Chapter Sixteen
Ms Thorne shook her head with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Verin left about an hour ago.”
“It’s alright.” Ashenivir turned the bracelet over in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the V shaped charm. He’d woken up with it on his wrist without the slightest recollection of how it had ended up there. “I only wanted to return this.”
“I believe Miss Shemov is still here. She may know which way he was headed.”
“She’ll at least be around when he gets back,” Ashenivir said. “May I go in?”
“Of course. You might try the back porch; guests often take lunch there.”
Ashenivir thanked her and went through into the ballroom. Gods, he’d slept half the day away and his head still felt near to exploding—even the soft tap of his heels on the marble floor was too loud, and the wretchedly bright sunlight through the tall windows made his eye-sockets ache. He couldn’t find Mara on the porch, but one of the servants said she’d gone upstairs, which either meant she was in one of the guest rooms, or she’d be tied up—probably literally—in a playroom for the next few hours.
He paused at the foot of the staircase. The lower floor was one thing, but the playrooms without Rizeth? He had permission to be here—had asked, even hungover as he was, when he’d realised he had Verin’s bracelet, and Rizeth had told him again he didn’t need to.
He wasn’t going to stop asking.
“So, are you going to tell him?”
Ashenivir looked up. Lord Stillgleam stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister.
“Tell who what? Verin already left—you don’t know where he went, do you? Or where Mara is?”
“No manners today, I see.” Kelran flashed a smile and beckoned him up. Ashenivir hesitated. No Rizeth, no Mara, no servants; just the House and Lord Stillgleam, who’d had an uncommon interest in him from the day they’d met. “Come on up, little lost apprentice. We have a few things to talk about.”
Kelran took his arm when he reached the landing and led him into the playroom corridor. Ashenivir tensed—almost all the doors were marked green.
“As I told you at High Coin, you’re perfectly safe,” Kelran said. “And fetching as you are, I think my chances are somewhat scuppered by the fact that you’re hopelessly in love with Rizeth.”
Ashenivir’s head throbbed, his mouth desert dry. How did he know? They’d all been so gone last night, he’d hoped no-one would remember his idiotic confession. Verin had left, River wasn’t here—had Mara said something?
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play the fool, you’re far too clever for that. Now, to return to my earlier question: are you going to tell him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kelran sighed and muttered something under his breath that Ashenivir didn’t quite catch. One of the doors to their right was marked red but stood wide open, the room empty. Kelran stepped inside, motioning him to follow. After a pause, he did. No mirrors in this playroom, only midnight black walls that shrank the space oppressively. A cat-o’-nine-tails had been carelessly left out on the flogging horse in the corner, and three of the wall-cabinet drawers were half open.
“Messy pups,” Kelran murmured, half to himself. He picked up the cat and ran the tails through his fingers, checking over each knotted thong with a careful eye.
“Whatever Mara said—” Ashenivir started. Kelran arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, and he fell silent.
“I do not need Miss Shemov’s unstoppable mouth to tell me how you feel about your Master,” Kelran said. “You look at him like he put the damn stars in the sky.”
“I can’t tell him.” This was last night all over again, only worse because now he was sober. “He doesn’t feel the same way.”
“You don’t know that,” Kelran said, crossing to the cabinets to set the cat away. He pushed each drawer closed with firm, deliberate fingers. The motions—their care, their confidence—reminded Ashenivir so much of Rizeth his heart ached.
“I do.” The words came out in a scratchy whisper. “I know him. He doesn’t want me like that.”
“Oh, you know him—well, aren’t you just besotted?”
“Did you bring me up here to make fun of me, Lord Stillgleam?”
Kelran met his glare with enough iron to almost make him drop his gaze, but he was hungover and heartsick and in no mood to be toyed with. At last, Kelran looked away. He leaned against the cabinets, arms crossed, and blew out a long sigh.
“Rizeth hasn’t been close with anyone for a long time,” he said. “The last person he was involved with was…someone I set him up with.” He smiled wryly. “Suffice to say, things with her did not end well. You remember I told you he’s never brought anyone collared here?”
Ashenivir nodded.
“Well, he’s never brought anyone here since her, full stop. He used to come maybe once a decade or so, play with whoever I found for him, then vanish again for years. Never for thirty at a time, but he’s always been…” Kelran waved a hand. “Oh, you know how difficult he can be.”
“He’s not difficult.”
“I suppose you would think that.” Kelran straightened, adjusting his sleeves. “Rizeth is my friend,” he said, his emerald eyes piercing right into Ashenivir’s pounding headache. “I do not want to see him hurt again. Am I understood?”
“I don’t want to lose him,” Ashenivir said, suddenly on the verge of tears.
“Then tell him. Or leave him. Make a choice, my dear Ra’soltha, before you have it made for you.”
Kelran left him standing there in the playroom, clutching Verin’s bracelet and fighting back the moths that swarmed in his chest. The idea of someone hurting Rizeth made him furious; the fact he’d never known about it made him falter. There was so much about Rizeth he didn’t know, an entire life before the mere half-decade he’d been in Ashenivir’s—how could he possibly think he loved him, knowing so little?
But he did. He had for Goddess knew how long without even realising it. The thought of him made Ashenivir’s heart turn inside out, his smile made it hard to breathe, and he knew everything Ashenivir liked, from how hard to hit him to how hot he liked his baths and how sweet he took his tea. No one fit him better, and Ashenivir never wanted to take him off.
The solstice celebration at the Haven was in a few days. A year since graduation, a milestone by any margin—he could tell him then, perhaps. Or maybe after that, so as not to ruin his first time dancing again.
Or maybe never, he thought, and took himself off to the Font to try not to think about anything.
The setting sun threw their shadows long as they approached the Dancing Haven. The nearer they got, the faster Ashenivir’s heart raced, until he was more heartbeat than drow. It was early yet, but music and laughter already rang out from behind the walls. The usual feline inhabitants of the entryway had made themselves scarce, leaving the short hall empty. Ashenivir fidgeted with his collar, twisting the chain so fiercely that had it not been enchanted it would have snapped. He wanted to run, race right back to the apartment and hide until the solstice was over.
“We can leave if you want,” Rizeth said.
“I won’t come back if I do.”
Rizeth unwrapped his fingers from his collar, smoothing the links against his neck. The touch of his hand brought an immediate, if temporary, calm—this whole thing would have been a lot easier if Ashenivir could have kept hold of it. A pair of priestesses darted through the corridor ahead of them, naked but for belts of silver rings. A moment later the sound of song grew louder; they must have left the door to the gardens open.
“Then we ought to join the celebration,” Rizeth said. His hand hovered at Ashenivir’s neck a moment, then, to his surprise, it went to the back of his neck. “If you hurt, I will take you home.”
“Thank you.”
He was so close. It wouldn’t take much; Ashenivir only had to be bold enough to stretch up, close the gap, and kiss him.
The hand fell away. “Come along, apprentice.”
The gardens were full of celebrants, far more than Ashenivir had expected, and not all were drow. Some were still clothed, but many were naked or nearly so, delighting in the balmy summer air and the freedom of the solstice. Magic thrummed in the air, soothing the insects that might otherwise dare to bite, lulling the small creatures the noise would otherwise distress. Paper lanterns hung everywhere, the pillars around the altar aglow with clinging faerie fire, and though night had only just begun to claim the city, already it was host to a dozen or more dancers. Ashenivir saw Xalin among them, her hair flying wildly as she spun through a twist that had her skipping skilfully backwards beneath the arms of two other dancers.
He couldn’t take another step. He clutched Rizeth’s arm, breath shaky, limbs cramped with painful longing. They wanted to move, he wanted to move, let the music carry him into the dance and wash him away.
Rizeth drew him aside, beneath the lantern-strewn branches of one of the larger trees. “Breathe,” he ordered, quiet but firm. “Good, like that. Just watch for now.”
They stayed there as darkness fell and the dance grew and grew and grew. It spilled off the altar, sweeping everyone into its joyous revel. Dancers wove through the trees, voices a mingling choir in the dark; those with instruments swapped out every few minutes, as the need to join their fellows in motion overcame them.
Rizeth let him cling as he watched the celebration; no complaint, no urging, just silent support. Magic flickered in his mark at regular intervals, and each time it did he squeezed Rizeth’s arm in gratitude. After some time, he found himself swaying in place, humming under his breath. The Maiden’s songs had never truly left him—how could they have? He glanced at Rizeth.
“Master…”
“Go on,” Rizeth said, and smiled that very subtle, very soft smile that turned Ashenivir absolutely inside out. “I will be right here.”
Carefully and methodically, Ashenivir stripped out of his clothes. With Rizeth there, it was almost like he was preparing for a scene. That made it easier, and by the time he was naked, his heart-rate was something in the vicinity of normal. He stretched out his limbs, touched his collar one last time, then crossed the grass to join the dance.
His meagre, half-hearted practice in the apartment had been nothing compared to this. He was clumsy, stiff, and it would take time, if he chose to take it, to regain anything like the skill he’d once had, but as the dance surrounded him, that ceased to matter. Music filled his veins, made every awkward motion feel right, every stumble taking him somehow in the right direction. He spun about the platform, a smile breaking across his face. Oh, how he’d missed this! Fear and joy in a tangle around his heart, but his breath was free and easy at last. He flung himself into the river of shifting bodies with a delighted laugh.
“It’s good to see you!” Xalin called when the flow brought them together.
“It’s good to be here!” His hands linked briefly with hers before he was swept away. And it was good, he was so glad he’d come, he felt alive and bold and larger than his body could contain. He could do anything, feeling like this.
From hand to hand he went, a new partner every moment, into the centre and back out to the edge of the altar, where he could see Rizeth still stood, as he’d promised, in the shadow of the tree. Dancing had him overfull of joy, yes, but looking at Rizeth flooded him with those warm and wonderful moth wings he now understood; love as he’d never imagined. Telling him had seemed like an impossibility, but tonight…
Ashenivir fell back into the dance, carried away into a freedom he’d forgotten how to feel.
Maybe tonight he could.
There must have been dozens of dancers in the shrine, but Rizeth was spellbound by only one. For all Ashenivir’s stumbling, there was clear grace in his movement, and as Rizeth watched him weave amongst the revellers, he found himself hating Matron Zauvym. She’d twisted her son’s joy into a thing he was too afraid to even speak of, stolen it from him with her petty selfishness.
A furious desire rose in him then for Ashenivir to do anything he wanted, have everything he loved without question. He deserved nothing less.
“You know you can join in if you want.”
A silver-haired priestess stood before him, balanced lightly on the balls of her feet, her eyes bright with exertion.
“No, thank you,” he said. She looked from him, to the altar, then back again.
“You’re Ashenivir’s, aren’t you?”
“He invited me, yes.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “No, I mean, you’re his, right?”
He found Ashenivir again; moonlit, lamplit, hair flying about his face as he whirled across the altar with wild abandon. Rizeth had seen him naked a thousand times, but never like this, never so completely free.
“Yes,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away. “Yes, I am.”
The priestess took his hands, and he blinked, startled, as she went up on tiptoes to kiss both his cheeks. “Congratulations.”
Before he could ask what she meant, she was gone. He touched his fingers to his cheek. He was Ashenivir’s, had been for a long time—so long he was starting to forget how to be anything else.
Not even a minute later, Ashenivir came skipping down from the altar towards him, sweat-slick and gasping, a wide and out of breath smile splitting his face. “Master, will you join me?”
“I am no dancer.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ashenivir took his hands, and that one simple touch set Rizeth’s heart racing. “She’ll guide you.” He pulled Rizeth forwards, and there was no choice but to go with him. They didn’t head back into the maelstrom of the shrine, though; instead, Ashenivir led him off into the trees, to a more secluded part of the Haven’s gardens. The music was fainter here, a dream that hardly mattered. Ashenivir tugged at his shirt.
“You can’t dance clothed, Master.”
“Apprentice—”
“Please?” Ashenivir plucked at the fastenings, that smile still consuming his face, almost too bright to look at. Rizeth caught his wrists—then let go. How could he say no to him tonight?
He allowed himself to be divested of shirt and sash and outer robe, leaving him feeling far too vulnerable in only his breeches. Ashenivir made no move to take those as well, seeming to sense such a thing would be going too far.
“I do not know how to dance for the Maiden,” Rizeth warned, as Ashenivir drew him to the centre of the small clearing. He ended up floundering about anyway, carried along by Ashenivir’s enthusiasm. Rizeth Velkon’yss, dancing for Eilistraee in a moonlit grove on the surface—the small and terrified boy back in Menzoberranzan could never have dreamed of such a reality.
After he’d tripped over Ashenivir’s ankles for the fifth time, Ashenivir gave up, laughing.
“You really are a terrible dancer, Master.”
“I did say.”
Ashenivir grinned, more than half a trace of brat in the curve of his lips, and went leaping about, a whirlwind of joy abruptly cut short when he tripped, foot catching on something in the dark grass. Rizeth caught him, heart skipping a beat at having Ashenivir held against his chest like this, making no move at all to pull away.
Back at the shrine, the music had calmed. A slow, lilting melody filtered faintly through the night, a lone voice carrying a song of endless seeking, because the joy was in the looking, not the finding.
Staring down at Ashenivir in his arms, Rizeth was inclined to disagree with the sentiment.
“I do recall a few steps,” he found himself saying. Though he was long out of practice, the simple waltz was not precisely complicated—it at least had set motions, rather than the wild improvisation that was Eilistraee’s wont. Ashenivir matched him step for step until the music grew too slow for any rhythm to be found at all and they stilled in the quiet.
Rizeth didn’t let him go. Ashenivir rested his head against his bare chest, hands light on his shoulders. More tentative than he liked, he settled his hands around Ashenivir’s waist.
“Thank you,” Ashenivir murmured.
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For making sure I did come tonight.” He raised his head, eyes fathomless, smile soft. “I’d forgotten how good it felt. All those years of stupid fear—I can’t believe I let it rule my life for so long.”
It was a wholly selfish thing to think him the loveliest thing in the Haven, but Rizeth thought it anyway. You can’t let it rule your life forever, Kelran had said, and what were his fears compared to what Ashenivir had overcome tonight? And the way Ashenivir looked at him, wasn’t there a chance it was more than the dancing and the solstice and the moonlight?
“Ashenivir—” he started, as Ashenivir said,
“Master, I—”
He tipped his head, indicating for Ashenivir to speak first. A sudden nervousness seemed to take him, in the tensing of his hands, the turn of his mouth. He bit his lip. Took a breath.
“Master, I wanted to—”
A flurry of giggles cut through the night. Rizeth yanked his hands from Ashenivir, stepping back abruptly as a pair of priestesses stumbled, hand in hand, to a halt at the edge of the clearing.
“Oh, sorry,” one said. The other, still giggling, pressed kisses to her shoulder. “We’ll just…find somewhere less occupied.”
They were gone before Rizeth could say anything, but the damage was done. Whatever moment he might have imagined was gone. One priestess thinking he was Ashenivir’s did not make the opposite true—he’d been projecting, seeing what he wanted to see because the night had felt so full of possibility that why couldn’t he imagine, just for a moment, that what he wanted most might be true?
He found iron for his spine, drew his mask into place, and turned back to Ashenivir.
“Shall we return to the apartment?”
A brief flicker of what might have been frustration touched Ashenivir’s brow for a moment, then vanished beneath the familiar bitten-lip smile Rizeth so adored.
“Yes, Master. I’d like that very much.”
He took his time hanging up his cloak while Ashenivir undressed, then took the leash from its hook and clipped it to his collar before he had a chance to kneel. The lovely indigo that had painted him half the night in exertion now returned as the colour of desire, begging to be touched. Rizeth resisted, because he could not allow himself the inch of softness that would become a mile of foolish choices. He walked backwards, tugging Ashenivir through into the bedroom.
“You danced well for the Maiden tonight,” he said, unable to keep the rough edge from his voice. “Dance for me now, Ra’soltha.”
“But there’s no music,” Ashenivir protested, “and I—”
Rizeth yanked him close, chest to chest. “Are you going to make excuses, or are you going to do as you’re told?”
He kept his voice hard, his mind attuned to the mark, searching it and Ashenivir’s face for any trace of discomfort with the order, the slightest hint of panic. Nervousness, fluttering like a moth’s wings, but no fear. Ashenivir’s eyes softened.
“As I’m told, Master.”
Rizeth didn’t bother to light the lamps. The faint moonlight was more than enough—it accentuated every angle of Ashenivir’s body; the plane of his stomach, the shadow of his collarbone, the curve of his calves. The bruises that decorated him were little more than dark smudges, but Rizeth could have found every one by touch alone, knowing exactly where he’d left them.
Ashenivir’s first steps were hesitant, shy in contrast to the wild leaps he’d made about the shrine. Rizeth seated himself on his bed, making no comment. Each uncertain motion was a marvel, every awkward movement a thing to be adored. After a moment, Ashenivir began to hum to himself, a slightly off-key version of one Eilistraee’s devotionals. No words, just melody, and Rizeth had never heard him sing, never had the idea of it crossed his mind, and the sound made him painfully aware of how far gone he was, because it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.
“Come here,” he ordered. Ashenivir came easily and eagerly into his lap, holding his leash out without a word. Rizeth wound it around his hand and drew him close to kiss him, deep and long, with all the desire he couldn’t express aloud.
“Hands behind your back,” he said, in a brief moment of breath snatched before returning his mouth to Ashenivir’s. Ashenivir made a pleased noise against his lips, moaning when Rizeth put a hand to his cock. He rolled his thumb over the tip, stroking, squeezing, feeling the heat and the hardness of him grow until Ashenivir panted in his arms, hips bucking, wanting more than he gave—always he wanted more, his starving Ra’soltha, and Rizeth only denied him because to deepen his hunger made fulfilling it all the more satisfying.
“Good, xi’hum.” He was breathless, not an ounce of command left in his voice. “So good for me.”
“Did my dancing please you, Master?” Ashenivir gasped out.
“Very much.”
Rizeth kissed his neck, biting a mark into his throat. He tasted of some impossible thing, divine in the dark, and if dancing had been his worship, then to touch him was Rizeth’s. He did not sing, he did not pray, he kept the gods at a remove, yet Ashenivir was his living altar, the gift of his submission a blessing made flesh.
“When my Master is pleased,” Ashenivir continued, “he rewards me.”
“What would you like, Ra’soltha?”
“Kiss me again,” Ashenivir said. “Kiss me until I come, Master.”
Ashenivir’s mouth melted against his, warm and pliant and so familiar it hurt. Every moan and needy cry fell into his throat, and Rizeth swallowed them all with a starving desperation; they were one breath, one motion, the roll of his hand and the rock of Ashenivir’s hips two halves of the same need. Ashenivir’s moans grew higher, shorter, sharper—he sped his strokes, pressing his tongue deep into Ashenivir’s mouth.
Come for me, he thought, and though he cast no spell to send the words, Ashenivir obeyed all the same. He shuddered in Rizeth’s arms, mouth still pressed to his, as though he needed Rizeth’s air to breathe.
“Thank you, Master,” he sighed, when at last he fell away. He swallowed, wet his lips. “Shall I pleasure you now?”
“Not tonight.”
“I came, so you came?”
Rizeth tugged his hair, though there was no real annoyance in it, and Ashenivir only laughed, quiet and out of breath. He put him on his knees, keeping hold of the leash. Ashenivir pressed against his legs, making small, happy sounds as Rizeth stroked the tangles from his hair, bringing him through the comedown with a practised hand. What an honour, what an incomparable privilege it was to be allowed to do this for him.
If only those priestesses hadn’t interrupted. He would have said something—he would have—and maybe now they’d…maybe tonight would have been…
Pointless maybes. Rizeth kept his sigh to himself, ran his fingers through Ashenivir’s hair, and wondered what his life might be like if he weren’t such a coward.