Chapter 13
Ashenivir slowly turned a page, the words doing little more than occupy his eyes. He’d come to the Font not to study, but to think. Much like the Arcanum library, the quiet ambience served to calm his racing mind—and lately it had done nothing but race. He’d replayed the conversation with Lord Stillgleam over and over since High Coin, and kept coming back to one singular point.
Did you know, in all that time, he’s never once brought anyone in a collar with him?
It had to mean something. Or did it? Maybe Rizeth hadn’t liked collars before, or hadn’t found an enchantment he enjoyed until now. Maybe Kelran was lying, toying with him in retaliation for his taking so much of Rizeth’s time and attention. Maybe, despite their history, he didn’t know Rizeth as well as he thought he did.
Ashenivir tangled his fingers in his collar. Rizeth hadn’t pressed him for details on what he and Kelran had talked about, for which he was greatly relieved. He didn’t want to lie, and though he wanted to ask—desperately—what it all meant, he wasn’t certain he wanted an answer. Because Rizeth had apparently told Kelran his collar was a toy, and something about that made him hesitate.
It was a toy. A toy he never took off, not for anything, and when he got back to Mythen Thaelas, was he going to keep wearing it? Even after he was done with Rizeth? His fingers tightened, the links pressing painfully into his joints. The thought of taking it off turned his stomach inside out.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could I speak with you a moment?”
Drow, spoken softly in his own accent, a lilt he hadn’t heard in months. He glanced up in surprise to see a slight young drow stood across the table from him. A moonstone circlet held her long hair back from her delicate face, her brows tilted anxiously, and she looked so nearly like Nilaena that for a moment all he could do was stare at her.
“I’m sorry, you’re busy,” she said into his silence. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“No, no, it’s alright.” He motioned at the chair opposite. “Please. It’s a welcome break to speak something other than Common. I haven’t run into any other drow in the city.”
“There aren’t many of us.” She smiled shyly as she took the offered seat. “I’m Xalin. I’m a priestess at the Dancing Haven, the shrine here in Waterdeep.”
He’d suspected as much, given her attire. She ticked her nails together as she spoke.
“First, let me just assure you that we don’t…we’re not spying, or anything, but you and your companion come here a lot, and on behalf of High Priestess Maendirath, I wanted to extend the Lady’s hand.”
“House Maendirath has a High Priestess here?”
They were one of the ruling Houses, like Keszriin’s family, and more renowned for their strength of arm—and the weapons they produced—than their piety.
“Lady Alvanriel is as dedicated as any Eilist’tra,” Xalin said, with the manner of someone who’d had to say it a great many times. “And it’s not…she didn’t order me to come and recruit you or anything, it’s only that it can be so isolating here. And I know your friend is from Menzoberranzan—” something must have shown in his face, for she made an anxious motion and quickly continued, “—but that’s alright! We have others at the Haven from there, he’s completely welcome. This isn’t…it’s not a demand, it would just be nice to see some new faces in the dance, that’s all.”
The dance. Of course. This was an invitation to celebrate with them; join the daily devotions, be a part of whatever they did to mark the changing of the seasons and the other many festivals in Waterdeep. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, but…
It had been years. Decades. Was he going to let his fear keep him in a chokehold forever?
He forced something resembling a smile to his face and hoped it looked friendly. “It’s very kind of you to invite us. I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask.” Xalin rose and brushed off her skirt. “Dark Lady watch over you.”
“And you.”
If he’d been distracted before, he was a thousand miles beyond it when she left. Ashenivir span his pen between his fingers, his thoughts too turbulent to catch. Think about it—how could he think about it when the moment his mind touched the idea of going to a shrine, he wanted to be sick?
He wasn’t going to be here forever. He might never have another chance to see a shrine like this, on the surface, alive with the glory of spring; green and bright and beautiful. He hooked a thumb into his collar. If there was one thing a Ra’soltha was not, it was a coward. His strength was in giving up control as and when he chose, pushing at limits to find where they lay, and tapping out would be as simple as walking away.
He began packing up his notes and his books with quick, decisive movements. It was about time he faced this like the grown drow he was. He was a Master of the Arcanum, and what was more, he was Ra’soltha to Rizeth Velkon’yss, who had never once doubted his ability to overcome whatever challenge was set before him.
Heart going a thousand miles a minute, Ashenivir left the Font and started across the city towards the Dancing Haven.
Afternoon sunlight glinted off the galleons etched in the large windows of the café, and Rizeth was glad for the shaded awning above the patio tables. Kelran had either forgotten about the difficulties of drow vision or had elected to be petty today.
The waitress vanished with their orders, and Kelran settled back in his chair, one foot hooked over his knee. “All that time avoiding me, and now you agree to coffee? What made you change your mind?”
Petty, Rizeth decided. “Perhaps I simply grew tired of throwing out your incessant requests.”
“My tenacity wins again.” Kelran’s smile was nearly as dazzling as the windowpanes. “Good for business and for pleasure.”
A cool salt breeze stirred the awning, scattering a few loud, lazy gulls into flight. Late spring was at last beginning to dry out, bringing with it the handful of truly pleasant days that bridged the gap between now and intolerable summer. Around them, light chatter and idle gossip rippled in educated tones—everything was immaculate here, sparkling and expensive. Not the sort of place Rizeth would have chosen for himself, though he supposed Ashenivir might have liked it.
He fit in these kinds of places, Rizeth had noticed. He possessed a natural grace that carried him through the world, a charm which rendered him innately likeable, even before he unleashed that far too devastating smile. At High Coin he’d blended in easily, in stark contrast to Rizeth’s own stiff, off-putting formality.
“Speaking of pleasure,” Kelran said, interrupting his musing. “You’re thinking about that boy of yours again, aren’t you?”
Rizeth didn’t look at him, because that would only encourage him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I haven’t forgotten that much about you, my friend. You’re an inscrutable ass, but I can still tell when you’re getting all moony-eyed about something.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
Kelran drummed his fingers on his knee, his gaze cool, his smile gone, though his expression remained open. Pleasant, if you didn’t know him. He played the fop, but there was a reason he wielded as much wealth and influence as he did. Stillgleam was a name spoken with respect—and no small measure of fear—among many merchants of the Sword Coast.
“You brought him to the House,” he said.
“I thought he would find it interesting. And useful to have friends in the life other than myself. There is little in the way of a community in Mythen Thaelas.”
“And is he finding it interesting to be dressed up like an Underdark prince? Useful to be watched like a bloodhawk at every gathering he’s exhibited at?”
“He is finding the surface interesting,” Rizeth said tightly. “His studies are progressing well. The Font of Knowledge is a great draw.”
“Right, right, furthering his education. And coming by the House practically every night, buying more gear than you know what to do with—is that also progressing his studies? Doing a lot of tutoring in the playroom, are you?”
Rizeth glared at him, a barbed retort ready on his tongue, and naturally the waitress chose that moment to return with their coffee. Kelran dragged out the interaction, trading idle gossip and flirtation long enough that Rizeth felt a rising urge to reach across the table and strangle the man with his own tongue. Why did he have to be so damned perceptive? And how did he know quite so much anyway, had he added a roster of spies to his employ?
The idea was pure paranoia. The community in and around the House was small, and Mara Shemov had an unstoppable mouth—anything Ashenivir told her, half the House would know in a matter of days. Kelran always kept abreast of the things going on under his roof; it was little wonder he knew what Rizeth had been up to. He tapped his fingers on the table, nails clicking on the polished wood, waiting for his coffee to cool and Kelran to stop flirting.
Miraculously, the latter occurred before the former. The waitress left, significantly pinker than when she’d arrived, and Kelran took a slow, savouring sip of his drink. He sighed. “Worth every coin. Now then, what was I saying? Oh, yes—your new pet.”
“I can only assume you harassed whatever you wanted to know out of him at High Coin.”
“A few interesting things came up,” Kelran said. “I’m glad to see that medical training I had to beat into your skull came to good use, though why you didn’t just take him to a cleric I really don’t know.”
“He did not want to see one.”
“Afraid of showing them all the pretty bruises you decorate him with? He’s quite the little canvas in that harness, isn’t he?”
“If you are trying to make a point, Kelran, I fail to see what it is.”
“My point, Rizeth, is that you collared him, marked him, brought him all this way to show him off, and screw yourself up with jealousy every time another man so much as looks at him,” Kelran said. Rizeth hated when he did this, pierced through every wall he’d so painstakingly erected, bulling right through to the glass heart of him. “You care about him.”
“I care about his well-being.” He chose his words carefully, his voice deliberately flat. “I am responsible for him whilst we are here.”
“Stop avoiding the question.”
“Ask one.”
“Fine.” Kelran set down his coffee and leaned forwards, clasping his hands together. Rizeth suddenly felt like some small, fragile prey animal; a foolish lost drow caught in a spider’s web. “Here’s a question for you, old friend. When are you going to tell Ashenivir you’re in love with him?”
The small North Ward villa that housed the Dancing Haven had a tree in place of a roof. A flock of pigeons clapped off in flight as Ashenivir approached, setting the branches swaying. He slowed, uncertain—should he knock? The entrance reminded him of Stillgleam Villa, though less elaborate, but at a shrine you usually just…walked in.
One of the windows overlooking the street rattled open, and Xalin leaned out.
“Come in, it’s not locked!” The window started to fall closed, and she shoved it up, balancing awkwardly on the sill one-handed. “I’ll be down to meet you in a moment!”
Inside, dozens of small bowls filled with water and scraps of meat lay scattered about a small, dim entry hall—a pair of rangy-looking cats napped nearby, tails twitching. Footsteps thudded first above, then ahead of him, and Xalin appeared in the far doorway. She seemed much more relaxed than she had at the Font, smiling widely.
“Your friend didn’t want to come?”
“Master Velkon’yss has business in the city today,” Ashenivir said. A meeting with Lord Stillgleam was all Rizeth had told him, and he was glad to not be caught in the middle of that.
“Perhaps another time, then. This way.”
The halls of the building were fairly residential, if run-down. Mismatched couches, scratched tables, half the doors missing handles or hinges or both. But every wall was painted in bright colours; seascapes and moon-phases, Eilistraee dancing through them all. Xalin wrestled with a sticky back door for a minute before finally shouldering it open, and the two of them emerged into what Ashenivir guessed had once been gardens, and which had now been partially transformed into a shrine.
“It’s nothing like as grand as Mythen Thaelas, but we’re proud of it,” Xalin said. “It took forever to get it all set up, and without Lady Haventree’s patronage, we wouldn’t even have gotten the building.”
A large stone altar, much like the one in Neverwinter Wood, sat amidst a tangled grove of trees and flowering plants, bright with spring colour. White pillars rose around the platform, twined with vines, and off between the trees, Ashenivir could just make out a small wooden pagoda. White-clad priestesses stood out amidst the green; a few raised hands in greeting. Xalin waved back.
“Mostly we tend the gardens,” she explained. “We want to get the house more liveable, but that takes more money than we have right now. The guilds here are so expensive.”
“It’s lovely,” Ashenivir said, and it was, really and truly it was. He forced his hands to unclench as Xalin called over some of the other priestesses, introducing them in a rush of names he immediately forgot. Every time he looked at the shrine, his stomach cramped. This was a bad idea. I should just leave.
“So, how are you finding the surface?” Xalin asked, then frowned. “You’re not still sick from it, are you? You look a bit drained.”
“Too much studying,” Ashenivir said. She didn’t look particularly convinced.
Someone started singing out among the trees; lyrical Drow, a sweetly off-key hymn to Eilistraee. He breathed deep through his nose, slow out through his mouth, holding on a four-count. Nothing was going to happen, nothing was going to happen, he was fine, he was safe, and nothing was going to happen. One of the priestesses asked what he was studying, and he let a disjointed ramble about the Font and sending spells and extradimensional spaces spill out without paying much attention to it. They all at least pretended to be interested, and one turned out to be a T’sonri cousin, wanting to know if her uncle was still the Archmage.
“He had no plans to retire when we left,” Ashenivir said.
“Sounds like uncle Seldszar,” she said with a laugh. “Mother always said you’d have to pry him out of that job with a crowbar. He—”
“Xalin! Zelka!” a voice called. A heavyset woman in the garb of a High Priestess—Lady Alvanriel, presumably—stood on the altar, a younger drow clutching her hand nervously. “It’s time. Would you join us, please?”
“Oh, damn, I forgot,” Xalin said. “I won’t be long—it’s just a changedance.”
She darted off towards the altar, where she and another priestess joined hands with Lady Alvanriel. Ashenivir couldn’t move. He stared at them, at the starting motions of the dance—it won’t do anything, it’s not for you, it won’t touch you.
His throat seemed to have vanished, as had his lungs. The T’sonri priestess touched his arm.
“Are you alright? Would you like some water?”
That was what she said. He knew that was what she said, but what he heard was, “What have you done to my daughter?”
Lady Alvanriel began to sing and Ashenivir turned and bolted from the Haven. Multiple voices called after him, but he couldn’t reply. He pressed his hands over his ears as he fled back through the house, almost tripping over one of the cats. It hissed at him. He ignored it.
Outside, everything was too loud, too close, the breeze too cold, like nails scraping his face. He could still hear the song, even though he couldn’t. Magic, creeping into his bones, under his skin.
“Dance it again! Dance it again, give me back my—”
Ashenivir fumbled in his pocket. Copper clattered to the street. He scrambled for it, cursing, face hot, body cold. Why was the sun so bright, he couldn’t see—then finally he got his hand around the wire, raised it to his lips. It took three tries to get the spell out.
‹Master, where are you?›
“Do you ever tire of talking nonsense?”
“I’m not blind, Rizeth, nor am I stupid,” Kelran said. Any pretence at casual discussion had entirely vanished. “What I don’t understand is how this happened—I thought you’d sworn off having feelings.”
“I do not have feelings for anyone, least of all Ashenivir.”
Even as he said it, he knew how paper thin the lie sounded. Kelran snorted.
“How is it,” he said, “that you are one of the smartest wizards I know, yet somehow still the stupidest man? Why in the world haven’t you said anything to him?”
Rizeth couldn’t meet his eyes. “I have no intention of ruining a perfectly good arrangement.”
“Arrangement—Rizeth, you put a collar and an owner’s mark on him, I think you’ve gone several steps beyond a perfectly good arrangement.” Kelran gave a disbelieving laugh. “You know you actually look happy when you’re around him?”
He makes me happy, Kelran, it’s not a complicated idea.
Kelran reached across the table and took his hand, voice softening. “If you don’t say something, you’re going to break your own heart. I don’t want to see you hurt like that again.”
What a curse it was to have friends invested in your life. Kelran cared—always had, always would—but he had no idea what he was talking about. How could he, when he didn’t know Ashenivir at all? If he did, he’d realise that saying something was the surest way to break Rizeth’s heart of any. Master and Ra’soltha, that was all they were, and the moment Ashenivir realised how far past the bounds of that agreement Rizeth had allowed himself to get, the kindest thing he could do for both of them would be to walk away.
“I know what happened with Elian’la was…I know things didn’t work out,” Kelran said. He squeezed Rizeth’s hand. “But for the love of whichever god will have you, you can’t let it rule your life forever, you—”
‹Master, where are you?›
The words shook, the spell wavering at the edges, static on every syllable. Rizeth snatched his hand back.
‹In the Sea Ward with Lord Stillgleam. What’s wrong?›
No reply. The sickly static clung to the inside of his head, and when he reached for the mark, a wall of panic slammed into him. He knocked his coffee to the floor, the mug shattering, and Kelran let out a curse.
“Rizeth, what—?”
He shoved his chair back. “Ashenivir. Something’s wrong.”
Where had he said he was going today? The Font? That wasn’t far, not if he hurried. He left Kelran apologising to a waitress, aware of the other patrons gaping at him and not caring in the slightest. The divinations were all scrambled thread beneath the screaming distress echoing through the mark’s magic. He couldn’t sense any pain—it would have activated on its own if Ashenivir had been hurt…or would it? It had the previous times, but who was to say it hadn’t broken, that he hadn’t made some stupid mistake in the casting that only now made itself known? That would be just like him, to ruin something so important.
‹Where are you?› he sent.
It took an agonising stretch of seconds for the reply to come, and when it did, it shuddered with distortion.
‹High Road.›
High Road? What the Hells was he doing on the High Road if he’d been at the Font? Thrashing worry clawed at his ribs as he hurried through the oblivious crowds. All he could think was that yes, Kelran had said he’d dealt with the idiot human who’d harassed Verin, but what if he hadn’t? That kind of fool could be tenacious, spin a minor grievance into a bloody grudge given half a chance, and if that man had laid so much as a finger on Ashenivir—
Rizeth turned onto the High Road, forcing panic into focus. Endless streams of traffic blocked his way, horses and hire-coaches, liveried servants and chattering tourists, and nowhere in all the crush could he see Ashenivir. He took a breath, and let the mark’s divinations roll over him again.
Left, they pulled him, and then there, across the road—alone, praise Mystra, but moving too fast, one hand shoved into his hair, cutting a weaving path through the crowd. Rizeth darted around a slow-moving wagon to intercept him, and he let out a startled cry, stumbling back. He steadied himself on seeing who it was, letting his hand fall to his side, standing straighter.
What he did not do was make eye contact. The last time he’d been like this had been after that merchant had…
“What happened?” Rizeth demanded.
“Nothing, I just…I wanted to know where you were, you said you were meeting with Lord Stillgleam, and I thought…I thought…”
His breath came too fast, too hard, eyes flicking back and forth over the pavement. Rizeth caught his chin and lifted it, not caring who saw, needing only some way to bring him back, ground him.
“Are you hurt?”
Ashenivir finally met his eyes, though he could see—feel, his mind still so deep in the mark—how hard it was for him to do it.
“No. No! I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”
He was lying, and they both knew it. No blood on him, no bruises, the mark still shrieking with distress but no pain, nothing to suggest anyone had touched him at all. No-one to blame, but clearly something had happened. Rizeth’s hand slid to his cheek, and he leaned into the touch, a flicker of relief finally slipping through the mark. His breath stuttered against Rizeth’s wrist.
“Alright,” Rizeth said. “Have you eaten yet?”
Ashenivir shook his head.
“Would you like to come with me to get something, or shall we return to the apartment?”
“I want to go home, please,” Ashenivir whispered, and it took Rizeth a moment to realise what he’d said. When it hit him, the street turned momentarily upside down.
“Very well, xi’hum,” he said softly. “Home it is.”
All the way back to the apartment, it felt as though the streets would collapse beneath his feet at any moment. Nothing seemed quite real, everything vaguely detached and flat. The only thing with any weight of reality was Rizeth, who let him press close to his side and didn’t rush him, or interrogate him, or do anything at all but keep a solid arm around his shoulders that kept him from coming apart entirely.
One stupid dance—not even all of it, just the start of it—that was all it had taken to send him spiralling. Gods, why was he still like this!
He still couldn’t breathe right by the time they got home. Rizeth didn’t let him go until he was sat on his bed, and the moment he stepped away, Ashenivir wanted him back. None of his thoughts would catch, spinning away at the slightest attempt at coherence, and the only thing that had any chance of settling them was his Master. He dug his nails into his scalp and bit back a frustrated whine.
The bed shifted as Rizeth sat beside him. “Will you tell me what happened?”
Ashenivir raised his head, which weighed twice as much as usual, and opened his mouth. The words stuck in his throat like glass.
“I can’t,” he choked out. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I—”
His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Rizeth touched his face, as he had on the High Road.
“What do you need, Ra’soltha?”
He wanted to cry. No, he wanted to not think. To not be in his body, not feel any of this; not the old, raw wound the Haven had torn open, and not what Rizeth’s too-gentle touch did to his heart.
“Tie me up,” he said, the words shaky, his voice a dry rasp. He swallowed, and from some deep place found the courage to look at his Master. “Tie me up, please.”
“I do not know if that is a good idea for you right now.”
“I don’t need you to fuck me, I just need…I just need…” I just need you.
The back of his neck prickled. He could feel Rizeth’s magic in the mark, pulsing in time to his frantic heart, searching his pain. Don’t say no, don’t say no, Master, please. He knew his thoughts went nowhere but around and around in his own head, but Rizeth could surely read them on his face. After a long moment, Rizeth nodded.
“Thank you,” Ashenivir whispered.
Slowly and carefully, Rizeth undressed him. He gave himself over to the touch, let his limbs grow heavy and pliant beneath the comfort of commanding hands. That simple act, done with such attention and deliberation, brought his breathing steadier by degrees, and at last his heart began to calm. To be moved brought pleasure, his skin tingling at the passage of Rizeth’s hands, but no real heat rose within him; only a bone-deep relief that there was in his life this one person who could do this for him, save him from his own mind time and time again.
“Breathe for me,” Rizeth said, and Ashenivir inhaled, long and full. “Just like that, xi’hum, good boy.”
Rizeth didn’t command the rope, but wound it about him with his own hands. It wasn’t something he often did, though his motions were as sure and smooth as the enchantment. A column of knots, a web of rope around Ashenivir’s waist, his chest, every placement considered, every twist of it drawing his thoughts flatter, his heart steadier. Rizeth tipped him to his back to continue the bind up his arms, fastening him to the bed, laying more low praise over him as he went. Nothing that required an answer, no demands, no orders, just the deep roll of his voice, carrying Ashenivir away.
“Thank you, Master,” he murmured, the words barely audible.
“Float for me,” Rizeth said. “I will bring you back in a little while.”
Ashenivir mouthed the next thank you, and fell into body-stretch and rope-pull, clear and empty. All this trust he gave his Master—all the trust his Master placed in him. So much of Rizeth’s past that he knew, couldn’t he share this one piece of his own? Didn’t Rizeth deserve that much, after everything?
It didn’t matter now. He had no words left. Maybe, by the time he found his voice again, it would work. Maybe, by the time he found it, he’d know what to say.