Chapter Five
“Twist sharper on the final syllable,” Rizeth said. “It needs the rotational force as a catalyst.”
Ashenivir repeated the motion, making a satisfied sound when the rainshield sprang into existence above his head. Three tries, that was all it had taken him to master the spell—watching the play of the working-out on his face was as enjoyable as ever, bright shifts of thought driving back the grey morning. The shield hummed, blocking the thin drizzle that had begun the moment they’d left the inn and continued, dismally, the entire time they’d been waiting for the caravan to sort itself out.
“There you are, dearies! Glad you decided to join us.” Scheska trotted over, swathed in an abundance of striped wool, and set her hands on her hips. “I have good news and bad news.”
Rizeth suppressed a sigh. “Let us have the whole of it.”
“Usually we’d go straight down the High Road, clean shot right to Waterdeep,” she said, “but the Mere’s terrible this year, weather and undead creepy-crawlies both, and no-one’ll go that way ’til it clears up.”
“So we’re taking the Triboar Trail?” Ashenivir said. Scheska raised her eyebrows, and a blush darkened his cheeks. “I picked up a map. I thought I should know a little more about where I am, if I’m going to be here a while.”
“Well, you’re brighter than half the folk who actually live up here,” Scheska said. “Can’t count the number I’ve travelled with who can’t tell east from west. But yes, it’ll be the long way ’round the Trail. Hopefully we’ll make it to Waterdeep before winter catches up to us.”
“And the good news?” Rizeth prompted.
“Hm? Oh, well—we’re ready to leave, despite the setbacks. And you won’t have to put up with Xullzalle and Bhalrom’s bickering all the way down the coast.” She laughed. “If those two haven’t strangled each other by the time Master Do’tyl’s finished here, they’ll be married, you mark my words.”
With a jaunty wave, she jogged off to finish organising the rest of the caravan. At Rizeth’s side, Ashenivir tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders. He’d worn it almost every day since they’d gotten to the surface, and it was only practicality; it was cold up here, that was why Rizeth had brought it, knowing Ashenivir had no conception of surface weather, but…
But nothing. How often he wore it meant nothing, and if he looked uncommonly good wrapped up in oak-dark wool and charcoal grey fur, that was merely a pleasant side-effect.
The Triboar Trail. Rizeth could scream. Nearly twice as long to reach Waterdeep that way, and trapped in the company of strangers again. Gods, it was a good thing he’d had the gag made. Not touching Ashenivir for another month would be intolerable.
“I haven’t slipped for days now, Master,” Ashenivir said, interrupting his internal lamentations. “Out of Common, I mean.”
“I know. I have been keeping count, if you’ll recall.”
Ashenivir’s smile turned his flush prettier than was necessary. “I’m doing well, though, aren’t I?”
“You are progressing admirably, yes.”
A shout from Scheska signalled it was finally time to leave. The caravan lumbered out through Neverwinter’s southern gate, the covered wagons scouted not by riding lizards, but excitable children sprinting ahead of cursing parents. A chill salt breeze chapped his lips.
“It’s still a stupid language,” Ashenivir continued. “The grammar makes less sense the more I understand it.”
“There are many native Common speakers who would tend to agree with you on that point.”
“I wish they’d agree with each other instead,” Ashenivir grumbled. “But I suppose that’s what comes of forming a language out of a half-dozen other languages and pretending it’s—oh!”
They’d come up the short rise of road that led away from the city, and the land sloped down west to where the Sea of Swords lay spread out in all its grey autumn glory. Ashenivir stopped dead, and Rizeth realised that, despite his desire to do so, he hadn’t managed to visit the city’s docks in the few days they’d been in Neverwinter. There’d always been something else to catch his attention—Rizeth himself being no small part of that, taking advantage of the silenced gag and their small room as much as he had.
Ashenivir’s eyes flicked back and forth with the roll of the waves, his lips slightly parted, mouth curved in the beginnings of a smile. Rizeth wanted to capture that look and keep it all for himself.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said. White gulls circled above, paint flecks in the iron sky. All the light lay bright but flat, streaks of gleam through narrow gaps in the clouds illuminating the water in shifting patterns. “It hardly seemed real the first time I saw it.”
“Was it the same? Did it look like this, I mean?”
“Not quite. It was summer then, a veritable impossibility of light—I hardly knew the words to describe it. All I had to compare it to was the Darklake, and that…” Black water, endless, hopeless; lost and stumbling away from its icy shore, certain it would be easier and faster to cast himself into the depths than to keep wandering in the dark. Rizeth flexed his hand around his staff. “This is far more magnificent.”
“It is,” Ashenivir agreed.
The silence between them buzzed with the merged hum of their rainshields, the quiet roar of the ocean pierced only by distant gull shrieks. Rizeth could have watched Ashenivir watching the ocean for an hour, more—after a minute, they had to move on or be left behind.
Quite the contrast to his first journey down the coast. He’d had bright sun, a fine carriage, chattered at the whole way by a man he hardly knew. More comfortable, yes, and his trips since then had equally prioritised comfort, but this year he was happy to tramp the cold, wet miles on foot for the chance to do it with Ashenivir.
“Must I still speak only Common until Waterdeep?” Ashenivir asked.
“Yes, unless you wish your count to increase higher than it already has,” Rizeth said. But then, he missed how Ashenivir sounded in Drow—so much smoother, unfiltered by a language native to neither of their tongues. “However, given your progress, you may take a rest from it in each inn we stay at along the way.”
“How high has my count climbed, Master?” Ashenivir fell into playful Drow, and Rizeth knew without looking he’d be toying with his collar.
“Fourteen.”
“So low? I’m doing better than I thought.”
“Fifteen, and if you do not behave, I will start counting twice for each slip.”
Ashenivir glowed at his side, biting his lip over a smile. He wanted his punishment—though it was more play than reprimand, and they both knew it—and although Rizeth was happy to provide it, seeing him act that way only cemented the knowledge that this was what he wanted. Control and rules and a framework of desire; that was all Ashenivir needed.
He was looking out at the sea again, where the waves stretched to the far horizon. Such majesty it held, even in this season, a wild beauty to it nothing could match. The salt wind swept up, drawing Ashenivir’s hair back from his face to expose once more his wonderment at the marvels of the surface.
“Beautiful…” he murmured, lapsing back into Drow, and all Rizeth could say was,
“Sixteen.”
He’d gotten the room! Himself! No slips, no misplaced words, no confusion outside of that caused by his accent, which was apparently adorable. Ashenivir took the room key and turned to Rizeth, unable to keep from smiling.
“Excellent work, apprentice,” Rizeth said. “Another tenday, and we might call you passably fluent.”
Ashenivir preened at the praise. It was always rewarding when study paid off, doubly so when one’s Master noted it. They left the busy common room, where the rest of their fellow travellers were scattered about in rest for the evening, and made their way upstairs.
“I do not think my accent is adorable, though,” he complained, as they reached the end of the short hall. “It’s just how I talk.”
“Humans find novelties attractive.”
Rizeth held out his hand for the key, and Ashenivir tried not to let his fingers linger as he passed it over. A tenday and a half they’d been on the road, and it had been the Underdark all over again. No touching, no Ra’soltha, no privacy in the cold camps to so much as kneel for five minutes. He’d gotten the occasional number in a hard tone when he’d slipped into Drow—more often than not on purpose now—but that was it.
Ashenivir was, quite frankly, starving.
“Do you find novelties attractive, Master?” He slipped past Rizeth into the room. Four unimpressive walls, two weary-worn beds, and one silenced gag to allow him what he wanted. “Do you find my accent adorable?”
Rizeth closed the door with a slow deliberation that sent Ashenivir’s pulse skyrocketing. “I find your behaviour lacking in manners.”
He placed the key very carefully on the dresser, set down their bags, hung his cloak, put aside his staff, and Ashenivir vibrated in place, every second a minor eternity. When at last Rizeth’s eyes found his, the only reason he didn’t go to his knees at the command in them was that he wanted his Master to put him there.
Rizeth took his chin firmly. “Hungry, I see.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Say it in Drow.”
“Xas, Ehmtua,” Ashenivir replied, in High Drow to be contrary, and the look on Rizeth’s face at the title nearly made his rabbit-racing heart stop dead. He should use it more often—or would that ruin it, to say it too much?
Slow fingers slid from his chin to wrap around his throat, light pressure, just enough to let him feel his own pulse pounding. He clutched Rizeth’s arm as heat rose in his stomach, racing up through his chest, his heart, his head.
“Tighter,” he whispered. “Please, Master.”
Rizeth granted his request, and he allowed himself to go limp, all the stress of the road falling away beneath the sweet pressure point of contact. The relentless buzz that had filled his head all the way from Neverwinter—too cold, too wet, too many strangers, Common day in and day out—finally calmed to nothing. Ashenivir sighed. Much better.
A few reprimands and an undressing later, he was manacled to the end of one of the beds, a wrist at either post, bent over and exposed as his Master slid the silenced gag into his mouth. He liked the bar—liked the spell less, for while it was certainly an interesting sensation to scream out and hear nothing, how was his Master to know how much he appreciated what he was being given without sound? Still, it allowed him far more than he would otherwise have gotten, so Ashenivir forgave it. He flexed his jaw, feeling the leather give slightly beneath his teeth. Maybe when they got to Waterdeep, and Rizeth put up the soundproofing spells, they could take the enchantment off. He wanted to know how he’d sound moaning around it. He was sure Rizeth would like it.
“Comfortable?” Rizeth trailed a hand up his back, rolling his thumb over each vertebra. Ashenivir nodded. “Good.”
He didn’t tease as much as Ashenivir expected, and soon he was clutching at the bedposts, screaming into magical silence as Rizeth fucked him. The bed creaked dully, muffled, the slick, familiar sounds of sex muted to practically nothing. Rather than dwell on their absence, he concentrated on just feeling instead, because this did feel good, being full of his Master like this, serving again—
“Ah! ”
The sound of his own voice startled him to silence, and Rizeth froze, buried half inside him. He gave an experimental hum and the sound, though muffled by the gag, was very clearly audible.
The enchantment had failed.
His heart sank, and he sagged in his bonds, his pleasant headspace evaporating. So much for the scene. Hopefully Rizeth would at least let him finish himself off, so he wouldn’t have to end the evening entirely frustrated.
Rizeth rocked his hips, and Ashenivir gasped. Even that soft sound felt too loud.
“Hush,” Rizeth said. “Make too much noise, and I will leave you here like this all night. Am I understood?”
Ashenivir nodded, trying not to smile as he bit down on the gag. How lucky he was—his Master never let anything phase him, he always maintained such control. Rizeth’s pace was slow, designed to minimise noise and, in so doing, had the wonderful side effect of maximising sensation. Each time he hit deep, Ashenivir had to swallow a moan, the half-sounds decadent in their suppression. Hard and fast, that was his usual preference, but there was something to be said for slow and maddening.
“There now, you can be quiet. Such a well-behaved mouth you have tonight.”
Rizeth pressed his lips to the mark, and they seemed a burning brand, hot even to Ashenivir’s sex-fevered skin. A firm hand wrapped around his cock, its slow stroking matched to Rizeth’s careful pace, and he floated through uncountable minutes on a rising cloud of hazy pleasure.
Rizeth’s breath quickened, though his pace did not, and Ashenivir clamped his jaw tight around the gag as his Master came inside him, drool spattering to the bed. He made only a small, muffled whimper, hands fisting in their bonds, light-headed from the effort of holding back his too-loud breath. Rizeth kissed his mark again.
“Good, xi’hum.” The hand on his cock squeezed, thumb sliding back and forth across the slick, sensitive tip. “Are you going to come for me?”
Ashenivir nodded frantically.
“Make a sound, and you will remain gagged until sunrise,” Rizeth said, the restrained rumble of his voice overwhelmingly arousing, every syllable igniting Ashenivir further. His Master’s firm, commanding hand brought him right up to the edge and then over it—he choked back his voice, just as he had in the Underdark, knowing that Rizeth felt his gratitude anyway, for the back of his neck thrummed with the touch of his magic.
The prestidigitation that cleaned him afterwards was unwelcome and tedious—he sorely missed Rizeth’s bath back at the Arcanum. Ashenivir sprawled out on the bed when it was done, already missing his Master’s touch. Sex-flushed and daring, he allowed his foot to rest against Rizeth’s back where he sat at the edge of the bed, turning the gag over in his hands. Rizeth didn’t appear to notice.
“This is what I get for allowing someone else to do my enchanting,” he muttered, half to himself.
“Can you fix it?”
“If I had the time and materials, yes.” He got up and tossed the gag back into the bag of holding. “I have neither at present.”
Ashenivir sighed. “At least we’re halfway to Waterdeep.”
“Another tenday or so should see us there,” Rizeth confirmed. He pulled on the rest of his robes, drawing the sash tight. His eyes flicked over Ashenivir’s distinctly un-clothed form. “Do you intend on joining me for dinner?”
“Later, maybe.”
“Do not forget to eat, Ra’soltha.”
“I won’t, Master. I just want to take reverie first.”
The door clicked shut, and Ashenivir burrowed into the sheets with a contented hum. For all he disliked going without, there was no denying that waiting added a certain intensity to their scenes. Still, he’d be pleased to be done with waiting altogether—in Waterdeep, with soundproofing magic and no classes to fill his days, surely he could serve his Master every night if he wanted.
Sated and smiling, Ashenivir closed his eyes and slipped into a thoroughly satisfied reverie.
There was only one bed. Hardly surprising—the caravan had slogged the last few miles to Red Larch through driving wind and pounding rain, and Rizeth was grateful there were any rooms left at all. It was still pouring now, with worse yet to come if the promise of the heavy black thunderheads held true.
“You’d think the sky would run out of water to drown me with eventually,” Ashenivir said with a grimace, motioning another prestidigitation as he worked his fingers through the tangles of his soaked hair. His robes hung on the back of the door, steaming faintly as an enchantment worked to dry them. The intensity of the downpour had broken his rainshield three times, leaving him drenched.
“I had hoped to be in Waterdeep by now,” Rizeth admitted. “Winter is not the ideal time for travel.”
“I suppose it couldn’t be helped.” Ashenivir flopped down on the bed with a sigh. He lay there a moment, an enticing strip of stomach exposed where his undershirt had ridden up, then quickly sat up again. “Oh, I’m sorry, Master. Did you want to take reverie first?”
“Rest, if you are tired.”
“But I don’t want to make you—”
“Rest,” Rizeth said firmly. Ashenivir’s ears twitched, his posture softening. The little duck of his head was thoroughly charming.
“Yes, Master.”
It didn’t take long for him to fall into reverie. Rizeth made himself as comfortable as he could on the room’s single chair, having to tuck a folded square of parchment beneath one of the legs to keep it steady. He lit the lamp and took up his book, though it was a struggle to keep his eyes on the pages. Every moment that passed, the urge to join Ashenivir grew stronger. The scent of rain might still cling to him, the faint sweat of the journey might linger on his neck; he’d be warm in Rizeth’s arms, dozing, a sweet, soft thing—
Thunder shattered the night. Ashenivir bolted upright, eyes wide, and seconds later, a flash of lightning lit the room, harsh and blinding.
“What—?” Ashenivir started, only to cut himself off, flinching at a second flash. The wind howled, keening past the window like a mourner. The rain was a maelstrom of swirling dark, and the next thunderous rumble shook the very eaves. It was shaping up to be a bad storm.
It was Ashenivir’s first.
Rizeth tossed his book aside and went to him, cursing himself all the while—he’d seen the thunderheads gathering, he should have said something! How was Ashenivir supposed to know what they meant?
“Just a storm, apprentice,” he said, seating himself on the edge of the bed.
“It’s so loud.” Another flash made Ashenivir flinch again, hands clenching in the sheets. He tried for a self-deprecating laugh; it came out thin and unsteady. “I don’t know that I like this type of weather, Master.”
Thunder rolled a third time, a roof-rattling boom directly overhead, and he fairly flung himself at Rizeth, burying his face in his shirt, gripping so tight his knuckles paled.
“No, I don’t like it. How long will it last?”
“A while, I expect.”
He tentatively put a hand to Ashenivir’s back and began to stroke in long, smooth passes. This felt too far out of bounds of what he ought to be doing, but what other option was there? Leave him to suffer alone? Another flash brought a whimper—his apprentice, so enamoured of lightning magic, afraid of the storm. Rizeth’s heart ached.
“Lie down,” he said. It took Ashenivir a moment to uncurl his fingers from the death grip they had on his shirt, his whole body tense, on edge, waiting for the next thunderclap. Rizeth tugged his arm, gentle but firm, until he lay in his lap. With a motion of a mage hand, he brought his book from where he’d cast it to the floor. “Focus on my voice and nothing else.”
“Yes, Master.”
The storm seemed fixed in place, refusing to budge from above the inn. Every sky-rending crack of thunder rattled the room, every lightning strike illuminating Ashenivir’s fear in awful, flat brightness. His fingers dug painfully into Rizeth’s leg—his turn to leave bruises tonight, apparently. At last Rizeth gave up and set the book aside in favour of stroking his hair. Slow, steady, working out each tangle and knot with careful motions.
“It will pass,” he said softly.
“I know,” Ashenivir mumbled into his knee. “I feel stupid. It’s just noise and light.”
“I was worse,” Rizeth said. He brushed his thumb over the mark. Would that it worked the other way, so he could send a little comfort. “They always told us the surface wanted us dead. There is nothing like a winter storm to convince you that is true.”
“I can’t picture you afraid.”
He’d had a lot to be afraid of back then. Always looking over his shoulder, even on the surface, expecting the dark to reach up and drag him back. Never knowing if he’d eat one day to the next, if the room he’d scraped for would still be his come dawn. Sleeping with a knife in one hand and a near-empty component pouch in the other, reverie never deep enough to rest.
“I was alone,” he said. He slid his fingers back into Ashenivir’s hair. “I hid under the bed all night and passed out in the small hours.” He chuckled dryly. “The landlady woke me, pounding on the door, demanding the next day’s rent. I sat up so fast I nearly knocked myself out.”
Ashenivir laughed, breathy and lovely. Thunder rumbled again, but fainter now—the storm seeing fit, at last, to move on from Red Larch. “But it doesn’t bother you now?”
“I have lived through enough for it not to.”
Ashenivir made no reply. Rizeth glanced down—he was asleep. He smoothed Ashenivir’s hair back from his face and tried not to dwell on how impossibly good it was to have him lying here like this. He knew he should move, put him to bed and leave him to rest.
I’ll just sit a few more minutes. In case he wakes up again.
He stayed there until sunrise.
Ashenivir thanked the innkeeper and settled onto the barstool to wait. Three full days now storms had raged over the town, and showed no intention of relenting. Some of the more intrepid travellers, Scheska among them, had decided to press on despite the weather. He and Rizeth had remained behind, and Ashenivir knew it was at least in part because of how he’d reacted that first night. He didn’t like that his fear was holding them back, yet every time the thunder returned, he couldn’t keep from flinching. It sounded like the world was tearing itself apart.
“I hope you don’t think it rude of me, but your Common is very good.” A woman leaned against the bar next to him, evidently only recently arrived—her cloak dripped, and her long, pale hair was plastered to her neck.
“I don’t. It’s kind of you to say, I’ve found it a hard language to grasp,” Ashenivir said. He raised a hand, arcane sparks at his fingertips, and motioned at the puddle forming at her feet. “Would you like me to…?”
“What a gentleman you are, my word.” She stood with her eyes closed as the cantrip flowed over her, and ruffled her dry hair back into place afterwards. “You do better than me, is all I’ll say. Common’s the only language I manage, and my wife’d say I barely handle that.”
“I’ve had more time to learn than you, I expect.”
She chuckled. “And I’ll bet you wear your years better than I do and all.”
“Are you bothering people again, Eloise?” A short, dark-skinned woman appeared at her side, equally bedraggled. “Sorry about her.”
“I’m not bothering anybody, this is…”
“Ashenivir.”
“—my new friend, Ashenivir. He speaks two languages.”
“Seven, actually, though I wouldn’t really count High Drow and Elvish, they’re so similar to Drow.”
“You hear that, Thalia? Seven!” Eloise shook her head. “That’s where all the brains are, down underground.”
“Well, gods know they aren’t in your head.”
Thalia wrapped her wife in a hug, to much protesting at how damp she was. The complaints were annulled by a kiss on the cheek, and Ashenivir felt suddenly intrusive. His hand strayed to his collar, his eyes to Rizeth at their table across the crowded common room. He was reading, frowning slightly at the thick tome before him, chin resting in his hand whilst one finger idly tapped his cheek. There was space enough below the table, Ashenivir thought, to kneel.
“You been stuck here long?” Eloise asked. He turned back to her with a start, flushing as though she could read his mind.
“A few days.”
Her eyes flicked over the room, following his, picking out Rizeth easily enough. “Least you’ve got company to keep your bed warm.”
If his face got any hotter, it would catch fire. “I…we…he’s not…we aren’t…”
“Gods, Eloise, think before you open your fat mouth, why don’t you?” Thalia groaned. “They might not even know each other!”
“I’m just his apprentice,” Ashenivir said, and it felt like a lie. He wished he were bold enough to say Ra’soltha instead—it wasn’t as if they’d know what it meant.
“Oh, right, the magic,” Eloise said. “No, that makes much more sense.”
Thalia tugged Eloise’s hand. “Come on, before you put your foot any deeper into your mouth.”
The two of them slipped away up the stairs, hand-in-hand, and, watching them, Ashenivir couldn’t shake the feeling he’d forgotten something. It rattled around in his chest, an empty, hollow sensation, like he was missing something important. He worried at his collar, dragging it back and forth around his neck.
He’d fit so well under their table. Why did it have to be that wives holding hands wasn’t worthy of remark, but simply kneeling would cause an uproar? Couldn’t he get away with it as some foreign drow thing, an exotic Mythen Thaelan custom? Rizeth turned a page, and even from across the room, the careful motion of his fingers conjured a roll of moth-winged want.
“Here you are, sorry for the wait.” The innkeeper set two bowls of steaming stew on the bar. “I’ll send a lad over with some bread in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
Ashenivir took the bowls and threaded his way carefully through the raucous tables to Rizeth. It was too hot in the common room, the crush of people and the roaring fire fogging all the windows. He poked at his food, still with the itch in the back of his mind that he’d missed something, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off Rizeth’s hands as he ate.
“Hungry, apprentice?”
Was he? Maybe that was it. With the gag broken, he’d had little, especially trapped in this inn. He nodded.
Rizeth rose, tucking his book under his arm, and Ashenivir wordlessly followed him up the stairs. Once the door was safely locked, Rizeth took him by the hair, and he pushed his odd feelings away as his Master ordered him to silence and filled his mouth first with fingers, then with the hot, hard length of his cock.
He swallowed and was praised and was thankful, and afterwards he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hollow hunger that kept stirring just below his ribs. He’d just been fed, after all.
So why was he still starving?