Chapter Nine
Winter had Waterdeep well in its grasp, and today, as most days, snow blanketed the city in white that had remained pristine for all of five minutes before the bustling citizens churned it to grey. Ashenivir was by now thoroughly sick of tramping through slush and ice, harried by freezing cold that found its way beneath even the most securely wrapped cloak. Snow had long since lost its appeal.
Inside, however, he could pretend to enjoy it as much as he had the first night it fell. He turned another page, the rasp of paper one among many in the quiet hall of the Font of Knowledge. Knowing that beyond the great doors lay a grey and miserable evening made his cloak warmer, his chair more comfortable; and that, he felt, was the real magic of the surface oddity known as weather.
His gaze drifted about the library, the dozens of figures hunched over reading desks between the towering shelves, absorbed in their work. What did the shrine look like in the snow? Neverwinter Wood would be appalling to live in but a marvel to see—the shrine here wouldn’t have so many trees for snow to catch on, but maybe…
Ashenivir shook the thought sharply from his mind. He wasn’t going to visit it, so it didn’t matter what it looked like. He forced his attention back to his notes, pressing harder than he needed to as he scrawled another line. Ink spread in a dark blotch, and he cursed under his breath, motioning a prestidigitation before it could ruin all his work.
“A challenging topic, I take it?”
The cantrip fell off his fingers. Snow dusted Rizeth’s shoulders, the tip of his nose and the points of his ears flushed from the cold. All the unpleasantness of winter was worth it to see him like that.
“I’m getting to grips with it.”
Rizeth sat across from him and took up a few of his scribbled pages, scanning them with a cool eye. Once he’d felt anxious at his Master examining his work—today he felt only a quiet contentment. Rizeth set the notes down, straightening the pile as he did so.
“Your grasp of the underlying architecture is sound.”
“I need to try casting to really understand it,” Ashenivir said. “But the theory itself is fascinating all the same.”
“You ought to read Daern’s meta-analysis.” Rizeth drummed his fingers lightly on the top book in the stack as he rose. “I shall fetch it for you.”
He vanished between the shelves. Ashenivir glanced at the sizeable collection of books he’d been working through—all in Common, and none of it simple. If Rizeth hadn’t pushed him, he never would have tried to learn the language, and all this knowledge would have forever been denied him. He smiled, hooking two fingers into his collar. What would he do without his Master?
Be stuck at the Zauvym estate, maintaining decorative enchantments and crafting scrolls for his mother. A miserable notion there was no sense dwelling on—he was here for months yet, no need to ruin them with thoughts of what waited after.
Months…he tugged his collar back and forth, the links catching pleasantly over his skin. How many times would they visit Lord Stillgleam’s House in those months? Each time he’d been out with Mara and the others—avoiding fun drinks at all costs—she and Verin had badgered him about when he’d be coming again. Rizeth hadn’t brought it up, and Ashenivir didn’t quite dare to. He hoped they’d go soon—he wanted to know what a playroom was, for a start. Mara had kept coy about them, in opposition to her usually garrulous nature, and had somehow convinced the other two not to say a word either.
“Let his Master show him,” she’d said. “It’ll be much more fun that way.”
His Master returned then, a hefty book in his hands. Rizeth fetching books for him, now that was the wrong way around—he was the one who served. He’d done so this morning, served well and been satisfied, only now he felt suddenly empty, as though he hadn’t eaten all day, yet he wasn’t hungry at all.
Eloise and Thalia holding hands as they vanished up the stairs. Ashenivir’s lungs constricted, and Rizeth was looking at him oddly because he was staring, had been sat there staring like an idiot for Goddess knew how long.
“I was thinking of learning a new spell,” he blurted out. Too loud—heads turned in their direction, hisses to hush. His face went hot. Rizeth kept his own voice low as he set down the book.
“I gathered as much. Demiplane is a difficult one to grasp, but I have no doubt you will manage it in time.”
“Unrelated to my current study.” Ashenivir fumbled in his pocket until he drew out his copper wire. “Sending.”
“It is about time,” Rizeth said. “That is a far simpler spell, one which you really ought to have—”
‹That way I can ask for what I want no matter where you are.›
Rizeth’s eyes darkened.
“Apprentice.”
The heavy warning in his tone did nothing to relax Ashenivir’s lungs. They seemed, in fact, to have turned sideways in his chest. He ran the wire across his lips, whispering too fast into the message spell, trying to get the words to outrun wherever his thoughts were racing to, because this was easier, this he understood.
‹And regarding my study of demiplanes, I was thinking that it wouldn’t matter about soundproofing any more if we used them. You could open one right here and put me inside and tie me up and no-one would hear a—›
Rizeth snatched the copper from his hand. The brief brush of his fingers sent a jolt up Ashenivir’s arm. “Enough.” The wire vanished into his pocket, and his eyes swept over Ashenivir, cold and hard and devastating. “You can answer for that at the House.”
It took Ashenivir a moment to realise what he’d said.
“We’re going back?”
“Collect your things,” was all the answer he got. Rizeth turned and strode out of the library, and Ashenivir scrambled to get everything back to its rightful place, cursing that there was never a librarian around when you needed one. He was in trouble. He knew he was in trouble, and it was the best kind of trouble because he knew exactly which rule he’d broken and what the consequences would be. Reprimand and then recovery, as sane and sensible as he could wish for.
Tugging his cloak around his shoulders, Ashenivir hurried out of the Font after Rizeth, pulse thumping in his ears. This he understood.
And now maybe he’d find out what a playroom was.
“Master Velkon’yss, I’d hoped to catch you again.” Ms Thorne handed Rizeth a folded slip of paper as the attendants took their cloaks. “Lord Stillgleam wanted to make you aware that some of the room markers have changed since you were here last.”
Rizeth flicked his eyes over the colour codes and wondered why Kelran couldn’t leave well enough alone. At his side, Ashenivir huffed into his hands, rubbing the chill from his fingers. He’d been flushed since they left the Font, and Rizeth knew it was more than just the cold—he’d intended this first playroom to be a treat, but now he’d have to make it a punishment.
Which, for Ashenivir, was a treat in and of itself.
He handed the paper back to Ms Thorne. “Is Lord Stillgleam here tonight?”
“He’s around somewhere. Shall I let him know you want to speak with him?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” He didn’t need any more of Kelran’s interrogations. “I take it there are rooms available?”
“Most of them. You’re free to go on through, just let one of us know if you need anything.”
Ashenivir buzzed alongside him as they entered the ballroom, visibly drooping with disappointment at finding the place empty.
“Lord Stillgleam does not host elaborate parties every night, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth said. “And you are here to answer for your behaviour, not to play.”
“Yes, Master.”
Panelled doors lined the second-floor hall, each with a coloured scarf wrapped around the handle. Rizeth heard nothing from any of them; clearly Kelran had kept up the maintenance on the soundproofing spells he’d given him. He’d made a fair amount of improvements to the spell in the decades he’d been away, though, and made a mental note to bring them the next time he came by.
“The colours…they’re for the status of the room?” Ashenivir paused, examining a dark blue knot of fabric.
“Well-observed.” Rizeth picked out a door with a green tie and held it open. “The key ones to remember are green and red.”
“Green being free to use,” Ashenivir guessed. “Oh!”
The playroom wasn’t large, but the floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining the far wall doubled the apparent size of the space. Kelran liked to vary the contents of his rooms, and this particular one possessed a heavy wooden flogging horse, a metal hook in the ceiling, and a large wall cabinet whose many drawers were labelled in Kelran’s fine cursive. Rizeth untied the green marker and replaced it with a red one from the box by the door.
“Red is occupied?” Ashenivir turned in a slow circle, eyes wide as he took in the space.
“Occupied, with no desire for observation or company,” Rizeth said. He caught Ashenivir by the jaw, stilling his movement. “You could have entered that blue marked door.”
“What would I have seen?”
“I am certain you can imagine.” Rizeth ran a thumb across his lip. “You may enter blue doors if you wish, but not white.”
Ashenivir was melting beneath his touch and his voice, head moving easily when Rizeth tilted it back. He trailed his fingers down Ashenivir’s throat and tangled them briefly in his collar. He’d asked for a leash after their first night here. He’d asked, and so naturally Rizeth would give.
But not right now.
“Why not white, Master?” Ashenivir asked.
“White is an invitation for company,” Rizeth said. He pulled Ashenivir’s collar taut, tugging him up to breathe the words against his lips. “And I have no intention of sharing you.”
He kissed him then, caught his wrists and held them above his head in one tight hand. Ashenivir struggled in his grasp with a greedy moan. If only he hadn’t misbehaved…
“Strip,” Rizeth ordered, pushing him back. “Stand beneath the hook, legs apart, arms above your head.”
Ashenivir’s smooth motions of submission were as fluid as his spellcasting. He positioned himself as directed, and Rizeth paced a slow circle around him, drinking him in. Not so much as a finger out of place, but he was in trouble, and so with two sharp slaps Rizeth adjusted his legs wider, then back to how they had been. Such reminders were a necessary act of maintenance.
“Move, and your punishment extends to tomorrow as well,” he said. Ashenivir straightened, lifting his chin ever so slightly. The perfect little hint of determination. Rizeth went to the wall cabinet and quickly found the stored manacles—wide and black, of as fine leather as his own, if a little worn in places. Kelran’s equipment had always been of the highest standard, and Rizeth knew he’d been spoiled learning on it here. His own collection—his original collection—hadn’t been anywhere near as fine.
His new one was shaping up to be.
He fastened the manacles to Ashenivir’s wrists, then to a chain he attached to the hook in the ceiling. Scratch marks streaked his back from the previous night’s activities, and a fading bruise sat by the top of his spine, about an inch below his collar. Just low enough not to be classified as neck. Rizeth pressed against his back and met his eyes in the mirror as he gripped his chin.
“I was going to fuck you today,” he said, his free hand sliding down Ashenivir’s chest, stopping just shy of his half-hard cock. “Would you have liked that, Ra’soltha?”
“Yes, Master.”
“I was going to bend you over that flogging horse,” he turned Ashenivir’s head to make him look at it, “and let you watch in the mirror. Does that sound good?”
“Yes, Master.” Ashenivir pressed back against him, and Rizeth at once moved his hand from chin to throat and squeezed.
“Did I give you permission to move?”
“No, Master; I’m sorry, Master.”
“You seem to enjoy acting the brat of late, Ra’soltha.” Rizeth nipped his ear, and Ashenivir whimpered. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
“No, Master.”
Ashenivir was fully hard now, the rest of him utterly pliant under Rizeth’s touch. Rizeth slid his hand lower, lower, fingertips brushing the head of his cock to make it twitch—though Ashenivir managed to remain still. He flicked his fingers back and forth, teasing.
“You do not get to come tonight,” he said. “You get to scream instead, and if you scream loud enough, you may be allowed to come tomorrow.”
He left Ashenivir struggling to hold his position, chest heaving, and returned to the wall cabinet. In one of the lower drawers he found what he was looking for—a familiar gauntlet, outdated in comparison to his own. This was one of the original models, of Kelran’s design, but it would serve its purpose well enough. He drew it onto his hand and it latched onto his magic with a too-sharp pull that made him wince. Maybe he’d bring the new gauntlet for Kelran along with the soundproofing. A few upgrades would do wonders.
The first arc of lightning crackled over Ashenivir’s skin, enough only to prick his nerves to wakefulness. He enjoyed this, and the pain of it wasn’t the punishment—it was the denial, the broken promise of what he could have had, if only he’d behaved himself. Rizeth wanted him starving tomorrow; wanted him to wake from reverie needy and hard and willing to beg long and sweet for his Master, and then he’d have him as he’d had him every day for the last two tendays.
You really have no self-control, do you?
Rizeth ignored the thought. He settled the gauntlet on Ashenivir’s ribcage and ran metal-clad fingers up his side.
“You seem subdued, Ra’soltha,” he said. He loosed a stronger jolt and watched Ashenivir’s eyes flick to the reflection of the door as he shouted out. “No-one will enter, and no-one will hear.” Another shock, another cry, not nearly as loud as he wanted. “Or is it that you want someone to hear you?”
“I…no…yes…Master, I…” Ashenivir shifted his arms. The chains rattled, the gauntlet crackling where it hovered over his stomach. “More, please, I can’t think straight.”
“You do not need to think.” Rizeth flexed his fingers, upping the output of the gauntlet as high as it would go. He gripped Ashenivir’s hip tight. “You need to scream.”
Ashenivir did scream, then, as the lightning ripped through him. His head fell back, and the only restraint left was that which bound him to the ceiling. Rizeth felt him surrender to it, the mark tugging at his mind with each new lance of lightning—he tuned in to it, following his Ra’soltha up in rolling waves of pleasure-pain. Each scream echoed in the back of his own throat, and he rode Ashenivir’s high until he grew dizzy with it.
This is supposed to be a punishment.
With effort, he brought himself back down and took Ashenivir’s hips in both hands to send one more fork of lightning through him. That final scream was magnificent—Rizeth closed his eyes to savour it, ears ringing with the echo of his Ra’soltha’s pure and unrestrained voice.
Ashenivir sagged in his bonds, breathing hard, lips moving soundlessly as he tried to pull words from his scrambled mind. Rizeth knew what he was saying. He always did.
“You are welcome, Ra’soltha.”
They sat together on the floor by the wall-mirrors, Ashenivir a thing of heavy limbs and soft warmth, his face pressed to Rizeth’s shoulder. Rizeth stroked his back with firm, even motions.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Ashenivir hummed and mumbled something unintelligible. Rizeth tapped his shoulder, and he lifted his head, eyes half-hazed, lips parted over slow breath. “What was that, xi’hum?”
“Yes, Master,” Ashenivir said. He gazed longingly at the chain dangling from the hook. “I want you to spank me like that.”
“Misbehave again, and I will.”
Ashenivir made a too-pleased noise, and leaned towards him—Rizeth met him in an indulgent kiss, because comedown was as convenient an excuse as any to savour the feel of him in his arms. Too soon, Ashenivir broke away, swallowing hard with a grimace.
“I will fetch you some water,” Rizeth said. He should have brought some to begin with—he’d grown too accustomed to the conveniences of playing in his own rooms. Ashenivir complained as he rose, a wordless whine that was adorably irritating. Rizeth put a hand on his head. “Take reverie a moment, I will not be long.”
He extricated himself from clinging hands he wished would stay when the aftercare was done, and headed downstairs in search of the kitchens. He was halfway across the ballroom when Kelran appeared. The sun elf smiled broadly on seeing him.
“Fun evening?”
“What possessed you to change the markers?”
Kelran sighed. “I should have known you’d complain about that. It makes more sense this way.”
“They made perfect sense as they were.”
“If you want to be the one to run the only functioning dungeon on the Sword Coast, be my guest,” Kelran said archly. “My House, my rules.”
Rizeth chose not to dignify that with a reply, and started off again. Kelran, apparently with nothing better to do tonight, easily kept pace. His heels clicked obnoxiously loudly on the floor, his boots as gleaming black as the polished marble. Did he have a servant or a submissive caring for them these days?
“How’s that Ashenivir finding the city?” Kelran asked. “Is he as skystruck as you were?”
“Fine, and no.”
“You’re awfully tetchy for coming straight from a playroom—your boy not up to your standards?”
“What do you want, Kelran?” Rizeth stopped and faced him, his voice echoing in the empty ballroom. It was cold in here tonight, no heating spells active without a gathering to make them necessary, and the sconces burned low, throwing dark shadows beneath the stairs, behind the columns. Kelran crossed his arms.
“Two tendays.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Two tendays,” Kelran repeated, “since the party, and not a word from you since, though I know Mara’s latched on to Ashenivir like a frilly little limpet. You don’t want to talk to me, fine. Be an antisocial hag if it pleases you. But you can’t blame me for being curious when you’ve never brought anyone here, not after what happened with Elian’la.”
Rizeth’s shoulders stiffened.
“Do not,” he said coldly, “start speculating.”
Kelran held up his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, I’ll not speculate a whit in your direction.”
Quick, hard footsteps severed the tense silence before it could turn sour, and a leather-clad dwarf jogged up to them, a satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Master Velkon’yss, there you are—Ms Thorne mentioned you’d dropped by,” Emmyr said. “I’ve sent one of the boys up to Neverwinter to give young Miss Alys a hand, as you asked.”
“Good,” Rizeth said, shooting a sharp look at Kelran, who had the decency to look abashed. Emmyr rummaged in their satchel and held a small cloth-wrapped package out to him.
“Nice to have work from a familiar client again. You let me know if you want anything else while you’re in town.”
They tipped their cap, and headed up the stairs, whistling off-key. Once the sound had vanished into the upper corridors, Rizeth unwrapped his package. A coil of silver chain lay within, a leash whose black leather end-loop was stamped with the maker’s mark of clan Lightfist on one side, and his own initials on the other. Light but strong, not enchanted, but worth every coin for the reaction it would get.
“Working on a new collection?”
Rizeth shoved the leash into his pocket.
“The options for suitable craftsmen are limited in Mythen Thaelas,” he said. Kelran was eyeing him in a manner he didn’t much care for. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a submissive waiting.”
He strode away, keenly aware of Kelran watching him go, and hoped it had been long enough that his old friend couldn’t read him as well as he’d used to.
Ashenivir blinked out of reverie and came face to face with his own wide-eyed reflection. He started, then shook his head with a laugh as he got to his feet, stretching and rolling out his shoulders. His mind buzzed faintly, but his thoughts were far less scrambled after the brief rest. The chain still hung from the hook in the ceiling, and the sight of it conjured a pleasant shudder. Was the apartment ceiling strong enough to hold such a thing? Would Rizeth put one up if he asked? Probably not when there was easy access here.
The playroom was incredibly quiet, and he could hear nothing from the corridor either. Ashenivir rubbed at his shoulder. Rizeth had said he wouldn’t be long, but surely there was no harm in going to meet him.
He dressed quickly, then slipped out into the corridor, marvelling at how many soundproofing spells must have been latticed across this entire wing of the building, given how many doors lined just one hall. Were they all playrooms? All of them had coloured markers tied to the handles, so they must be.
The door with the blue marker was still closed. Ashenivir bit his lip, glancing to either side. It was allowed, by the rules of the House and his Master’s permission, but it still felt like spying. He took a step towards the door, then another, and another, and turned the handle and pushed it open and—
“Oh, hey Ashenivir!”
River was bent over a flogging horse, an angular leather hood dangling from his fingers, with his Sir stood right behind him. No mirrors lined the wall of this room, so Ashenivir was spared the sight of his own no doubt foolish, flushed face gaping at them. Cain glanced up from where he was checking over a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“This is your new friend from the party?”
“Yup.” River straightened, and as he turned, Ashenivir saw his back was streaked with angry red marks. They didn’t seem to be bothering him, or at the least didn’t deter him from getting in the way of Cain’s examination of the flogger. Cain tapped him on the head with the handle.
“Get down, puppy, ’fore I start counting again.”
The hood in River’s hand swung clear—a wolf-like muzzle complete with pointed ears, all of black leather save the eyes, which were ringed in gold. Puppy, Ashenivir thought, stupidly. Right.
He should say something, not just stand here gawping.
“Did I get the marker right?” he managed. River, hugging tight to Cain’s thickly muscled arm, nodded.
“You never said you liked to watch, you should’ve told me. You missed everything good.” He hung off of Cain’s arm as Cain bent his elbow, lifting him to his tiptoes with a glare that lasted a handful of seconds before he kissed him. Ashenivir shifted his weight awkwardly—it was odd, seeing the usually reserved, sarcastic River like this.
Cain set him down, and a moment later clicked a leash to his collar. Ashenivir’s hand drifted to his own. Rizeth hadn’t made any mention of it since he’d asked; he’d said he’d see, but Ashenivir hadn’t pressed. His Master had gifted him so many things since they’d gotten to the surface. It didn’t feel right to demand more.
Seeing River leashed again made him want to.
“You figure out what a playroom is yet?” River said. Ashenivir blinked.
“I…yes. My Master showed me just now.”
“Finally. Now Mara can cut it out with the ridiculous secrecy bit,” River said, then yelped when Cain yanked his leash, pulling him close.
“Enough chatter,” he growled. He kissed River again, rough but with a gentle hand cupped his face. “Go sit so I can heal you. I’m not giving you more scars.”
“Aw, but I liked the first set.” River pouted, earning himself a swat on the ass—he shot a grin at Ashenivir. “You don’t want to see this part, he’s the worst with healing salves. It gets everywhere but where it’s supposed to be.”
“Puppy.”
Even Ashenivir’s ears twitched at that. He ducked out of the room and leaned against the closed door. Up the hall, the red marker was still tied on his and Rizeth’s playroom. Moths in his chest again, agitated, a furious swarm, and that awful, hollow feeling that he was missing something important. I’m not missing anything, I have everything I want, it’s just comedown, I should go back to the room and wait for—
“Ra’soltha?”
His heart twisted. I want him. I’m already his, but I want him.
Rizeth handed him a glass of water, which he downed gratefully. There was a slight tremor in his hand as he set it on a side-table when he was done, and Rizeth eyed him closely, the look accompanied by a twinge of magic in his mark. Ashenivir prayed his churning feelings weren’t pouring through it.
“I am surprised to see you out of reverie already,” Rizeth said.
“I’m fine. I just wanted to stretch my legs.”
Rizeth’s eyes flicked to the blue-marked door at his back. “Is that so?”
“I…you said that…”
“You are not in trouble,” Rizeth said. “Did you see something you liked?”
“Maybe.”
The magic in his mark flexed in time to the flick of Rizeth’s eyes over him once more, before it shivered away. Seeming satisfied, Rizeth drew something from his pocket and handed it to him.
“As you requested.”
Ashenivir stared at the leash in his hands. The chain was silver, an exact match to his collar, and the leather end-loop had the letters RV embossed on it. As he ran his thumb over them, the swarm of moths became a thunderous roar beneath his ribs.
“Thank you, Master,” he whispered. “Will you…?”
“At the apartment, yes.” Rizeth took the leash back and Ashenivir couldn’t tear his gaze from his hands as he returned it to his pocket. He curled his fingers into his palms. He didn’t want to wait until they’d walked the length of the city to touch him again.
Behind him, the door clicked, and he stumbled in his hurry to get out of the way. River was still leashed, the loop at the end of the long chain hooked over Cain’s wrist, sitting tight around his metal cuff. They were hand in hand, and though River gave him a quick smile as they passed, Ashenivir didn’t quite manage to return it.
If he took Rizeth’s hand now, would his Master let him keep it?
It was snowing heavily as they left. Ashenivir shoved his wishful hands beneath his cloak and kept his eyes firmly on where he was putting his feet. Holding hands was for wives and best friends and boyfriends and husbands. Not Masters and their Ra’solthas. He kicked at a snowdrift and got slush in the top of his boot for his trouble.
Holding hands. What a ridiculous notion.