Chapter Eight
Snow crunched beneath Ashenivir’s boots. The main thoroughfares of the Castle Ward were clogged with sludge and slush already, and thin snow flurries swirled intermittently from the iron-grey sky, flakes catching in his hair. Cold bit at his nose and cheeks, but he left his hood down. He liked the sharp edge it gave the morning, so unlike anything he’d ever experienced in Mythen Thaelas.
The cobbles of the market were slick beneath his feet as he wound through the bustling crowd. He hoped the bookseller would be out again today; the bazaar back home had some stalls that were permanent, but others depended on the day, and he didn’t yet know if Waterdeep’s market worked the same way. It took him a quarter of an hour to find her, stamping her feet and rubbing her gloved hands together behind the carefully organised chaos of the mound of books heaped over her stall.
“Back again?”
“You could have warned me there was a cliffhanger,” Ashenivir said.
She grinned, then plucked three slim volumes out of the pile and handed them to him. “Hard in Hightown, right? That Tethras fellow really knows what he’s doing.”
“Are these going to have me back again tomorrow?”
“Probably, but that’s all the parts that are out as yet.” She tucked a spring of orange hair back from where it had escaped her thick woollen cap. “You’ll just have to wait like the rest of us.”
Given how quickly he’d devoured the others, Ashenivir figured he’d need something else to occupy him while he did. He tilted his head, scanning the spines for an interesting title. It was a good thing the Arcanum was paying his way if he was going to get through books this fast. At least he wouldn’t have to buy them at the Font of Knowledge—or would he? Did surface libraries charge a fee to read?
“Ashenivir! Hi!”
Mara’s half-cape was confectionery pink, edged with white fur, her shoulders dusted with snow. Her long skirt hung heavily to her ankles, lace trim brushing the tops of dainty fawn-coloured boots. She beamed, skipping around him to examine the stall.
“You like serials?” She extricated a slightly battered red volume, toppling a nearby stack in the process. “Did you read A Seventh Heaven yet?”
“That series is a mess,” the bookseller said, rolling her eyes. “It takes forever for them to confess their feelings, and the prose is purple as a bruise.”
“It’s called romantic tension,” Mara said primly. She rummaged further and came up with five more red volumes, two of which had rather lurid illustrations inked onto their covers. She thrust the books at Ashenivir and a handful of coin at the bookseller. “You have to read them so we can talk about them next time you’re at the House.”
“No refunds!” the bookseller called after them as they left. Ashenivir shifted the pile of books in his arms, trying and failing to find a comfortable way to carry nine of them.
“Should you be mentioning Lord Stillgleam’s House like that?” he asked once he was sure he wasn’t going to drop everything. Mara blinked up at him, frowning.
“Why not? I didn’t say anything scandalous. The rule is you can’t say who you saw there, not that you can’t talk about it at all. Don’t tell me you’re going to be as boring as River about it—I thought you’d be fun, given how cute you looked last night.”
Ashenivir flushed, and she giggled. He could hardly believe last night had been real—the House felt like a dream this morning, though the harness hanging at the end of his bed had been solid enough. He’d healed the marks on his neck, as he’d promised, and spent too long afterwards tugging at his collar in the mirror, picturing a leash running from it to Rizeth’s hand.
The two of them wandered through the market, pausing to indulge in cups of steaming hot cocoa piled with soft, sweet white cubes that Mara called marshmallows, and which Ashenivir immediately added to his mental list of things to take back for Keszriin. How had the Underdark not imported these by the cartload?
“You should come by today,” Mara said, when they’d handed their cups back to the drinks cart. “Verin’s working, but she has loads of breaks between clients, and River’ll probably drag Cain over this evening.” She cursed and kicked at a snowdrift. “His Sir, I mean. I keep forgetting.”
“Do you have to use titles outside of the House? Is that a rule?” He called Rizeth Master all the time, but he was still an apprentice—for certain values of apprenticeship, anyway.
“No, but if I remember to do it in one place, I can probably do it in the other. It’s switching around all the time that confuses me.” She huffed. “Oh well, it’s not so bad. He’s not my Sir, he can’t do more than frown at me. Anyway, you’re going to come, right?”
To the House? Without Rizeth?
“I don’t…no, I don’t think I should,” he said.
“Boo, your Master won’t mind. We’re not going to ravish you unless you ask nicely.” Mara hooked her arm into his. “But if you want to be a good rasilla—”
“Ra’soltha,” Ashenivir corrected, then immediately worried he’d said it too loud. But there were no other drow in the market, and no-one paid them any mind.
“If you’re set on being a good one of those, then just come for drinks with us at the end of the tenday. I hate the thought of you being all alone in Waterdeep with only your boyfriend. You have to have other friends whilst you’re here!”
“He’s not my…” he couldn’t make himself say the word. “He’s just my Master.”
“Oh, okay,” Mara said. “Ooh, look!”
She dragged him over to a jewellery stand, where she cooed over silver bracelets and gold earrings for several long, distracted minutes before remembering what she was doing.
“Come to Trollskull Manor,” she said. “The seventeenth—that’s the next day we’re all free in the evening—at like seven? Maybe eight? I’ll send a note. You’ll love it there, I promise! The owners are adventurers, and they used to have a ghost, but they exorcised it, and—”
She chattered on, exactly as she had at the House, dragging him here and there about the market until it started to rain, whereupon she threw up her hands with a squeal.
“I have to go before my hair is totally ruined. It was so nice to meet you again, Ashenivir—I’ll see you at Trollskull!”
She darted off, splashing away through the slush. Ashenivir let out a heavy breath—no wonder Verin had been so exhausted. He conjured a rainshield with a twist of his wrist, hugging his books to his chest. Still, it was nice to have found a friend so quickly, and drinks sounded…they sounded fun, actually. How long had it been since he’d gone out just to have fun?
The House on his own, no. But a few drinks at a tavern? That he thought he could manage.
A morning spent mired in tedious paperwork—it was as though he’d never left the Arcanum. Access to the Watchful Order’s more restricted texts was worth the minor aggravation, though, and given that this wasn’t meant to be the holiday Kelran had accused it of being, Rizeth supposed he’d better get on with some actual work. He’d have the rest of the books he needed in a few days, and could work on sketching out the shape of the modifications in the meantime.
He mused over his options as he ascended the stairs to the apartment. Modifying an existing word of power would be simpler, but using the general theory as a base to construct a new one—a more pleasant one—would serve better results. Ashenivir would be more than willing to test out whatever he crafted.
Ashenivir at present was reading on the couch. Curled up in one corner, chewing idly on his thumbnail, thoroughly absorbed by the book in his lap. His hair lay loose about his shoulders, aglow in the wintry sunlight; when he shifted, the light caught his collar, and Rizeth stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move as a thud of want echoed in his heartbeat.
The next beat was filled with orders, a clamouring cavalcade of them—don’t push, you had him the last two nights, you can’t—
He tossed his books to the table, deliberately hard. The sharp sound brought Ashenivir’s head snapping up.
“Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir’s ears twitched. Slowly, he set his book aside, attention wholly on Rizeth now, and great Goddess, if that reaction wasn’t still intoxicating to witness. Three strides and his surprise turned to an eager gasp as Rizeth dragged him from the couch by the hair. Thus cast to his knees, he folded his arms behind his back, head tipped up towards his Master, watching, waiting; patiently impatient whilst Rizeth took his time unfastening his laces. He strained forwards as Rizeth’s cock brushed his lips, making a small, frustrated sound at being held back. The want in Rizeth’s pulse thundered now, matched as it was to Ashenivir’s own.
“Please,” Ashenivir whispered. His tongue flicked out, just near enough to taste the head of Rizeth’s cock. “Please, Master.”
Rizeth held him back for another handful of heartbeats before releasing him. He dove forwards, humming around the length of Rizeth’s cock as he easily swallowed it down. Soft, wet sounds filled the apartment, Ashenivir’s delight vibrating in his throat. Rizeth curved a hand around the back of his head, the light pressure of his fingers a reminder—and an indulgence.
“Master…” Ashenivir dragged his tongue along the length of Rizeth’s cock, pressed his cheek to it, smearing his face with pre-cum. “Master, may I touch myself?”
The request was followed by a messy kiss to the head of Rizeth’s cock; quick, delicate circles with his tongue, sweet little moans, and the slide of lips taking a half-inch at a time into the perfect heat of his mouth. It was enough to make a Master agree to anything, which meant he shouldn’t, he should show a little restraint, that was the whole point of this dynamic—
“Yes.” Rizeth managed at the last second not to gasp it out like a drowning man. “Yes, Ra’soltha, you may, but if you do not finish before your Master, you will not finish at all. Am I understood?”
He’d hardly finished speaking before Ashenivir’s mouth wrapped around his cock again. The motions of his head didn’t falter for a moment as he fumbled with his breeches, spreading his legs to better wrap a hand around his hardness. He hollowed his cheeks as he stroked, an expert application of rhythmic pressure, and if he didn’t finish himself quickly, Rizeth would have to hold to his command.
He controlled his breath as best he could, and tried not to linger on how devastating Ashenivir looked like this, kneeling for him, taking his cock so beautifully, the very act of doing so enough to have gotten him hard.
His grip on Ashenivir’s head tightened. Ashenivir knew him well enough. He didn’t stop, but sped his own motions—a whimper, a whine, and a long low moan, and he came over his hand, still stroking fast and needy.
“Good Ra’soltha.” Rizeth almost managed to sound like he had control of himself. Somewhat reluctantly, he pulled free of that wicked mouth, and it was mere moments before he came over Ashenivir’s face. He bit back a groan at the way Ashenivir tilted up to receive it, tongue pressing out over his lower lip, eyes half-lidded and glazed.
“Thank you, Master,” he sighed, then licked his lips, swiped cum from his cheek and sucked his fingers clean, eyes on Rizeth’s all the while. “Should I greet you like that every time you return?”
Sweet merciful Mystra, Ashenivir, you have to stop saying things like that to me.
“That will not be necessary.”
Rizeth tidied himself away and, somewhat concerned that his legs were about to give out, went to the couch. Ashenivir shifted over to kneel at his feet, letting out a sigh as the cleansing cantrip swept over him. Soft breath at his knee, all that snowdrift of hair at his fingertips…Rizeth swallowed hard and went searching for a distraction.
“Hard in Hightown? Is this one of those awful serials?”
“They’re good,” Ashenivir protested. “And they help with my Common.”
“They will ruin your vocabulary.”
Ashenivir laughed softly. Outside, the rain had picked up again, pattering lightly against the window, the faint sounds of city traffic muffled by the glass. Cold enough for there still to be sprays of frost on the balcony rail, but the heating runes he’d marked throughout the apartment made the interior quite comfortable. He realised his hand had strayed to the back of Ashenivir’s neck, over his mark. If he moved it, Ashenivir would complain, so there it stayed whilst Ashenivir took slow, steady breaths, and floated back to himself.
“Master,” he said, some long minutes later.
“Yes?”
“I…no, never mind. It’s nothing.”
Rizeth didn’t need to reach into the mark to know that tone. He tugged Ashenivir’s head back. “Speak, Ra’soltha, unless you want to lose your voice.”
“At…at Lord Stillgleam’s House,” Ashenivir started, “I don’t know if you saw—you probably did, you probably have, you’ve been there before—there was a human I talked to, and his Sir came to get him, and he had…he had…”
Rizeth waited. Ashenivir shifted in place, flushing, unable to meet his eyes as he sought the words.
“He had a leash,” he said at last. “He came over, and he clipped it to River’s collar, and he took him away.”
“And you enjoyed that?”
Ashenivir nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it since last night. I think…I think I’d like it if you…” His flush deepened. “I’d like it if you led me away like that, Master.”
There was a great, feral thing in his chest, and it wanted to grab Ashenivir up and kiss him until it devoured him whole. Rizeth kept his tone carefully light, his expression neutral. “We shall see what can be done, Ra’soltha.”
“May I have a reward for asking?” Ashenivir asked, tease in his voice and the curve of his lips. Rizeth tugged his hair.
“Behave,” he said, then kissed him anyway.
They were still mostly in the scene. He could let himself have that much.
“You made it!”
Ashenivir could hardly hear Mara over the noise of the crowded tavern. Evening revellers packed Trollskull Manor wall-to-wall so thickly he couldn’t even see where the too-fast, too-loud music was coming from. He dodged to the side as an elf pushed past him from the bar, four sloshing tankards clutched in her hands. Mara tugged his arm, pulling him deeper into the crush.
“Did you finish A Seventh Heaven yet?” She shouted the question twice before he worked out what she was asking.
“Yes! And the bookseller was right, it takes much too long for them to admit their feelings!”
Mara ducked and dodged across the tavern, and he tried apologising to the shoulders he bumped in her wake, but gave up after the first three. No-one could hear him, and no-one seemed to care.
At a table near the back of the taproom, River sat across from a tiefling, who was lounging over two chairs, somehow making the old, scratched wood look comfortable. He raised a hand in greeting as they approached.
“That’s what makes it so good, though,” Mara said, shoving the tiefling’s feet out of the way so she could sit. “You have to keep reading, because you know they are going to confess, you just don’t know when!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got the new boy into your trashy books as well,” the tiefling said, and he looked and sounded so much like Verin that Ashenivir thought for a moment he was her twin, before he realised it was Verin.
“Sorry,” he said, fully aware he’d spent the first twenty seconds of his arrival staring. “I didn’t realise you were—”
“Hot?” Verin ran a hand along the shaved sides of his head, fluffing the white curls between his leather-wrapped horns with a smirk.
“Favoured of Corellon.”
Verin rolled his eyes and took a swig from his half-empty mug. “What a cute little scholar you are. Where’s your bossy boyfriend?”
“They’re not dating, Vee, I told you.” Mara poked him in the thigh. Verin swatted her on the back of the head.
“Ve-rin. I’m not your Mistress tonight.”
“Welcome to Waterdeep,” River said, as Ashenivir took the seat next to him. “I hope you have a high tolerance for stupidity.”
Ashenivir thought of Keszriin’s enthusiasm, of the Hyn twins endless bickering, and of Vuzree’s deadpan humour, and smiled.
“I think I can handle it.”
Since it was his first night out with them, Mara insisted he not pay for a single drink. This, as it turned out, was a terrible idea—Trollskull Special Brew was potent stuff, and he was a lightweight at the best of times. After spending the better part of two hours being plied with tankard after tankard—and subjected to an aggressively friendly interrogation about the Underdark and his journey here—his head had reached a point where he felt he’d be alright only so long as he didn’t stand up.
The band had, mercifully, changed by now, the new performers calm enough for conversation not to involve quite so much shouting.
“No, no, but what about you?” Ashenivir finally managed to ask. “You can’t just…I mean, I can’t just talk about myself all night, that’s rude.”
“The problem with that, Master Wizard Drow, my friend,” Verin drawled, “is that if you give Mara an inch, you’ll get several miles.”
“Will not!” Mara protested, then squealed when Verin tickled her sides. “Cut it out if you’re not going to play with me later!” She pushed Verin’s hands away. “He only plays with me when he’s Miss Vee, ’cause I don’t like men,” she explained, though Ashenivir had gathered that much.
“Yeah, she thinks we’re gross.” Verin tried to lick her, and Mara scrambled up onto the table away from him.
“You are. But one day…” She sprawled out on her back with a great sigh, petticoats everywhere, so that they all had to snatch up their drinks or have them spilled into their laps. “One day, a perfect lady is going to sweep me off my feet with a whip in one hand and a rose in the other.”
River snorted into his tankard. “Keep dreaming, princess.”
“It happened to you!” She rolled to her front, setting her chin in her hands. She’d gone extremely pink, her pale face nearly matching her dress. Ashenivir thought she was as much of a lightweight as he was, if not worse. River shifted in his seat, scratching at his jaw.
“It was more complicated than that.”
“And now you and Cain are in love, and it’s so romantic,” Mara continued, as if she hadn’t heard. “And one day he’ll marry you, and I’m going to wear elven silk and put roses in my hair…”
Ashenivir’s stomach was doing some uncomfortable churning. His hand went to his collar, slid around his neck to his mark. It seemed to be burning beneath his palm, the skin feverish. It’s just the ale, I had too much.
“I need some air.” He shoved his chair back too fast and the whole tavern span. Or maybe it was his head. Or the universe. River darted to his side, catching his arm before he could make friends with the floor face first.
“Let’s not throw up in the nice tavern—Unai makes you clean it up yourself.”
“M’not gonna throw up,” Ashenivir grumbled as River guided him out a side door into the cold night air. His stomach churned again, and then he was bent double with River holding back his hair as he did, in fact, throw up.
“Gods,” he groaned, bracing his hands on his knees. He managed enough of a cantrip to wipe the sour taste from his mouth, but his stomach still swirled with treacherous intent. “What do they put in that ale?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m so sorry,” he started, but River waved him off.
“It’s nothing. You’ve met my friends—I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this. Someone has to look out for those idiots.”
The streetlamps painted the snow piled at the edges of the street in amber stripes, the chill pleasant after the close heat of the packed tavern. A late-night dray clattered up, pausing to absorb a singing cluster of drinkers before rattling off again. Ashenivir sighed, and made an attempt at re-braiding his hair, but his co-ordination was shot to pieces, so after a minute or so he gave up.
“Let me,” River said. The feel of fingers carding gently through his hair was nice, and Ashenivir hummed, pleased until he almost said thank you, Master, because who else would be fixing his hair like this, and good Goddess, he was far too drunk.
“There.” River stepped back. “Better?”
“Thanks.”
Ashenivir patted his hair. River had a sort of lopsided smile on his face; a little sarcastic, a little concerned. It was odd to have met him for the first time at Lord Stillgleam’s and only now be seeing him fully clothed, like an ordinary person. Ashenivir couldn’t stop his eyes flicking to his chest. River crossed his arms.
“They’re from my transition ritual,” he said flatly. “And like I said the other night, if you have a problem with that—”
“No!” Ashenivir’s stomach rolled. He pressed a hand to his mouth. “No, I didn’t know that’s what they…it left a scar? Did the priestess make a mistake?”
River frowned. “It went exactly like it was supposed to. Hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was worth it.”
“But the changedance isn’t meant to hurt.” Shut up, shut up, he’s practically a stranger!
“That’s some drow thing, right? Not what I did, and—question—why are you being so weird about this?”
It stuck on his tongue. The truth clogged his throat and if he just explained it, River would stop being upset with him for acting so rude, and they’d only just met, he didn’t want to upset anyone, he’d say it, he was going to say it, he could feel it—
He doubled over and threw up again. River was at his side at once, holding his freshly fixed hair out of the way. He rubbed Ashenivir’s back, chuckling.
“You are such a lightweight.”
Before he could say anything, in protest or explanation or otherwise, Mara poked her head out of the side door. Raucous music bellowed out behind her. “Get back in here, boys! We have fun drinks!”
Bad idea, Ashenivir thought, distantly. Very, very bad idea.
“What’s a fun drink?”
Rizeth scratched another figure into the expenses column and made a heroic effort not to think about how large it was. Oh, he had the funds to spare—the Arcanum paid well, and he didn’t exactly have an extravagant lifestyle—but he’d been in Waterdeep less than a tenday, and already he was wildly over the budget he’d planned. Another commission, and yes, it would last, the same as the others he’d made—even if certain enchantments hadn’t—but he knew he wouldn’t use them after Ashenivir left. They’d sit and gather dust, the same as he would.
A groan issued from the bedroom, and Ashenivir shuffled into view, shirtless, one hand pressed to his head.
“You certainly had an interesting night,” Rizeth said.
“Mmrph,” was the eloquent reply.
Rizeth flipped his notebook closed and set about making breakfast for his excessively hungover apprentice, who sat slumped at the table, head in his hands. His hair was damp—apparently he’d managed a bath, but not the magic to finish drying it. Thankfully, the breakfast things had Rizeth’s hands thoroughly occupied; it kept him from giving in to the temptation to go over and start fixing tangles.
“I am never drinking again,” Ashenivir mumbled, as Rizeth set tea and scrambled eggs before him.
“Last night you seemed intent on going out with your new friends every evening.”
“Did I?” Ashenivir took a tentative sip of tea. “I don’t remember coming back…Did I disturb you? It must have been late, I’m sorry, Master.”
“You caused no trouble,” Rizeth said. “Mr Blackwind brought you home.”
“Blackwind? Oh, River.” Ashenivir poked at his eggs, seeming to notice them for the first time. “You cooked?”
“Contrary to certain popular Arcanum myths, I both require food and possess the ability to make it. Eat, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir perked up somewhat as he ate, though he winced every time he turned his head too fast. It had been deep into the small hours when he’d returned, and Rizeth had been relieved that at least one of the group had retained enough sense to bring him back safely. The relief snarled itself with jagged shards of jealousy, though, at how much Ashenivir had leaned on River, clinging to him and laughing as the human helped him to bed.
Rizeth had let him do it, despite the ugly snare snagged around his heart. He knew if he’d taken over, Ashenivir would have ended up in his bed, begging drunkenly for things he wasn’t allowed in such a state, and like as not he would have passed out there, and Rizeth would have taken advantage and lain next to him all night, knowing he wouldn’t remember a thing of it.
“Are you sure I didn’t bother you?” Ashenivir set his fork down, brows drawn in concern.
“Not in the least.”
“I’ll be more considerate if it happens again,” Ashenivir said, then pressed a hand to his stomach, grimacing. “Gods, I shouldn’t let it happen again. Fun drinks ought to be illegal.”
Rizeth didn’t want to know what fun drinks were. “I am pleased to see you’ve been spending the Arcanum’s funds on improving your mind.”
Ashenivir’s flush was extraordinarily pretty in the snowbright morning light.
“I think I might have lost bits of it, to be honest, Master.”
“You could restore it today,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir cocked his head. “You might pay a visit to the Font of Knowledge so you can begin some useful studies.” Ashenivir groaned and dropped his head into his arms. Rizeth chuckled. “But perhaps that will wait for another day.”
He collected up the breakfast things. The apartment was cosy against the heavy snow outside, and the warmth of it crept into Rizeth’s heart; a quiet sensation, calm and peaceful. It would be so easy to give in—stroke the tangles from Ashenivir’s hair, massage the hangover from his back, kiss the rigours of the night from him. He glanced over his shoulder and the sight of Ashenivir, even suffering as he was, made his stomach clench.
What point was there in wanting such things? Ashenivir didn’t need them, not from him. Pretending otherwise was only going to make him feel worse. Rizeth fit his palm to the teapot and re-heated the brew so that it steamed as he poured fresh cups. Besides, he’d long ago proven to himself that care like that was beyond his capabilities. He was a good Master. That was all he could ever be.
But as he handed Ashenivir the tea, and drank in the grateful smile on his tired face, Rizeth wished to the gods he could be more.