Chapter Four
Ashenivir woke to the clatter of hooves on stone, the rattle of wheels, and a relentless babble of Common.
He sat up. Despite the noise outside, the room itself was quiet—and empty. It had been late by the time they’d arrived, and he’d stumbled half-asleep after Rizeth through the dark, unfamiliar streets. He barely remembered undressing, let alone where the inn was.
The other bed looked untouched; the only trace of Rizeth was his bags among the small collection set neatly beneath the window. Ashenivir padded over to it and drew back the curtains. The sun was up, but that told him nothing—how was he to know which brightness meant which time? The wide expanse of grey sky threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to close his eyes. He’d thought he’d gotten used to it on the way here, but it kept taking him by surprise. That empty, endless up. It just wasn’t natural.
The door thunked open, bringing his Master—and breakfast—into his life. “Good morning, apprentice.”
Ashenivir took the proffered pastry gratefully, mumbling a thank you through his full mouth. Rizeth, knowing him all too well, handed him another, then seated himself on his bed and took a small notebook from his pocket, flicking through it as he spoke.
“Until we reach Waterdeep,” he said, “you will speak only Common.”
Pastry caught in Ashenivir’s throat.
“But I’m not fluent enough yet, I can’t—”
“You can, and you will. However do you expect to become fluent if you do not practice?” Rizeth cocked an eyebrow at him. “And you will not get far asking for things in Drow.”
“My Elvish is much more passable.” At least the grammar was the same, even if he knew his accent was atrocious.
“And when you are among elves, you may speak as much Elvish as you please,” Rizeth said. “Neverwinter is predominantly human, as is most of the Sword Coast, and humans speak Common. The Illuskan dialect will no doubt prove an interesting challenge for you.”
“There’s a regional dialect?” Ashenivir flopped back down on his bed. “Master, this is impossible.”
“Melodrama does not suit you, Ra’soltha.” Rizeth snapped his notebook closed. “You will speak Common until we reach Waterdeep, including to me. I will be keeping count of each lapse.”
It was almost embarrassing how easily his Master controlled him. Ashenivir sighed and switched to Common.
“I understand, Master.”
“I thought you would.” Rizeth’s eyes flicked over his still-naked form. “Get dressed, apprentice. There is a city for you to study today.”
He didn’t want to. They were alone, four safe walls around them, with nowhere to be and no-one to interrupt them. He stretched out on the bed, wrapping his hands around the too-flimsy frame. “Must I?”
Hard, deliberate steps, firm boot-heels on the wooden floor. A hand touched his thigh, and he closed his eyes, tipped his head back…and a jolt of lightning lanced through his leg. He bolted upright with a yelp.
“You must,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir stowed his complaint, but not his pout. Rizeth’s voice hardened. “Clothes, Ra’soltha. Now.”
It was too early in the morning for punishment. Ashenivir bowed his head.
“Yes, Master.”
Their route brought them to a large market—stalls roofed with colourful canvas jostled for space in the cobbled square, and, without the benefit of sound baffles, the noise spread everywhere at once. Traders bellowed from all sides, extolling the virtues of food and fabric, trinkets and toys, jewellery and junk. Ashenivir could hardly parse a word.
Not that he was trying too hard. He’d nearly tripped a dozen times since they’d left the inn, failing to watch his feet in favour of gawping at his surroundings. Dark wood and stone—was it stone? The texture was unfamiliar, but he thought it was stone—the buildings hard, sharp, angular things with thick glass windows and brightly painted doors. Smoke twirled from brick chimneys in the salt breeze.
“That smell, it is because the ocean is nearby?” he asked. “I remember reading that Neverwinter is a…a…” what was the damn word for port ? “It is on the coast, so ships it…must ships it has…it…”
“It must have ships,” Rizeth supplied. Ashenivir’s face heated. Why couldn’t the stupid language behave itself? “And you are correct on both counts. This way.”
He led Ashenivir deeper into the heart of the market, to where stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables filled every inch of space with bright colours and strange shapes. The crowd was thicker here, and Ashenivir was keenly aware of how many eyes followed their passage. Though Mythen Thaelas had traded with Neverwinter for decades now, drow still weren’t a common sight. He moved closer to Rizeth.
“You are in no danger,” Rizeth said. He slowed his pace anyway, so Ashenivir could more easily keep up. “Particularly not with your accent.”
“Does that mean you are with yours?”
“No.” Rizeth’s shoulders stiffened. “I have very little accent left to my Common. Your lilt is somewhat more distinctive.”
“Then you had an accent before?” He had one in Drow, the sharp edges of his Menzoberranzan speech clinging to his words. Had it sounded the same wrapped around his Common?
“By all accounts, yes,” Rizeth said, and by his tone did not wish to say more. Ashenivir didn’t press him—Rizeth’s past was none of his business. That the Lolthite had rattled him as much as she had was unsettling enough. If Neverwinter—or the surface in general—held the potential to affect him similarly, Ashenivir had no desire to prompt it. Still, she was long gone now, as was the tense withdrawal her presence had brought about. This inn, he was certain, would be a much more enjoyable stay for both of them.
They continued on through the market, silent amidst the hubbub, until Rizeth halted near a stall piled high with bright orange and yellow fruits, whose tangy scent made Ashenivir’s mouth water. The stall-holder beamed at them and gestured broadly at his wares.
“Best oranges in Neverwinter! And second-best lemons, which I’m obliged to point out since my sister sells the best.”
“Undoubtedly,” Rizeth said dryly. The stall-holder’s smile faltered, and Ashenivir hid a laugh behind his hand. “Apprentice Zauvym, make a purchase, if you would.”
The laugh dried in his throat. His tongue was a lead weight as he approached the stall.
“I…” he started. He’d been talking just fine with Rizeth, despite his stumbles; why couldn’t he conjure the words now? “Would I please—vith!—could I please have—”
“An orange? But of course, my friend, and welcome to the surface!” The man plucked up one of the fruits and handed it to him. “My cousin married a fellow from your hometown last year—some sort of ex-druid, I gather—and a nicer elf I’ve yet to meet. That’s four copper, if you please.”
Ashenivir fumbled with the fruit and his coin pouch, mind going a thousand miles a minute. What in the world was the man saying? He gave over the coins, thankful that at least the metal values were the same, if not the shapes. Orange in hand, he turned back to Rizeth.
“Passably done.” Rizeth took the fruit from him and, with a deft motion, slit the skin and peeled it away. The vibrant flesh within came apart in small slices, and he pulled one free. “Open your mouth.”
Ashenivir obeyed instinctively, and flushed to the tips of his ears when Rizeth placed the orange on his tongue. Bright tang burst as he bit down, sharp and sweet. It was odd, but likeable, and the best part of it was the feel of Rizeth’s fingers against his lips.
He swallowed, staring at Rizeth. Was this allowed now they were away from the caravan? Orders, obedience—touching? Before he could say a word, Rizeth tossed the orange to him.
“Come along, apprentice.”
He strode away from the stall, and Ashenivir quickly followed after the swirl of his cloak. Maybe it was because there were only strangers around now. Maybe that meant it didn’t matter so much if someone saw them touching. After all, there was far less risk up here than there had been at the Arcanum.
Ashenivir bit into another slice of the orange. He did like the taste, he decided, though he’d liked it more when it had come from Rizeth’s hand. That brief touch had stirred a skin-prickling want in him, stronger than the usual lust, and all he could think was that he wanted to belong to Rizeth, which made no sense, because he already did. He had a mark on his neck and a chain around his throat to prove that. Yet still that want, sourceless and endless; pointless, because he got what he wanted in every scene Rizeth gave him, so what more did he need?
“Keep up,” Rizeth called, and Ashenivir realised he’d fallen behind. He hurried through the crowd, shoving his confused thoughts aside.
“Where to now, Master? The docks?”
“I have an errand to take care of,” Rizeth said. He had his notebook out again, frowning at the pages. “You will stay here and practice your Common.”
“On my own?” A panicked rise cracked his words.
“You will be fine.” Rizeth fixed him with a level look, and a brief shiver fluttered in his mark. The feeling made moth wings stir beneath his heart. “I will know if you are not.”
“I know, Master, but—”
Rizeth tucked his notebook away. “I will return in an hour. I will cast a sending if I am delayed.”
Ashenivir stared after him until the crowd swallowed him up, an awful heat flooding his head. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak this stupid language; how was he supposed to do this on his own? He turned the orange over in his hands, digging a nail into the supple peel.
Rizeth thought he could do this. Rizeth knew he could do this. He wouldn’t have left otherwise.
Ashenivir put another slice of orange on his tongue. Fear could wait until later—he had a language to master.
The unassuming little leatherwork shop was hidden away in the backstreets of what he couldn’t help but still think of as the Arcanist’s Quarter. Faded ink in his notebook listed the address as such and somehow, through calamity after calamity, it still stood, quietly, exactly where it always had.
The bell over the door chimed brightly, the scent of leather bringing with it a wave of memories, pleasant and otherwise. Cool winter light lay in a bright bar across the counter, where a red-headed girl was punching holes in a belt. She glanced up as he entered.
“Help you, sir?”
“I sent ahead to Master Kilroy—is he here?”
“Oh, Velkon’yss, right?” She set the belt aside. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but my father passed away a couple years ago.”
“My condolences.”
Regret stung him, but it was hardly surprising. Lysander Kilroy hadn’t exactly been youthful the last time he’d visited the surface, though Rizeth didn’t recall his having a daughter. A lot could happen in thirty years, he supposed.
“I made up the order all the same,” Kilroy’s daughter said. “Come on through, you can check it over. I’m Alys, by the way.”
He followed her to the back room, whose walls were hung not with belts, bracers, and armour, but manacles, harnesses, and hoods. The same solid oak workbench still dominated the centre of the room, stained and scratched with age. Alys laid out the pieces she’d made for him and stood aside, one hand set confidently on her hip while she chewed at the thumbnail of the other.
“Father taught me a lot, but I’m still learning,” she said. “Lord Stillgleam keeps promising to send someone up to give me a hand, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Just say the word if you want anything adjusting.”
Rizeth ran his fingers over the straps of the gag. A leather bar formed the mouthpiece, as opposed to the ball he had on the other. It was solid, well-wrapped, no raw edges or seeping glue. The buckles were sound, and the leather of as fine a quality as he’d expect from a Kilroy. He held it up and murmured a divination—a spell glowed within the bar; neatly formed, if a little textbook.
“Your father taught you magic as well as leatherworking, I see.”
“Some,” Alys replied. “Like I said, I’m still learning.”
He turned his attention to the other, more expensive, commission he’d made. Uncertainty as to the wisdom of making it fluttered in his stomach—probably it was going too far, but the work was done now, and he couldn’t very well reject it if there was nothing wrong with it. The harness was light in his hands, an elaborate construction of dark leather and silver chains as bright as Ashenivir’s collar. Not enchanted, though he could have had it so to be certain it would fit.
As he examined the straps Alys had brought to life from his design, he knew it didn’t need magic to fit. Whether Ashenivir would enjoy it, that was the real question. He’d hold off on finding out until they got to Waterdeep; he had other parts in mind to accompany it, and a particular occasion to save it for.
“All appears to be in order.” He set the harness down. “How much do I owe you?”
His purse considerably lighter, he took the quickest route he could back to the market, his new purchases tucked safely in their wrappings under his arm. A brief check of the mark showed him no distress, and nothing otherwise had provoked the magic, but he worried regardless. His first time in Neverwinter had been lonely and unpleasant, and he had no desire for Ashenivir’s experience to be the same. At least Ashenivir had a functional grasp of Common—though Rizeth had indeed had an accent when first he’d learned the language, in those early days he’d scarcely known enough of it to display one. Such a thing had worked in his favour, given the choices he’d had to make to keep himself fed and sheltered.
The first heavy drops of an oncoming downpour arrived as he re-entered the market. Rizeth adjusted his grip on his packages, and threw up a rainshield with a twist of his wrist. Those times were long gone, as were most of those who remembered them. He darted a flick of divination at the mark and worked his way through the thinning crowd to where the magic told him Ashenivir was.
He’d sought shelter beneath one of the canvas awnings, stood to one corner of it trying to keep out of the way, a small stack of books hugged to his chest. He smiled as Rizeth approached, and stepped into the protection of the rainshield. It wasn’t a large spell—the dry space it provided was so small they would have been chest to chest were it not for Ashenivir’s new books.
Rizeth twisted his wrist and expanded it a few inches.
“I’d like to learn that one, Master,” Ashenivir said, as they started back towards the inn. The skies had truly opened up now, market-goers scattering in every direction. “It will be very useless up here.”
“Useful,” Rizeth said. “Useless means the opposite.”
Ashenivir huffed. “All that practice this afternoon for not anything, then. I tied my tongue to knots talking as much.”
“Nothing, in knots, and so much,” Rizeth corrected, and this time Ashenivir swore in Drow. Then, realising he’d lapsed into the wrong language, swore again.
“That’s three today,” Rizeth said. “And all foul language. I thought you had better manners than that, apprentice.”
“It’s just so frustrating!” Ashenivir fell fully back into Drow now, slapping a frustrated hand at the air, as if to clear it of all language. “There’s so much I want to say, and I don’t know all the words in Common, and even when I do, I can’t get them in the right order. I’m never going to be able to speak it properly, and I don’t see why anyone would want to when it’s such a stupid language!”
Rizeth drew to a halt, a dangerous fondness uncurling beneath his ribs. Ashenivir longed so desperately for perfection, and though he was far more capable now of accepting his failings within the structure of his submission, the desire was too deeply rooted a part of him ever to excise completely—and Rizeth wouldn’t have wanted to even if he could. The frustration would pass, his determination would supersede it, and he would master the language. That was as much a fact as the rising of the sun and the beating of Rizeth’s heart.
“Would you like,” he said, “to give your over-taxed tongue a rest?”
Ashenivir’s mouth snapped closed. Rizeth winced internally—there’d been too much command in his voice, just as he’d allowed too much out when he’d fed—fed, for Goddess’ sakes!—Ashenivir the orange earlier.
“I would rather use it productively,” Ashenivir finally managed to reply. The fingers of one hand stretched up past the books they cradled, just enough to brush the links of his collar. Indigo stained his cheeks, his ears twitching, and how was Rizeth supposed to keep from over-indulging in inappropriate flexes of their dynamic when that was the reaction he got?
“Come along then, apprentice,” he said, starting off again. “And perhaps we may do both.”
Rizeth buckled the gag into place with slow deliberation, acutely aware of Ashenivir’s expectant gaze upon him. Each precise movement served to heighten his anticipation, drawing him moment by moment into the place Rizeth wanted him to be. He flexed his jaw over the bar between his teeth, tasting the leather—the eager curiosity in his eyes when Rizeth had presented him with it had made all the expense worth it.
He ran the pad of his thumb over the bar and, with a whisper, the spell embedded within it sprang to life. Ashenivir cocked his head at the feel of the magic, eyes widening as he tried to make a sound and none emerged.
“You may make as much noise as you want.” Rizeth circled a finger over one of the rings at the edge of the bar, followed the strap up along the side of Ashenivir’s head. “Absolutely no-one is going to hear you.”
He directed Ashenivir onto his bed—the spell dimmed the creak of the less than sturdy frame where the edges of the magic faded out. It would swallow every sound Ashenivir made, trap every noise brought about by his body in a protective cocoon of silence. He could be obediently quiet when ordered, but this was a far safer guarantee and, what was more, he looked unutterably delicious drooling over the bar in his mouth.
Rizeth took his time undressing, keeping just out of Ashenivir’s eyeline whilst he did. Though outwardly patient in posture, desire poured off Ashenivir in impatient waves; the subtle shift of muscle in his thighs, the slight tremble in his arms, the flex of his throat. Rizeth ran a hand down his back, drinking in familiar deep violet skin made new in the dim daylight filtering through the curtains. Ashenivir in full sunlit colour was a masterpiece.
Fingers slicked with a cantrip, Rizeth worked them slowly into him until he squirmed in place; the feel of him was phenomenal, after so long of so little. Even at the Hot Springs, the brief interlude of privacy had not given Rizeth as much advantage as he’d hoped for. The Lolthite’s presence had sent his walls slamming back up, the cold, protective shell of his Menzoberranzan years reasserting itself. More than a century gone from that place and still it held such sway over him.
But now there was no Lolthite, and they were alone, and Ashenivir was his. Rizeth hauled his head back, gripping his hair tight—drool trailed in thin strands to the sheets, his eyes huge and shining. He saw himself within them, deep in the dark of the starving pupils, rendered enormous by Ashenivir’s voiceless need. He moved his hand to Ashenivir’s throat, a slow curve of fingers to savour the vibration of his moans, the thunder of his pulse.
“Do you want something, Ra’soltha?” Again the vibrations of magically silenced sound beneath his palm. “If you cannot ask for what you want, you know you will not get it.”
A curl of his fingers had Ashenivir clutching at the sheets, the rustle of fabric fainter than a distant page turn. Another light squeeze of his throat, enough to feel a moan for more, then Rizeth took hold of his hair again. He arched his body as his head was drawn back and back; even in the uncomfortable hold he bucked his hips, chasing the pleasure he was denied.
“Fortunately for you, I know well enough what you want.” Rizeth withdrew his fingers and saw the whine in Ashenivir’s eyes. One spank, then another for good measure, both sounds dim and dulled, a door closing at the far end of a corridor. “And even silent, I can hear you complaining. Do you want your Master to fuck you or not?”
A nod, frantic as could be managed with Rizeth’s hand fisted in his hair. Rizeth held him there, drooling and hard and completely silent, drinking in the tension. When he felt, in that intangible way, that Ashenivir was at a perfect brink of need, he snapped into motion, shoving him to the bed and taking firm hold of his hips to press into him deep and hard, promising a swift deliverance of pleasure—only to stop dead the moment he had Ashenivir where he wanted him.
He rocked his hips, just the once, and even that slight motion had Ashenivir pressing back against him until another muted spank stilled his too-eager motions. Rizeth stretched out over the length of his trembling form, drew his hair aside to expose the mark, and pressed his mouth to its pale lines. Ashenivir tasted of sweat and sex and magic and there was nothing in the world it compared to.
“Beg, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir writhed in place, clawing at the drool-stained pillow, an animal of want beneath the weight of Rizeth’s body. Even if he’d had a voice, he wouldn’t have had words left to form with it.
“Very eloquent. As you wish, then.”
Not a single, solitary sound escaped Ashenivir’s throat as Rizeth fucked him into the bed. It was a good gag, a strong spell, and he wished it would fail. He wanted Ashenivir’s voice back, wanted every moan and gasp and sigh and plea for more, Master, more. The soundproofing spells were too complex and expensive to put up here, not for barely a tenday, but he almost wanted to waste the magic and damn the cost if it meant having Ashenivir in full, rapturous voice again.
The memory of such sounds sent heat rolling up his spine. He grabbed Ashenivir’s head and turned it to him, his desire searing white hot at the sight of his flushed face and glazed eyes. He could feel the desperation screaming from his Ra’soltha—he didn’t need to connect to the mark, he just knew Ashenivir that well, knew his body and its reactions like he knew his own. And, so knowing, he put a hand to Ashenivir’s cock and brought him to the edge and held him there, trembling at his touch. Then, when he couldn’t stand to wait any longer, and Ashenivir was a silent chorus of wanting beneath him, Rizeth put his lips to his ear.
“Come for me, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir fell apart in a glorious collapse, coming over Rizeth’s hand in a full-body spasm that had him following too-soon after. He pressed his mouth to Ashenivir’s neck as he came, marking the spot over his pulse with a harsh kiss.
It took him a moment—several—to collect himself, and when he rolled off of Ashenivir, he almost fell out of the bed. It was barely sized for one, and Ashenivir lay there, scarcely an inch away, and Rizeth couldn’t even hear him breathing. The silence was suddenly too painful to bear. Rizeth sat up, tugging Ashenivir with him, and deactivated the spell as he gently removed the gag. All at once; sound. The simple catch of Ashenivir’s inhale was a miracle.
“Thank you, Master.” Ashenivir’s voice was rough; he must have been excessively loud beneath the suppression of the spell. Rizeth stroked over his throat—checking for damage, that and only that—and found himself lingering over the mark he’d left. He started up. That needed healing.
Ashenivir caught his wrist. “Why? We’re not at the Arcanum any more.”
He was right, but what could Rizeth say? That if he let Ashenivir walk around bearing the marks of his mouth and had to pretend he hadn’t been the one to put them there, he was going to go to pieces?
“It is still not appropriate,” he said.
“But who is there to mind?” Ashenivir, loose-limbed, sex-warmed, too comfortable in his comedown for Rizeth’s heart to handle, climbed into his lap. “I won’t tell anyone who did it. I won’t make anything difficult for you.”
Goddess, I am not going to survive this trip.
“Firstly,” Rizeth said, catching him by the hair, “that was all in Drow, Ra’soltha. You behaved well otherwise, so I will be generous and count it only as one.”
“But—”
“That adds another. And secondly, you keep what I say you can keep. Am I understood?”
Ashenivir held his gaze, bold, as though he was going to protest again. Rizeth tugged his hair, and the defiance melted away.
“Yes, Master,” he said, in Common.
“Go and dress,” Rizeth said, releasing him. “Then take reverie until I return.”
“Where are you going?” Ashenivir reluctantly got up, and Rizeth immediately wanted him back, wanted him close, curled up next to him in the bed so he could bury his face in his neck and breathe in the post-sex perfection of him, and—
“To fetch something to eat.” He forced iron back into his spine and willed sense back to his head. “I will not be long.”
He dressed quickly, and left Ashenivir cross-legged on the bed, drifting into reverie. It was drizzling outside, the rain reduced to a miserably thin spatter that chilled the air and made staying inside, in bed, in Ashenivir’s company an even more dangerously appealing idea. Rizeth ran a hand over his face.
It was going to be a long year.
After they’d eaten, Ashenivir had settled on his bed with one of the books he’d gotten from the market—all in Common, he’d declared proudly—and was presently lost in its pages. Rizeth sat on his own bed with his own book, not even six feet from him, and tried to keep from staring. The more time he spent with Ashenivir, the harder it was to find the willpower to look away.
Ashenivir frowned and turned back a page. “Master, what colour are the dimensional pools for the Astral Sea?”
“Silver,” Rizeth said quietly. Ashenivir made a satisfied noise and went scrambling for a pencil.
“I thought so.” He scratched a note into the margin. “And they’ve mixed up Arborea with Mount Celestia twice already. I barely speak Common and I can see the errors—how does such a thing ever get published?”
He chewed on the end of his pencil, eyes flicking across the page. Not even six feet, and it might as well have been the Astral Sea for all the chance Rizeth had of crossing it. But this was all he could have. Ashenivir wanted nothing more from him.
He forced his eyes away, gazing at the winter downpour that had returned to drown the cold, black night. This was enough.
This would have to be enough.