hitched to the wagons into motion. Ashenivir saw Xullzalle race past, slipping out between the gates before they’d even fully opened with a whoop! that echoed in the dark tunnel.
He took up a position with Rizeth at the rear, alongside a pair of armed drow. The nearer they got to the gates, the faster his heart raced, until he was certain it would burst out of his chest.
“Are you ready to leave?” Rizeth asked. Ashenivir stared up at the looming doors and the waiting darkness beyond. No structure, no study, no safe Arcanum and familiar friends—just him and his magic and his Master. He put a hand to the back of his neck, laying his palm over the mark hidden beneath his braid.
“I am.”
And at his Master’s side, Ashenivir stepped out into the Underdark.
The last time he’d travelled the Underdark, he’d spent the journey lost in his head, miserable and hating every step that took him further from the Arcanum. Now, the subterranean beauty of his home astounded him at every turn: tunnels streaked with crystal veins that rang like chimes at the slightest touch, flowstone caverns older than he could comprehend, a fungal grove whose gargantuan stalks put Chataurvvin to shame.
He wanted to race back to the Arcanum and spend a month buried in geology and natural history and all the things he’d paid no mind to before because they hadn’t seemed relevant. Frustratingly, sound travelled far down here, and too much talk might draw unfriendly attention, which left Ashenivir fairly bursting with unspoken questions, though Rizeth patiently—and quietly—answered every one he dared to whisper.
“This is your first time too, right?”
The voice made him jump, for its loudness as much as its nearness. Xullzalle, the scout, had drawn their riding lizard alongside him. The caravan had been halted for some minutes—the rocky heartbeat of the Underdark had pulsed recently, and the usual path was blocked. Master Do’tyl had sent two of the more experienced scouts on ahead to find an alternative route, and Rizeth was presently up at the front of the caravan with him. Offering magical aid, Ashenivir assumed.
“As caravan protection, yes.” He offered Xullzalle a smile.
“Guess you haven’t had much to do, huh? Being as how we’re so good at our jobs.” Xullzalle dusted their knuckles on their pristine cuirass, then winked. “My cousin’s done this route a dozen times. It’s a milk run.”
“A what?”
“Human phrase. My sister lives in Luskan, they say it all the time up there. Means ‘a trip so easy, a child could do it’. This route’s safe as anything; there’s too many caravans running it not to be.”
As if it had been waiting for them to finish speaking, one of the stalactites suddenly dropped from the ceiling. Xullzalle yelled and lashed out, their scimitar smacking into not rock but thick, slug-like flesh. The creature—a piercer, Ashenivir’s well-read mind supplied—went flying into the dark. It must have hit a wall, for there was a crack and a wet splattering sound, but before Xullzalle could celebrate any kind of victory, another dark shape plummeted from above, this one directly above Ashenivir’s head.
He flung up a hand with a cry, a shield spell snapping into existence moments before the creature could slam into him. It slid off and hit the floor, its single eye glowing faintly.
“Vith! ” Xullzalle swore. “It’s a colony!”
Beyond Ashenivir’s shield, the entire ceiling was falling; shouts of alarm echoed throughout the caravan as the piercer colony rained down upon it. His mind raced, and he fumbled at his belt for components—piercers were weak, but their outer shell made them sturdy; he had to hit a lot of them, hard and fast; he had about three seconds until his shield needed re-casting, then—
A flurry of arcane bolts ripped through the darkness, each one slamming into a falling piercer with deadly accuracy. The iron-shod base of Rizeth’s staff smacked aside the one about to breach Ashenivir’s collapsing shield as, with a flick of his wrist, he sent an arc of ice sweeping across the cavern. There was no hesitation in his movement, no doubt; just quick, confident spellcasting that ended the threat almost as quickly as it had begun.
“You stone-brained little idiot!” Bhalrom stomped over, thrusting a stubby finger at Xullzalle. “Yer inane babblin’s goin’ to bring half the Underdark down on our heads!”
“Piercers react to heat, Master Ironbelcher, not sound,” Xullzalle retorted.
“Aye, and yer hot-headed idiocy surely attracted them in the first place!”
Ashenivir turned his back on their argument, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. So much for being a Master of the Arcanum. He’d been no use at all.
“Are you alright, apprentice?”
Rizeth thrummed with fading magic, the Weave lingering around him. Almost without thinking about it, Ashenivir hooked his fingers into his collar.
“I’m fine.”
Rizeth eyed him intently, and the back of his neck shivered. His Master had tapped his mark only a handful of times since he’d bestowed it, and every time it happened, a thrill went down Ashenivir’s spine. A lonely surge of longing followed in its wake now. Endless dark days they’d been travelling, and he’d known sex was off the table until they reached the surface, had steeled himself for that unpleasant reality, but what he hadn’t been prepared for was how much he missed everything else.
“I just…” Ashenivir rubbed a thumb over a link of his collar. “I miss the Arcanum.”
“As do I,” Rizeth murmured. His hand flexed around his staff, and a desperately starving fantasy flashed through Ashenivir’s mind of Rizeth pinning him to the wall with it, the wood hard across his chest, holding him tight in place whilst his Master kissed him until he couldn’t breathe.
“We will be approaching a rest-stop soon,” Rizeth said, interrupting his thoughts. Ashenivir flushed anyway, knowing his Master could almost certainly read him well enough even in the dark to know where his mind had wandered. “Provided the route is not any further altered—and that scout does not manage to get us all killed—we should arrive in a few days.”
“A city?”
“A trading outpost. A minor township, by Master Do’tyl’s measure, but there will be beds at least.” Rizeth rubbed at his neck. Reverie on cold, hard stone was, as Ashenivir had quickly discovered, no joy at all, even with enchanted bedrolls.
“I could help with that, Master.”
He started to reach out, then hesitated. Out here he didn’t know how to act, what was appropriate. He was no longer an apprentice, and he couldn’t be Ra’soltha with so many people around. Assistant, that was his place, though what that ought to look like he hadn’t the faintest idea.
Rizeth caught his wrist.
“That will not be necessary.”
It was the most touch he’d received since they’d left Mythen Thaelas, and all it did was make him ache for more.
“I miss the Arcanum,” he said again, stepping closer. “There are so few rules out here.”
“Imposing order on the Underdark is a fool’s errand.” Rizeth’s grip tightened, and even in the darkness Ashenivir could see his hunger, sense it. His Master needed what they were denied just as much as he did. “But perhaps those of strong will might discipline it.”
“There are parts that need to be disciplined.”
“Indeed there are.”
Darkvision afforded no colour, and Ashenivir missed the cold ruby of Rizeth’s eyes as they burned into him, though the lack did nothing to diminish the heat they sparked. He took a half step nearer, was about to take another when Master Do’tyl called that it was time to move on. Wheels rattled, lizards stirred, and Rizeth dropped his wrist.
“Come along, apprentice,” he said. “We ought to keep an eye on the rear in case the disturbance attracted any greater threats.”
Ashenivir followed him back down the caravan, shoulders sagging. He rubbed at his wrist, and resented every single other traveller for their presence. They were the reason Rizeth couldn’t touch him. They’d get all the wrong ideas, and it was so hideously unfair he could hardly stand it. If he could only kneel at Rizeth’s feet, it would be easier to bear this endless, touchless darkness, and what did it matter what any strangers thought about it? He just needed his Master’s hand on his neck, in his hair; just one little tug, one little flash of pain to keep him sane—
“Mind your feet, dearie.”
“Sorry, Ms Jadefoot.” He’d almost tripped over the deep gnome. She was the one who’d been knitting when he’d arrived at the caravan—Scheska Jadefoot, with the precious cargo and the endless supply of colourful wool. She patted his leg.
“You were a thousand miles away, my love. Missing someone back home?”
Ashenivir glanced to where Rizeth stood waiting by the rearmost wagon.
“Something like that.”
As he had every time they’d stopped to rest since leaving Mythen Thaelas, Ashenivir laid out his bedroll next to Rizeth’s. The clinging shadows afforded a faint semblance of privacy in the desaturated darkness, and if he let his eyes unfocus enough, he could almost pretend they were alone. The muffled coughing and shuffling of their fellow travellers that echoed too loudly in the humming silence of the cave put paid to that notion—he could lie as near as he liked to Rizeth, he would still get nothing.
He tugged his blanket up over his shoulders, once again grateful for the enchantments keeping him warm. He’d never thought of himself as a particularly fussy person, but he sorely missed his bed and his bath and all the other simple comforts of the Arcanum. A sore neck wasn’t the half of it.
‹Which part of the Underdark would you say needs disciplining the most, Ra’soltha? ›
The voice in his head made him start. Rizeth lay on his side just a foot away, idly tapping a copper wire against his lips. Even in the gloom, his shadowed gaze pinned Ashenivir in place.
‹The part lying in my bedroll, Master, › Ashenivir replied under his breath, the words barely audible. The spell would carry them clearly enough. The corner of Rizeth’s mouth crooked up, and heat immediately coiled low in Ashenivir’s stomach.
‹Then we shall have to impose a little order on it. › Rizeth’s lips moved silently against the wire, and even if the spell hadn’t put them directly into Ashenivir’s head, he would have known what his Master said. ‹Touch yourself.›
Ashenivir’s eyes widened—he darted a glance past Rizeth, at the dim shapes of the scattered travellers resting about the cave.
‹Do not make me tell you twice, Ra’soltha.›
Heart already racing, Ashenivir reached down as carefully as he could to palm himself through his breeches.
‹Look at me, › Rizeth commanded. Ashenivir wished again for colour, missing the coldness only clear crimson could provide. He held his Master’s gaze as he freed his rapidly hardening cock—every shift of his blanket was a deafening scrape, every breath a thunderous roar. He wrapped nervous fingers around his shaft and started to stroke.
‹Slow, now—you do not want anyone to know what you’re doing, do you? ›
Ashenivir bit his lip, breath stuttering through his nose. His skin felt electric, tension and heat thrumming just beneath the surface. The threat of being caught tightened Rizeth’s hold on him so that he couldn’t look away—all he could do was stare into his Master’s eyes, so close and yet entirely too far away, as he continued his slow strokes.
‹Roll your thumb across the tip. Do not rush.› Rizeth’s lips brushed the copper with every word, and Ashenivir longed to feel them against his own. ‹Are you nice and hard for me, Ra’soltha? ›
He sank his teeth into his lower lip to keep back a moan. His Master’s voice in his head, that insistent murmur—it was too much. His mark seemed to burn with every word, and it was only his Master’s orders that kept his hand slow. Pre-cum slicked his palm—gods, that sound, how had no-one noticed?—and Rizeth must have known somehow, for his lips brushed copper again.
‹Taste yourself.›
Ashenivir raised his shaking hand to his mouth, keeping it beneath the blanket until his wet fingers touched his lips. He licked them clean, keenly aware of Rizeth drinking in every motion of his tongue. His face—no, his whole body—was alight. What if someone saw, what if someone heard?
When he returned his hand to his cock, it was harder than ever.
Rizeth shifted on his bedroll, and Ashenivir wondered if his Master was as hard as he was under that blanket. What he wouldn’t give to take care of it.
‹I see you are as hungry as ever, › Rizeth said. ‹Have patience, Ra’soltha, you will be fed.›
‹Please, Master, I want— ›
‹Hush. Faster, now—you’re going to come for me.›
If he bit his lip any harder, he’d surely bite through it. Ashenivir moved as fast as he dared, each roll of his wrist taking him higher, closer, pinned by Rizeth’s eyes all the while. He put his free hand to his collar and hooked his fingers into it, pulling it tight against his neck.
‹Nod when you’re close, › Rizeth whispered into his mind. Already strung so taut he might snap, it was mere moments before Ashenivir nodded. ‹Open your mouth, but do not make a sound.›
With an iron effort of will, Ashenivir choked his pleasure into silence as he came, mouth wide in a silent moan. He shuddered beneath his blanket, cum flooding hot over his fingers. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as he lay there, blinking glassily at his Master.
‹Good boy, › Rizeth said, and Ashenivir glowed. A moment later, the silent tingle of a prestidigitation rippled over his skin—far too soon for his liking, for he would rather have lain there, sticky and flushed, for a few more minutes at least. A mage hand flickered over to tug his collar, just the once, before vanishing.
“Master,” Ashenivir started, no louder than a breath. Rizeth shook his head.
‹Rest now. We’ve a long road yet to go.›
He rolled to his other side, and Ashenivir stared at his back, feeling hollow. That had been good. Unexpected, and dangerous, and incredible, and Rizeth had called him Ra’soltha, which he’d missed so much, and still he lay there with a cold, empty place like a stone in his stomach. He wanted the rest of the scene. He wanted the part that came after his Master’s orders.
But there was no bath to sink into, no bed to lay in his Master’s lap on, no comfortable couch to kneel against whilst his Master untangled his hair. There was only the cold cave floor and a dark gap between them like an impassable gulf. If he shifted over slightly, he could curl against Rizeth’s back, press his face between his shoulders—
Go to sleep , he told himself sharply. You’ll get what you want when you reach the outpost. Be thankful you got this much—it risked Rizeth as much as you.
Ashenivir swallowed past the heavy knot clogging his throat, closed his eyes, and settled into an uncomfortable and unsatisfying reverie.