Chapter Eleven
“Master, did you know there’s a letter from Lord Stillgleam here?”
Rizeth glanced up from buttoning his cuffs as Ashenivir padded into the bedroom, a letter in one hand and the end of his leash in the other. A leash which was, Rizeth noted, already attached to his collar. He folded his arms.
“I was aware.”
Ashenivir very deliberately didn’t look at him, apparently intently focused on the letter’s contents. The chains of his harness clinked as he cocked his hip, winding the leash around his wrist, a barely restrained smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was well aware that he had his Master’s undivided attention and they both knew it.
“What’s High Coin?” he asked.
“A celebration to mark the end of the Fair Seas Festival.”
“That sounds like fun, Master. Will we attend?”
“Ra’soltha.”
“Yes?”
“Take that off.”
Ashenivir held up the leash and made his eyes all wide innocence. “This? Why? You’re only going to put it back on when we get to the House. Why don’t I just wear it now and save you the trouble?”
He danced back as Rizeth stepped towards him, and at this rate they weren’t going to make it to the House; he’d have Ashenivir over his knee shouting apologies instead. His ankle was fully healed now, and there was absolutely nothing preventing Rizeth doing whatever he wanted to him.
But he didn’t go further than the doorway. He stopped there and put the end loop of the leash in his mouth, biting down hard when Rizeth tried to take it.
“You,” Rizeth said, “have been spending too much time with Mr Blackwind. You are not a puppy, stop behaving like one.”
Ashenivir held his ground, even going so far as to give a soft growl. Rizeth should have been annoyed with him, a Master’s irritation, safe and secure, yet in the tug of war between his hand and Ashenivir’s disobedient mouth he found only fond frustration. Five years it had taken to get to this point, to find himself in a place where the dynamic between them came as naturally as breathing. It was so easy to slip into this play with him. Too easy.
It could make a drow careless.
“Now, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir released the leash, pouting. “It’s dark and it’s raining,” he complained, as Rizeth unclipped it. “Who’s going to see?”
“That is not the point, and you know it.” He plucked the High Coin invitation from Ashenivir’s hand. “Finish dressing. We are leaving in two minutes.”
Ashenivir obediently went to do so, still pouting. Rizeth leaned against the table to examine the letter: heavy paper, gold edged, with Kelran’s fine cursive in gold ink entreating himself and Ashenivir to attend a High Coin celebration at his villa. Not at the House—it wasn’t that kind of party—but Rizeth knew there would be an afterparty there. Unless Kelran had changed that routine as well.
He’d known what the letter was the moment he’d seen the envelope on the doormat that morning. He’d tossed it atop the pile of half-abandoned notes and books—which had spread from the table to the kitchen counter and showed no sign of slowing its march of expansion—with full intention of ignoring it. Kelran’s non-House parties were elaborate, tedious, and full of exactly the sort of people Rizeth spent as much effort as possible avoiding. He had no desire whatsoever to subject himself to an evening of pointless small talk and mediocre wine.
He tapped the invitation against his palm. Ashenivir’s collection of new friends would likely be attending, and the moment he learned of that, he’d doubtless want to go with them. It wouldn’t be kind to send him alone into that viper’s nest of minor nobles and those who aspired to be such, and if he didn’t accompany him, Rizeth suspected that River would happily leap at the chance of doing so. His stomach twisted. Ashenivir in High Coin finery, golden as the dawn, laughing and drinking and dancing with—
“Ready, Master.”
Rizeth tossed the invitation into the sink.
“Then let us be away.”
They threw up rainshields as they stepped out onto the dark street. Spring had crept into the city on damp, grey feet, brightened only occasionally by hesitant, misty sunlight, and though the snow had at last melted for good, the constant downpours were not much more enjoyable. The flex of Ashenivir’s wrist was confident, his shield strong and wide, not so much as a glimmer of weakness in the spell. Rizeth’s heart warmed, stupidly.
Five years. Five years to the day, he realised, since they had formally begun their arrangement. The warmth in his heart strangled itself, and he was grateful for the night and the rain and the clinging mist to hide whatever that awful jolt had done to his face. He flicked a careful glance at Ashenivir—had he kept track of the date? Unlikely, given how much had happened in the interim.
Half a decade gone by in a blink, and Ashenivir still content to be his in this. He hadn’t thought himself capable of such longevity—a few months, that was the longest he’d kept on with anyone after Elian’la. He wasn’t built for extended connection. Being with her had taught him that.
Kelran’s House loomed out of the rain-drenched darkness, windows aglow with welcoming light. Ashenivir followed him up the path, the steps, the stairs, leashed and eager and his for the night from the second the doors closed behind them.
Five years. And this to be his last.
Rizeth intended to savour every hour.
“Master Velkon’yss? I’m so sorry to interrupt, I meant to catch you as you came in.” Ms Thorne hurried up the corridor towards them, heels thudding dully on the carpet. Ashenivir paused with his hand on the playroom door. “Could I borrow you for a minute? It’s about the new soundproofing enchantments you brought for Lord Stillgleam.”
Rizeth’s sigh was almost inaudible.
“Of course, Ms Thorne,” he said, his tone flatly polite, which meant he was deeply annoyed. “What appears to be the issue?”
“The latticing. For some reason the spells aren’t interlacing properly. Would you be able to take a look?”
Rizeth glanced at Ashenivir, eyes dark, as hungry as he was. He’d get pain tonight, that much he knew after his behaviour at the apartment, and he was starving for it, skin aching with the anticipation. With his ankle injured, he’d hardly had anything serious—Rizeth had been, he felt, overly cautious about that. Though perhaps the old memories the incident had dredged up were what had stayed his hand. Ashenivir hadn’t dared to ask. It wasn’t his place.
“This should not take long,” Rizeth said. He held Ashenivir’s gaze a moment longer, and the urge to request a kiss burned on his tongue. He couldn’t ask for one, they hadn’t even started yet, he hadn’t earned any kind of reward. He bowed his head.
“Yes, Master.”
Rizeth followed Ms Thorne out of sight down the corridor, and Ashenivir occupied himself with scene preparations. He switched the marker to red, set his boots and folded shirt neatly by the door, and re-braided his hair into a looser tie, one that would collapse more easily beneath his Master’s hand. He toyed idly with his leash as he padded about the playroom, entertaining himself with poking through the wall cabinets to see what Kelran had stocked in these ones. Lord Stillgleam kept so much equipment on hand, and all of it in wonderful condition—and it stayed that way, since one of the rules of the House was to take care of what you used.
That a place like this existed at all still made his head spin. With enough money and influence, he supposed, anything was possible. Probably there was somewhere like this in Mythen Thaelas, up in Qu’ellor’harl maybe, where all the High Houses played.
“Knock-knock.”
Ashenivir jumped—he’d forgotten to close the door all the way, and now River poked his head through. “Not started yet?”
“You’re not supposed to come in on red,” Ashenivir said. River ignored him and slipped into the playroom, nudging the door further open as he did. “My Master’s only gone with Ms Thorne for a minute, he’ll be back soon.” It still thrilled him to be able to call Rizeth that, and he tried not to smile like an idiot at the possessive delight that shot through him at saying it.
River shrugged, unbothered. “What am I going to do, top you?” Ashenivir’s face heated, and River playfully shoved his shoulder. “You’re so easy. I bet you scream at everything.”
“Not everything.”
River hopped up onto the flogging horse, kicking his legs back and forth. He was barefoot and shirtless as usual, just breeches and collar—probably he was here with his Sir, either waiting to start, as Ashenivir was, or just finished. Given that none of his bruises were fresh, Ashenivir guessed it was the former.
As always, though he tried not to, he found his eyes drawn to River’s scars. Seeing them made his stomach ache with something like longing; like pressing on an old wound, a kind of dimly distant pain. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that River bore them so openly, was so…so proud of them.
“They’re not going anywhere.” Ashenivir flinched, an apology stuttering on his tongue. River cut him off. “Every time you see me you do this.”
“No, I don’t, I—”
“Yes, you do. You’ve been doing it since we met.”
“I…I…” He couldn’t talk about this. But River had…River was…“I’m like you,” he blurted out. “I’m the same, I went through the changedance, and Rizeth doesn’t know, you can’t tell him, you can’t tell anyone, please don’t tell him!”
He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if he could cram the words back in. His breath had gone tight and shallow, his eyes pricking hotly—the playroom swam. River leapt down from the flogging horse and wrapped him in a tight hug. Ashenivir went rigid.
“I don’t…I shouldn’t have…”
“Sit down before you fall down, come on.”
They sat against the wall cabinet, River’s arm around his shoulders. Ashenivir hugged his knees to his chest, wishing he’d learned teleportation already. He didn’t know if he wanted Rizeth to return right now, so he’d have something safe to cling to, or if it would be better if Ms Thorne kept him away all night. He didn’t want his Master seeing him like this. He’d ask what was wrong, and Ashenivir would have to answer. There were only so many times he could say I can’t before the excuse would no longer be enough.
“How come he doesn’t know?” River asked quietly. “Will he take it badly? Because if you know he will, why the Hells are you still playing with him?”
“He…I don’t know. Probably not. But you can’t tell until you say something, and I…” Ashenivir pressed his forehead to his knees. “It’s not just him. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t want anyone to know. It’s done, and I’m fine now, and I don’t want to think about it.”
“You’re scared he will take it badly, then?”
“If he does, then I lose him.” The words came out in a rough whisper. “He doesn’t need to know anyway, it doesn’t make any difference.”
Except that it did. Five years to the day since he’d started serving Rizeth—probably he didn’t care about the date, but Ashenivir remembered it, clear as any theorem. Half a decade wasn’t that long, not compared with how long he’d been with some of his bedmates, but what did decades matter when none of them knew him the way Rizeth did? The idea of telling him was nauseating.
“You sound just like me.”
“What?” Ashenivir raised his head.
“Cain’s been my Sir since before I transitioned,” River said. “I put off even daring to want it, because he wanted to be with that girl, right? Not some guy he didn’t know. Which, that’s dumb, that’s objectively dumb, because I’m the same person.”
“What happened when you told him?”
“He spent months vetting clerics, then insisted on being the one to hold the knife while she cast. It wasn’t just a ritual, he made it a scene for me.” River rubbed a thumb over one of his scars, the memory conjuring a faint smile. “When Mara goes on about how romantic we are, she doesn’t know the half of it.”
Ashenivir couldn’t imagine trusting someone that much. No-one but Rizeth, anyway.
“She’s going to cry like a baby at the wedding,” River continued. “If Cain ever gets off his backside and proposes, I mean. There’s only so many hints a boy can drop, you know?”
Ashenivir managed a weak chuckle, sniffling, and River gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said, lowering his voice. “Not until you say it’s okay. But if you ever want to talk…”
“Thank you.” Ashenivir scrubbed at his eyes. “Gods, my Master will be back any minute. How awful do I look?”
“You look adorable.”
River kissed his forehead and helped him to his feet. There was strength back in his legs now, air in his lungs, and, at the sound of familiar footsteps in the hall, a surge of relief in his heart. River mussed his hair.
“I’ll see you later, alright?”
“Alright.”
Rizeth frowned after River as he clicked the playroom door shut. “I do not recall inviting Mr Blackwind tonight.”
“He was just saying hello whilst he was waiting for his Sir, Master,” Ashenivir said. Rizeth eyed him, but the mark didn’t react, and he realised he wasn’t being checked for damage—his Master was waiting for him to follow the rules. He hurried to strip out of the remainder of his clothes, and knelt in position in the centre of the room, head down, and pushed the scrawl of anxiety his talk with River had conjured to the back of his mind. Time to forget everything else. Time to be nothing but the Ashenivir who was Ra’soltha, whose only need and desire was to serve his Master.
He would serve well tonight. After five years, he had no excuse not to.
A sting shot through him as Rizeth’s hand snapped up again, and Ashenivir jolted forwards, the chain clinking above him. He tried to focus on the sound, on Rizeth at last giving him what he’d asked for the very first time they’d come here. There was no reason for this not to be incredible.
He bit out a noise of pain at the next blow, and gritted his teeth, frustrated. He should have been gone by now, washed away into sensation, yet though he was hard as anything, his body reacting well enough to what it enjoyed, his mind remained firmly grounded in the fact that this hurt. The pain was staying pain, and try as he might, he couldn’t make it be anything else.
He got two taps on the manacles before Rizeth put a hand to the back of his neck. Magic tingled in his mark.
“I’m sorry, Master.” Ashenivir hung his head, letting his hair fall over his face. “I can’t…it’s not…”
Rizeth’s fingers circled the mark, feather-light. “Would you like something different, Ra’soltha, or shall we stop for the night?”
His hand ran down Ashenivir’s back, fingers dancing over the straps of his harness, stroking his ribs in smooth, calming motions—his Master taking care of him, the way he always did. His throat went tight. What he wanted was Rizeth. Just Rizeth. Not his Master, not a scene; he wanted what he’d had back at the Arcanum, when he’d recklessly asked for degradation that had driven him into a breakdown. Sprawled on the floor, Rizeth’s arms around him in the quiet. Safe.
“I…I want…” Why was it so easy to ask for a hand around his throat, but so hard to ask to be held? “Would you fuck me instead, Master?”
“In the manacles?”
“On the floor, please.”
Rizeth unshackled him and brought his arms down slowly, the slide of his hands as much to check him over as to rebuild the lost tension of the scene. Ashenivir swallowed a whimper. He wanted that. Slow, soft touch, something that might let him breathe, smooth out the jagged edges of his thoughts.
That wasn’t what they did. Scenes were slow, Rizeth’s hands could be gentle, but softness for softness’ sake?
“On your knees, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth ordered, and he went on instinct, gasping as he was shoved to all fours, moaning as his head was hauled back. They faced the mirror, Rizeth knelt behind him. He gripped Ashenivir’s hair tight—his braid had fallen apart just as he’d intended it to, a mass of tangles in his Master’s fist—and unfastened his breeches one-handed. “Better?”
Naked would be better. A bed would be better. The comfort of their apartment, Rizeth’s skin on his, lips on his, hand in his, that would be better.
“Yes, Master.”
Rizeth slid into him, hot and hard, and he moaned again, louder this time because he had his Master close now, exactly as he wanted. He rocked back to meet Rizeth’s thrusts, and the hand on his hip gripped tight, tight, tight over old and faded bruises.
“What do you say when you get something you like, Ra’soltha?”
“Thank you, Master!”
Rizeth snapped his hips harder, sparking brilliant stars in Ashenivir’s head.
“Good boy.”
The steady motion of his body, the hard floor beneath him, watching Rizeth in the mirror, seeing his own flushed, desperate face; finally, he started to float. Not hard enough though, it wasn’t hard enough—he’d fall entirely if it was harder. Be gone the way he needed. He surged up and back, as if trying to throw Rizeth off.
As he’d hoped, he found himself pinned to the floor, arms twisted up behind him. The weight pressing him down turned from panic to pleasure at the sound of his Master’s voice asking if he wanted more.
“Yes,” he gasped out. “Yes, Master, harder.”
And so he fought and Rizeth took, the way no-one else would ever take because Rizeth was the only one who understood not only what he wanted, but why he wanted it. He’d understood from the start, hadn’t he? Seen from the very beginning what he needed, known what he was when Ashenivir had only half known himself.
A wordless sound tore from him, a whining moan in the back of his throat, and he had no idea if it was pain or pleasure, want or misery.
“Good boy,” Rizeth breathed against his ear, and the sound rose to a howl. It wrecked his breath, something like a thunderstorm rolling underneath his skin. “Good boy, Ra’soltha. Are you going to come for me?”
He was, he realised. All at once he was right on the edge, and he writhed in his Master’s uncompromising grasp, managing only another strangled cry and the vaguest motion of a nod.
“Then come for me,” Rizeth said.
It took the better part of an hour for him to get back into his body; the whole walk back to the apartment to be coherently verbal again. He was cold, colder than the nighttime chill and the rain accounted for, and shaky. Probably he was getting sick or something—or that was what he told Rizeth, when he asked.
He ran his bath as hot as the runes would allow, and, alone in the steaming water, pressed his hands to his chest.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” he whispered. “He doesn’t need to know.”
But oh, Goddess, I want him to.
Faint laughter floated in from the balcony. A rare break of sunshine had drawn the four of them out there, leaving Rizeth alone inside to carry on pretending to work on his spell modifications. They weren’t nearly as hard as he’d expected; he could have finished the thing inside a tenday if he made the effort. Certainly Ashenivir’s interest in it ought to have sparked a little more motivation than he felt.
Tap, tap, tap. Pen to table instead of to paper, eyes on the balcony instead of his notes. Verin leaned against the railing, Mara at his feet chattering a thousand miles a minute. River sat with his back to the glass door, and next to him…
His nib cracked. Rizeth sighed and set about changing it. He had no right to feel so stupidly jealous at Ashenivir’s simply sitting with someone. River ruffled his hair, and Ashenivir batted him away, laughing. He’d been in the playroom, despite the red marker; Ashenivir had allowed him in.
Fix your nib, get back to work. He’s not yours right now.
He could be. With those friends, Rizeth could walk out, clip the leash to his collar, and the three of them would go without questioning it. Ashenivir would follow wherever he was led, do whatever he was bidden, and afterwards that sunlit smile would turn to him again. Not Mara, not Verin, and certainly not River Blackwind.
Rizeth set his pen aside and occupied his hands with tidying some of the other mess of papers littering the table. It was easy enough to separate his work from Ashenivir’s—truly, his handwriting seemed to worsen with every passing day. He’d focused far better than Rizeth had, though: he’d almost mastered the sending spell and, Rizeth saw as he flicked through the scribbled pages, had made some interesting observations regarding its construction. His continued research into extradimensional spaces was progressing solidly as well, a far better understanding of the complexities of such magic present in his scrawled thoughts than most final-year students at the Arcanum ever displayed.
All that potential, and him to be a mere House wizard? What a senseless waste.
A chorus of shrieks made him start. A sudden rain shower sent Ashenivir and the others scrambling inside, nearly tripping over one another in their haste. River caught Ashenivir’s arm to keep him from falling, and Rizeth decided that making tea would be an excellent idea right now.
“Ugh, I hate spring,” Mara grumbled, patting at her hair.
“Get a cloak with a hood, princess,” Verin said. “Solve all your problems.”
“And end up with flat hair?” Mara looked horrified. “Be a girl again, then you’ll understand.”
“I could be a girl the rest of my life and never understand you.”
“Quit the double act, you two, let’s go,” River said. “I’ll get us a hire-coach. Ashenivir, you want to join us for lunch?”
He didn’t, despite their many protests, and Rizeth concentrated on pouring hot water into mugs rather than over his hands as Ashenivir hugged River in farewell. His shoulders relaxed when the door closed behind the three of them, leaving the apartment in silence. He scooped sugar into Ashenivir’s tea, noting that the tin was almost empty again. Such a sweet tooth his apprentice had. Though it was less the sweetness, Rizeth knew, than the fact that it was too much. Ashenivir liked strong flavours, intense sensation. Food, sex, tea; it was all the same.
“Is that tea?” Ashenivir leaned past him to get to his mug, and Rizeth let him get in the way mostly because having him at his back so casually close momentarily deprived him of the power of speech. Ashenivir took a sip. “Mm, perfect—thank you, Master.”
Rizeth took a moment to put his fractured composure back together before joining him at the table. He was rummaging through the papers, pulling the notes he wanted to him in a haphazard pile.
“So, Mara was telling me about Lord Stillgleam’s parties,” he said. “The normal ones, I mean.”
“I would take anything Miss Shemov says with several handfuls of salt, apprentice.”
Ashenivir grinned. “I speak pretty fluent Mara now, Master, I can filter out what’s useful. But she says they’re impressive, and High Coin is always the most impressive, and I was wondering if…” he trailed off, running his finger around the rim of his mug. Rizeth waited. “I was wondering if you’d dress me again?”
Tea-warmth, sun-warmth, spreading through his chest like honey.
“Your harness would not exactly be appropriate,” he said, “but if that is what you want, I am certain I can find you something that is.”
Did he sound too comfortable? Too soft? How much of that warmth had leaked into his voice where it had no business being?
Ashenivir only smiled at him. “Thank you, Master.”
Quiet settled over them. Ashenivir took to his notes, and Rizeth found himself finally able to concentrate on his own. The hours of study slipped past beneath the scratch of pens, the shift of papers, the patter of rain that eased on and off all afternoon. Rarely had he ever felt so comfortable around someone whilst working—as distracting as Ashenivir could be, he also fit so easily into Rizeth’s awareness that lately his absence was more an issue than his presence.
Ashenivir stretched, rolling his neck.
“More tea, Master?”
Rizeth inclined his head and stared intently at his notes as Ashenivir got up to make it. The light domestic clatter behind him was bitterly wonderful; the warm scent of ginger mixed with the faint sound of Ashenivir humming idly under his breath made his heart turn over in his chest, and if he closed his eyes he could pretend, for a moment, that this was real. That Ashenivir would bring him tea with a light touch to his shoulder, kiss him without either of them asking for it. Be as much his in this quiet moment as he was in any scene.
It wasn’t going to happen. He opened his eyes and focused on the runic deviations in front of him without really seeing them. If Ashenivir was going to find domestic bliss with anyone, it wouldn’t be him. Someone like River would be a far better choice—he ought to encourage their closeness, not seethe about it.
Ashenivir set the tea by his elbow, and Rizeth caught his arm.
“When you finish the next page of your notes,” he said, “you will kneel until I finish mine.”
An immediate flash of hunger crossed Ashenivir’s face. “Yes, Master.”
“And when I fuck you,” Rizeth continued, “you will ask for what you want by sending only. That includes asking if you may finish. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
The eagerness and determination in Ashenivir’s voice sent adoration singing through his veins. He could kiss him right now, taste him, slide a hand into his hair and draw him close—with dynamic thrumming in the air between them, he could get away with anything.
No, the voice of reason sighed, you can’t.
He let go.
“Finish your notes, apprentice.”
No, he couldn’t, because what he wanted to get away with was nothing less than everything, and that was something he could never order Ashenivir to give.