The Book of the Blessed

[ChrisGibson]

That's what I like to hear. More and more engrossed because this story, I hope, is going to get more and more.

 

[ChrisGibson]

THREE


In the midnight moment of you finding me, after all the time across deserts and fields, mountains and rills, my love, how were you to know that I had been searching for you?
-
-From: The Song of Oloreth



AUSTIN


When he was nine years old, Austin Buwa’s father called him into his offices and said, “You will not be going up north to learn the ways of the knights, or go to one of the Abbey schools. You will not be going to the Abbeys at all.”
Austin nodded to this, but said nothing more, and his father said, “Have you ever wondered why you do not go to the abbey school or why, though we have been inside of the basilicas, we have never worshiped in them?”
But Austin had not. He had never paid it any mind, and his father said, “Their religion is not our religion. The religion of their people is not the religion of our people. We are Zahem, originally of the Hale who were heathens before they were converted by the disciples of the Ard. But that teaching was imperfect, and so the Prophet Joses came and showed us the True Way, and so you will go south, to the home of my fathers and their fathers, into Zahem.”
Though his father’s voice had not changed, Austin heard a grandness, a superiority in the way he spoke of Zahem, and of the True Way.
“You will go to the Temple College and there, in the city of Nava, you will meet the woman who will be your wife. You will do what, living as far north, and isolated as we are, you have never done, which is attend the prayer services in the meeting houses and, in time, you will enter the Temple.”
“Is the Temple like a cathedral?” Austin asked.
“No,” his father said, shortly.





That summer he discussed with Audrey how he would be going south, and she said that her parents were sending her in two summers. Maybe they would meet.
“I will be waiting for you, though I wonder how much girls see boys.”
“I wonder that myself,” Audrey said.
In the heat of August, they began the journey which was a surprise to Austin because mostly he had traveled north and down hill into the valleys, but now he traveled into higher country, up and up to a vast open country, almost desolate. And they traveled many days under the sun. Here, all the people were as white as he, which was strange to him, and here there were several cities which possessed none of the tall cathedrals and minsters to which he was accustomed. Once he thought he saw one, but his mother said, “No, that is a temple.”
“Is it the Temple?”
“There is one very old temple,” his mother said, “But there is no THE Temple.”
“Is a temple different from a meeting house?” Austin asked.
“It is,” said his father, “because things happen there which can only happen there, the rituals and the rites, the ceremonies of which we cannot speak.”
“Marriages,” his mother said, “you will be married in the Temple. Indeed, you do not say a temple, but The Temple. All the Temples are The Temple.”
“And my wife will wear a long white dress,” Austin envisioned, “and she will have the long train, and they will walk her down the long aisle with incense and—”
“None of that foolishness,” his father said, shortly. “The Temple is nothing like that. Nothing at all.”
“It certainly isn’t,” his mother said, and he could not tell how she felt about this.
“You will be married in the great ritual of the Bequeathing, and then in the Hall of the Mirrors, where you will look upon your wife and all the eternities reflected upon each other and which shall be born from you.”
Austin had no idea what this meant, only that he saw the vision of himself in a great white dress with a trailing train under the high pillars of a great cathedral vanishing, and he wasn’t very happy about it.


“A CORONATION,” AUSTIN said, that night. “The day after tomorrow. The capes, the flowers, the ritual! Won’t it be marvelous? I wonder… I would very much like to go to the coronation dressed as a bride.”
His wife did not think he was joking. She knew him well. She said, “You cannot outshine the Prince.”
“If it was Anson it would be different,” Austin said. “He’s so wonderful. But Cedd is so tedious. No, I would love to wear a tight white gown, and a long veil, eyeliner and just a touch of a beard. Or maybe white tights and a codpiece. White boots with rhinestones. A veil.”
“If you stop talking about it for now and come to bed,” his wife said, “I promise that I will find you something lovely for the wedding.”
“Find me something lovely for tonight,” Austin said.
“Tonight? But it is time to go to bed.”
Austin frowned at his wife.
“I know what I promised you, but I want to experience the city tonight. Tonight, and then I am yours all day tomorrow.”
“Austin!” She wondered why she should be hurt by this. After all, it wasn’t the first time he had promised her the night and then run away.
“My dear,” he came to her. “Please.”
He held her chin in his hand, and he was so beautiful. He was an extraordinary being, and this was one of the things she had signed onto marrying an extraordinary being.
“You will get to have this comfortable bed all to yourself.”
There was no pretending that, heading out this late, he would be back before morning.
Audrey opened her mouth to say what she didn’t want to say. She didn’t want to hear herself begging. There was no use in saying, “But I don’t want this bed empty. I want you in it.”
She said, “Very well then. But you must let me dress you, then.”
“I would have it no other way,” he told her.


Once, in one of the chapels, he’d seen an image of one of their old gods, the Young Lord of the Forest, and now Audrey dressed him in an olive green leotard like the forest in shadow, with green leaves applied to the thighs. His eyes were ringed in deep green kohl and ske placed on his head a small crown of antlers.
“You look like the Wild God himself,” she murmured, and she kissed him, puttng green blush on his cheeks. “You should even take the pipes. I hope you enchant all.”
She had no idea where he was going. He’d hardly had an idea himself. When he had come into Zahem ten years ago, he was surprised by the dourness of the school, by the dullness of everyone’s dressing. How tedious life seemed. It was never dull in Westrial where, ironically, he could be himself more than he had ever been in this dull country. In Zahem he had come into a dormitory noted not for its grimness, but for its blandness, very white walls, very white boys, hair perfectly combed, shirts perfectly pressed, right on time to prayer meetings. How different from tonight, when that lovely Pol had come, like a devil, whispering to him, undoing all of his plans to be with his wife that he might experience the pleasure he had known the night before all over again.
The palace was made of many apartments for royal visitors, and as Austin left his and entered the city, he was thrilled by the night life. The shops and businesses around Kingsboro were closed this late into the night, and the parks were dark now. As he crossed the bridge through the darkened park into the Everdeen District, he heard hoots, men calling to each other in the dark for sex or for drugs or for who knew what, possibly to make note of him, and he thrilled in terror. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, hiding his ostentatious costume. But he had no sword or pistol—could not fight anyway. As he made his way through the park, to the light, the thrill turned almost to complete terror and then melted away along with the trees as he approached quiet houses, the long high brick face of the hospital, and, across from it, the grammar school. Here the streets were empty, but blue with moonlight, and up the hill were the lights of the Everdeen, and humanity.
Suddenly, as Austin trudged up the hill, down the hill a horse came galloping, and Austin jumped out of its way. Cloak flying behind him came a man who made Austin wish he’d had the sense to take a carriage or a horse and then, leaping from the horse and tying it to a post before heading into the park, Austin saw clearly, for a moment, Lord Brandon Pem, as he removed his hood and headed into the darkness. The very park Austin could not wait to escape was Lord Pem’s destination.
He shook his head and moved on.

MORE TOMORROW

 

[CharmedFan28]

Wow lots of Austin and lots happening! I am enjoying getting to know him better. Great writing and I look forward to more tomorrow!

 

[ChrisGibson]

I enjoy the character of Austin who is, if not trans, gender bending, and I haven;t had a character like him before.

 

[ChrisGibson]

ANSON CHASES HIS OLD DEMONS IN THE SAME OLD WAYS AND ASH CALLS HIM TO FACE THEM.




ANSON


“Are you well?” Ash asked as Anson downed another pint of beer.
“Not really,” Anson said. “I think I’m as alright as I can be.”
He groaned and planted his face in the palm of a large hand.
“I feel like I should be inside a chapel, or an abbey with nothing but the dark, and me praying in front of a candle. Or…. In my room. But I don’t want to be alone.”
Ash stopped himself from saying, “But you don’t have to be alone.”
“Is this why you came? You knew all this was happening?”
Ash said, “I knew you would need me. I knew the kingdom would need me, but I knew you would too.”
“So you left the Hidden Tower, and with a torch and book of flame you came!”
And then Anson shook his head and said, “I’m so drunk I’m going to say stupid things.”
“Whatchatofor?” the innkeeper came to Anson.
“Ale. No, Usqua. Small Malt,” Anson said absently, in almost grunts. He held out two long finger to indicate two fingers of the whiskey. The barkeeper grunted and departed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t friendly. He was as friendly as he knew the people here wanted, and Anson had been coming to this tavern for years because of him.
There were pubs and taverns full of light and noise, but light and noise were something for which he had little use. The light was too bright, the noise too happy. In a corner, a water minstrel was singing.

My lady left me, she left for another man
He had more money, money’s what she loved
Oh, and I’m gonna get that money back
I’m gonna get my lady back.

The minstrel more croaked than sang, and he was impossible to see as much for the smoke that drifted to the center of tavern as for the lack of light. So when the whiskey came, Anson handed over two bits and a third he said was for the minstrel, and he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, which he lit, inhaled, and sat back, feeling more relaxed feeling better than he had all night. He had been in his good clothes all this night, but when he had been able to get rid of them, he had, and then he was down here, at the taverns by the docks, where whores and boy whores and all of those tired of life or longing for life only they didn’t know it, came.
“I want you to go,” Anson said, suddenly.
“What?”
Anson had whispered this. He said to Ash, “I need to do stupid things tonight, and you’re above stupid things. I need you to go.”
A grim look passed over Ash’s face, and then Anson added, “And I need you to forgive me.”
Ash rose, shaking his head.
“There is nothing to forgive.”
Pol, who had heard nothing, looked at Ash getting up to leave and said, “You’re leaving?”
“Aye.”
“Well, damn,” Pol got up and threw his arms about Ash. “It was good to see you. This whole day with you and been something.”
Ash took Pol by his shoulders and said, firmly, quietly, “Take care of him.”
Pol looked serious now. He looked at the slightly drunken prince.
“You have my word, friend,” he said.
Ash nodded, and lifting the hood of his brown traveling cloak, he left, placing tree coins before the minstrel as he headed out the door.
Anson and Pol drank on and a time later, Pol spoke.
“Well, look,” Pol murmured taking a plug from his beer and resting his elbows on the table.
At the door opened, in came one in a fabulous, plush green cloak. In the darkness it would have only appeared black, but here it was utterly expensive and now, Anson and Pol saw, as the velour cloak fell, the slender, tight form of Austin Buwa, dressed as a fertile young god, horns perked up, ivy leaves climbing up his green thighs, the olive colored leotard molding his chest. His kohled eyes beamed on them as he approached.
“I thought we were about to have a serious night,” Anson said.
“It is a different type of sobriety,” Pol said.
As Austin approached, he stepped into Pol’s arms, and the amber haired man kissed him.
“Prince Anson,” Austin bowed, most humbly, and Anson kissed him as well.
“Word is already going out that Prince Cedd will be crowned King within a day.”
“A round of drinks!” Pol called loftily, rapping on the bar and offering a seat to Austin. “Drinks for the future king!”


Austin was well onto his second drink, and Pol said, “I think, friends, we should get out of here.”
As Anson stared, half smiling, into Austin’s eyes, Pol clapped him on the shoulder.
“To where?” Austin said. “Surely not the palace.”
“Not at all,” Pol said, “to my rooms where we first met Lord Buwa’s acquaintance.”

Ahead of them, like a magician in a pantomime, Pol marched as they went to the east end of the Everdeen and, crossing into the Red District, Austin and Anson, linked arm and arm sang:

First was the mage
Who moved from age to age
And second was his hero strong

Third was the starry maid,
who lived in trees,
whose wood would never die
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down

Four is for the lady who fits inside
men’s hands
Who gave up arms and legs to
be an arm again
And Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down


“What are we getting into?” Anson wondered, when Austin answered, “Nothing good.”
“Everything necessary, though,” Pol said. “Trust me in this.”


They had been drinking a while, Anson standing by the door, his arms folded about him.
Pol, who had not stopped kissing Austin, looked up toward Anson. Austin got up off the bed and suddenly kissed the Prince.
“My lord,” he said.
Anson looked at Pol, smiling, and then he said, “So is this happening again?”
The boy still looked good.
“It can be,” Pol said. “It should be.”
Anson sat on the edge of the bed, and Austin, with a relieved and tired sigh, like one preparing for bed, unpeeled his leotard and then pulled it down. Deftly he unlaced Anson’s trousers, and then Pol watched the young lord’s mouth working up and down on Anson and he saw, after a while, how both of them went into it, how Anson’s eyes glazed over, and soon they were both naked, moving together on the bed, and it was when Pol saw their bodies, their smooth round bottoms, hands moving over each other, that he rose, lightly pulling his clothes off, his penis pointing out. He climbed onto the bed and joined them, sighs of pleasure and relief rising from their open mouths and twisting limbs.



Anson woke to a light on him in the middle of the night, he was on the edge of the bed, his arms loosely about Austin’s naked waist. Pol lay on his back asleep. When Anson looked up he saw Ash, and then the door closed and Ash was gone.
Quickly, he scrambled into clothes, and leaving his cloak behind, but not his sword, he came to the balcony where he smelled the scent of Ash’s cigarette before he saw him.
“I did not know you were back,” Anson said.
“I am not back.” Ash said, and he was gone.
Anson stood blinking in the night, wondering how drunk he was. But he was not drunk at all, and he slapped his cheeks and then went back into the rooms that smelled of close air and bodies, of smoke and drink. He looked over the two bodies, linked in sleep, and then reached for his cloak, and leaving a note, went walking to clear his head.
He should have ridden, but tonight he had not, and now, so late, he was quickly wearied. Far south of him he saw, black against the night, the towers of the Kingsboro. Anson decided to walk until he saw a midnight tram, and he caught it until it brought him to the Everdeen. While he rode the rumbling tram, the chant of the singing of the Ahnarynes, the memory of them moving across the Everdeen in their stately dance, was with him.


Ahna Ahnar ahna Ahnar
Ahnar Ahnar ahna ahna
ahna āmar ahna āmar
āmar āmar ahna ahna

“After the Age of War will come the Age of Love. Ahnar is to usher it in.”




Ash had been sitting beside him, then, and now he wished for Ash to be by him again. Why in the world had he announced to the one person he wished to be with that he was going to drnk and smoke and do foolish things, the first person hwo had found him in his darkest place, why was he not with him now?
I am so confused. More confused and stupid than I know.
In Everdeen, he took a last tram until it brought him to the west gates of the Kingsboro. The guards were used to letting princes who smelled of alcohol through the gates, and it was some time before, winding his way through the palace, Anson came to the door of Ash’s rooms. He would never have knocked, but that he could hear the mage moving around in there, and he saw light under the door.
Ash opened the door and Anson blinked at the brighter light of his rooms after the dim light of the hall.
“I thought I saw you. I mean… when I was on the other side of town I thought I saw you. You were standing before me.”
“You have the Skill after all,” Ash said, though not triumphantly. “It was a sending. Not an intentional one. I wondered how you were. I suppose my heart went out to you, and so did I. But you saw it?”
“I did.”
Anson wondered how much Ash had seen. He would not ask. He said, “I know it’s late. And we’re both tired. But may I come in?”
Ash pushed the door further open, and nodded.

“Take these,” Ash handed Anson a deck of cards.
These were not ordinary playing cards, but the cards Anson had seen him use in divination, and Anson said: “You’re letting me touch them?”
“Shuffle them, but do not look at them. These things work only by touching,” Ash said.
As Anson shuffled the long, thick cards, Ash said, “Long ago, when the Ayl first came, their priests, the devotees of their old gods, could call down lightning from the sky, and many of their blood possessed the shape change. They were mighty lords of power, but that power passed.”
Ash put out his hand, and Anson handed back the cards. Now, in a skillful move that impressed Anson, Ash spread out the cards in a fan before him and then said, “Pick one.”
Anson reached forward, but the magician touched his hand gently.
“Do not simply snatch. Wait. Let them speak to you.”
Anson sat there, and he did not know how to let the cards work on him. He felt, primarily, bothered, a little queasy, and finally he reached for one.
“Turn it over,” Ash commanded.
The prince did so, and he saw a warrior, a knight on the back of a white horse. His hair was fair, fairer than Anson’s own, and his raiment was pale blue, again, paler than the usual cloak and tunic Anson wore.
“Another,” Ash commanded. “And lay it over the first.”
Anson did so, and when he turned if over, his stomach lurched and he wanted to stop looking. Beautifully painted, though, were ten swords, dripping blood, and then Ash said, “and take another, and another. And now another.”
And so Anson took out a card with a man rowing away, and people in the boat, their backs to him. Six swords were raised in the boat, and the next one was of golden cups in the light of the moon, and a man was walking away as well. The next, of a man hung upside down, reminded Anson of the Hanging God, and now Ash said, “Take a last one.”
Ash sucked in his breath.
“What is it?”
Ash shook his head.
“The first card is you. A warrior, even, in some ways, with your markings. He is crossed by ten swords, the sign of sorrow, weariness and… for reasons that are your own to know, regret. In the next card is the healing of your pain, the six swords, going away. Perhaps a pilgrimage, though maybe a flight. To a monastery? I do not know.”
The doubtful look on Anson’s face said that he did know, and that a monastery was not likely.
“I do not know what manner of journey it is,” Ash said, “But the next card, the Eight of Cups, confirms there will be one. The man is walking away. He is walking away from everything he knew.”
“Then might it more than confirm it?” Anson said. “Might it mean not that I should go on a retreat, but that I should end my old life. Totally?”
“Only you would know this, Prince.”
“But what do you know?”
Ash looked at him, opened his mouth, was silent for a while and then, finally said, “Your reading is right.”
“And then the last card?”
“The Magus.”
“Is that you?”
“No,” Ash said. “That card means you. It is as I said, if you have the Skill you must learn it, and twice tonight you have shown that you do.”
“Then maybe it means I should go with you?” Anson said. “Maybe it means I am supposed to leave when you leave.”
Ash said nothing, and then Anson said, “Well, can you prophecy?”
“I have walked in the future,” Ash said, “and in the past. But these things are not done lightly, not even for a beloved kinsman and a prince. But you do not need me to walk in the future. What do you want?”
“I want to be with you.”
Ash nodded
“I came because your father wanted me to see to you and to ask council about what to do in his last days as King over this land. But I came for my own reasons, for I always have my own reasons.”
Ash shook his head.
“The Magus card is you. Perhaps your soul sickness is not merely from fighting battles, but from fighting the wrongs ones. Perhaps you should be walking my path.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then you fail,” Ash said, not looking at Anson, almost as if he was talking to himself. “What is wrong with failure?”

“Will you teach me something tonight?”
“I never teach after sundown,” Ash said, taking out a cigarette and handing one to Anson.
“When I saw you, it was as if you were really there,” Anson said.
“And so I was.”
“I confess, I was almost ashamed.”
Ash said nothing.
“You don’t ask why.”
“I don’t need to ask why. And I don’t need your embarrassment.”
“We have never discussed the past,” Anson said. “We have never discussed what has passed between us.”
Ash seemed to be making a decision. He sat up higher in his chair.
“We can if you would like.”
“Before you were always going away. You couldn’t stay. I think I could have left with you, only I did not know it then.”
“There were things we both had to do. And you were still affected by the war.”
“I still am,” Anson said. “But now you are here now. And I am going to be with you. Do you think, perhaps…?”
Anson let the words linger, the cigarette burn away in his hand. He said:
“I would put Pol away. And all the foolishness. I would stop doing foolish things.”
Ash wasn’t even talking and finally Anson said, “Or maybe you don’t even want that. Maybe I’m just saying foolish things now.”
“Ansa,” Ash said.
Anson looked at him.
“I do not fault you for… anything. You have to know that. But you come here, now, with the smell of two men and all night rut on you. You have scarcely finished fucking Austin and Pol.”
Anson opened his mouth, but Ash put a hand up.
“I am no stranger to pleasure,” Ash said. “How could I be? But for tonight let us only be friends and keep silence.”
Anson looked as if he wished to say more, but he simply nodded, sat low in his seat, and kept smoking.


MORE SATURDAY NIGHT/SUNDAY AFTERNOON

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great portion and some great writing! The coronation is coming up quickly now and I hope it goes well for everyone concerned. I am enjoying getting to know all these newer characters better and I look forward to more in a few days!

 

[ChrisGibson]

The coronation should go well enough, but let's see if they can get the rest of their stuff sorted out

 

[ChrisGibson]

THE BLUE TEMPLE


Connleth Aragareth had stayed up the whole night. Matteo Alvero was tempted to say he missed the old Conn, but this was the old Conn. He hadn’t changed. He just had more to do, and more duties, and ever since Ekkrebeth—Ash had begun the training of him, his knowledge, his powers and his abilities had expanded. It had been those abilities which had saved this house twice before and which, some believed would save the entire Order.
Conn was in the great library. Matteo never grew tired of looking up at the three stories, two of them a wrap around balcony, and the great glass dome above them. He was never tired of the great carpeted room, lit by the low lights of round globes in the evening. A Blue usually did two years or regular service in the Rooms or in the Sanctuary. After a while such things so frequently got to you, and Matteo wondered if a way to find a final peace would have been working here, in this great library, learning and teaching others.
At once of those table, the sleeves of his blue robe rolled up, brass rimmed spectacles matching his wave brass hair, was Connleth Aragareth leaning over a stack of books and instrument,s compasses, something that looked like a metal figure eight, a pendulum, two orbs, one deep dark red and one crystal, and he was drinking from a great mug of coffee.
“Old friend,” he said, smiling up at Matteo. “Are you here to tell me it’s time to come to bed?”
“Something like that,” Matteo said. He was tall and hammerheaded with heave brows, rough and sweet looking with a hangdog smile.
“Well, then,” Connleth slowly closed the great book.
“You know they’re about to chose the new Hyrum.”
“Of course I know it,” Conn took off his glasses and slipped them in one of the pockets of the great hooded blue robe.
“And still…”
“Yes. I mean, the new Hyrum won’t be me, and our last Hyrum—”
“Old Father Abbot left and I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It usually isn’t. He wasn’t appointed in the normal way. The normal way is one you are about to see.”
“But not you.”
“No. See, the King is dying which doesn’t simply mean we will have a new king who doesn’t love us. It is a herald of a new time. Things are changing. The time is coming soon, when all of us will have to leave. You, Derek. Cal. All of us. But for me the time is now.”
“When do you leave?”
Conn sighed.
“I suppose I will see the beginnings of the new election. Let us say… two days hence. I thought tomorrow but…”
“Tomorrow isn’t enough time to say goodbye.”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Well,” the tall Matteo said, “you will give Derek your last night, so give me this one.”
Conn turned to Matt and touched his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Matteo, old love. You never had to ask.”


MORE TOMORROW

 

[CharmedFan28]

Nice to hear from Conn! This story is really coming together in an interesting way and I am enjoying it a lot! Great writing and I look forward to more tomorrow! I hope you are having a nice weekend!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Oh, I was glad to get back to Conn if even for a little. This is not his book and the focus is not totally on him, clearly, but he is part of this world and the first door into it, so I glad to see our old friend again.

 

[ChrisGibson]

Four






“I had a dream last night.
A stone fell from the sky I tried to lift it but it was too mighty for me,
I tried to turn it over but I could not.
Men clustered about it,
and kissed its feet as if it were a little baby!
I loved it and embraced it as a wife.
I laid it down at your feet and you made it compete with me.”
Then spake Addiwak, the wise, all-knowing, to you, Oloreth;
“As for stone that appeared, falling next to you,
Which I caused to compete with you, this is Inkil and
you will love him, and embrace him as a wife.”

-From: The Song of Oloreth


When Anson slept, he dreamed fitfully of the past, and when he woke up, he blinked in the dark grey light. He must have only slept a few hours. He got up to relieve himself and remember that the window seat where he slept was in Ash’s chambers. Heavy with sleep, worn out by the night before, he stuck his head in Ash’s room and saw the form of the sleeping man curled in a ball. He seemed so small, almost vulnerable. But no, even in sleep, there was an almost scowl.
Ash, Anson wondered, no matter what you said, no matter how free you told me to be… have I betrayed you?
Turning from Ash to go back to his pallet in the window seat of the anteroom to Ash’s apartments, he thought, I could so easily return to my rooms.
But no, he wanted to be here, near Ash. He climbed back into the window seat and pulled the blanket about him, but he did not sleep. He remembered…



Into the tavern came a Royan, or at least, he had more Royan than Sendic blood. The Royan called themselves the First, and to the the Ayl they were. They had lived on this island long before the the Ayl and their cousins the Hale had come. But Anson, the soldier in question, had schooled with a Royan who said they themselves had come to this island in waves which was why some were dark as night, some brown as chocolate, and still others a varying shade of gold and dusk or so fair they could not be told from the Ayl.
This Royan in question was, when he pulled his hood from his face was golden brown, luscious lipped with limpid brown eyes, and now he sat down at the table and, after a time, pulled out what seemed playing cards, and fanned them out the way Traveling People did. But this was no Traveler. Therefore there must be real magic in these cards. This must be one of the famed Royan sorcerers, those who possessed the true gift.
Anson did not go near. But he did watch as men and women came. The Royan picked the first one. Exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose, Anson watched the Royan instruct the woman in the reading of her cards. He knew that the Royan would not charge as the travelers did, and unlike the travelers, his reading would be true. The Royan worshiped the oldest of gods and it was said that from them came the great magic.
Anson had seen such magic once, from his own Royan mother. She had stood up and prophecied one night in their home until her sister demanded she stop. When she began, “In the name of the Hanged God—” his aunt stood up, slammed the table and said, “Do not mention his name. Do not mention his name.”
Now all in Westrial followed the One Faith, and they turned for council to the White Monks and to the Black. In the north it was the Grey Monks, and they read the holy books, and there were temples to some gods, but others of the ancient gods were hidden away or no longer talked about. Long ago all this land had been Royan, but then the Ayl came and, after years of war, the white Ayl and the brown and gold and black Royan, had made peace and sealed it in marriage, and so Westrial and the other five kingdoms of the south had emerged.
This land was not old enough to the Ayl for their old gods to be remembered in stone. Wode, the God of Woe, the One Eyed, the Hanging God, Tyr the one handed Lord of Justice who had become one with the god Inushi. Tunyr, Lord of the Storm from whom the word thunder came, who was replaced or rather made one with Yawata to the Dauman people. The gods the Royan worshiped, Anson could not say, but as the woman went away weeping and insisted on offering coin to the magician, Anson thought those gods must not be short on power.
He had let the cigarette go out in his hand and didn’t really wish to relight it.
And then, as happens sometimes, and always embarrasses, Anson was caught looking. The wizard looked directly at him and gave a side smile, like a predator. He did not release Anson from his gaze until someone else sat by the table, and the wizard turned from the soldier to attend to this new visitor.
Here, in Kingsboro, so far east of the homeland of the Royan most of the people were Ayl, and a Royan sorcerer was a rare thing to see. The people in the tavern for the most part were tired, weary and dark haired, some wheat haired, and Anson had done a little roughening to himself, a little dirtying of his tawny hair before he had come to this place. He felt strange, and a little drunk and a trifle humble after the wizard’s gaze, and sat looking at the rest of his amber colored drink before he finished it and signaled for more. When it had come, and he lit another cigarette, when his mouth was numb with whiskey and ashes, he realized the sensation in him was simple nerves. Nerves like he’d never had on a battlefield—at least not till the end—or in the simple work of wielding his sword. His eyes lifted to see what the wizard was doing, but this time, pacifically, the wizard’s eyes were resting on him.
Get up, get up, you fool.
And so Anson did, moving through the room, feeling the liquor in the unsureness of his step as he weaved through this crowded place, lifting his cigarette into the air where it burned no one, watching the ceiling fan chug slow and ineffective.
“If you’re interested why don’t you sit?” the magician said.
“You saw me?”
“Of course I saw you,” he spread out his long hands, “one as pretty as yourself in a dark place like this.”
“I am a soldier. I am a king’s man,” Anson said, “this is the first time I have been called pretty. Like a maid.”
“That is a lie,” the wizard sat flatly, but still smiling, “for you are pretty like a maid, with your golden hair—that you are hiding—and your bright blue eyes, which you cannot hide—which is why you became a soldier no doubt. But you cannot hide it. You do not hide it.”
Anson sat down, and decided if this mage was going to be like this, he might as well just reach across the table and take his cigarette lighter, which he did, and shielding the light from the breeze, he lit the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled like a dragon and said, eyes twinkling through smoke, “What else do you know about me?”
“Careful, soldier,” the dark man said. He had very fine, very full lips and a gold glint in his brown eyes. “I may tell you more than you want anyone to know.”
Anson took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled, waving his cigarette in a dismissive hand.
“Surprise me.”
“If I tell you that you were born far higher than you are telling even me, and though you come from high places you wish to be in the lowest, because where you come from you know you do not belong, that is simply reading the obvious. If I tell you that the love you wish for from the ones you wish to have is never going to come, and that now that acceptable love is gone you come here seeking, not forbidden love, but anything, that too is a simple reading. As simple as knowing, like I said, that you took bark through your hair to disguise the color.”
“What else do you know?”
“That is enough.”
“Tell me more,” Anson said.
“Of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You already know about yourself, and I am no Traveler to play magic tricks with. Ask me a question now.”
“What is your name?”
“It is Ash Errison.”
“What do you do this far east, Ash Errison?”
“I am always this far east. Do I not have the right to walk where I will?”
“It is rare to see a Royan in Kingsboro.”
“Every time you look in the mirror you see a Royan in Kingsboro.”
Anson blinked at him.
“Your father is Ayl, but your mother is Royan,” Ash said. “That is why your eyes seem so blue, because your skin is forever tanned, kissed by the sun as some Ayl are, but that darkness of your skin is Royan blood. It is why the rest of your family does not care for you. Fears you.”
“I think I’ve had enough of your powers,” Anson said, sitting up. “I see what you mean. I will stop now.”
“Wise,” Ash said. “I only know what you want me to know. I could never invade your mind. At least not with ease. But what is your next question?”
“Uh,” the man looked absent, and then shook his head and said, “but of course. I am so…. Well, I’m nervous, Lord,” he pounded a fist into an open palm. He spoke so fiercely the man he was speaking to wondered how true this could be. He opened up a silver case and handed a cigarette to the man, who took it, but did nothing with it. The dark man from the south, however, lit his, and the smoke of the cigarette touched the soldier’s nostrils.
“My mind is not at ease,” he said. “They say in the south, and in the east, among your people, there are ways. They say your wizards have ways to put the mind at ease.”
“Well, the easiest mind is a dead one,” the enchanter said. Then, at the surprise in the man’s eyes, “but foolishness aside, tell me what you want me to do for you, and I will do it.”
“I want to stop being troubled all the time,” the soldier said. “I went to war, and since I came back it is as if I am always at war. As if this whole country is and the bodies are still on the field. I am afraid for no reason. I tremble for no reason. I drink until I can’t stand, and wake up and begin to be a mess all over again.”
“It does seem,” the wizard said, “like the life of a soldier.”
“Then I don’t want to be one,” the man said. “Or rather, I don’t want to be mad. I feel I’m going to go mad. Everyone in my troop died when we went to fight the Daumans, and I was left alive. But only half alive.
“There are those creatures in the fairy tales who take away your soul, half of it so they can command you, and leave you with the other half. This is how I feel every day. And it is worse because… because people applaud me,” he scratched his rough jaw. “Because… I fought at Mount Catlyn.”
“I don’t even know your name,” the man said.
“Cole,” Anson said. It was not totally a lie. He’s used it and been known by it his first year as a soldier. But it felt like a lie. The man looked at him, cockingh is head, and Anson wondered if he knew this was a lie.
“Soldiering is what you people do. Soldiering is the highest call of the Sendic.”
“Are you testing me, Wizard?”
“That’s what wizards do. We test.”
“When we first came to this land. When we were like our cousins across the sea, maybe so. Our epics tell of the great warriors of our people. The old epics from across the sea. But the new poems are of farmers and…My heart…”
“My ancestors were not weak like me. My father, when he fought, was not weak like me.”
The wizard did not speak.
“That is the worst part of it,” Anson attested. “I feel weak, for I know that I am. A weak man and no warrior, not as a prince should be. Not as a Sendic prince should be.”
“There are some,” the wizard said, “who believe the task of a prince is to rule in peace, not always be leading men in war.”
“I do not even know what peace is,” Anson said. “Unless I know it’s what I do not have. Unless it be the end to nightmares and madness.”
“Soldier,” the wizard said, “I can listen to you all night if you want me to. I can have a pot of coffee sent out and you can say all you have to say. But is that why you came?”
“You are a man of magic?” Anson said.
“Among other things.”
“I want you to see into my future. I want you to see if I will always be as I am right now.”
“Are you sure?”
“I…” Anson began, “I feel so lonely and so solitary I could die. If you were not who you were, and in truth, if you were not headed back the day after tomorrow, then I would not be telling you this, for I have told no one. Every day I think of taking my life. Every day is a great battle, and I feel, when I awake the next day, that none of it was worth it. If it is always to be like this, then why wake up? Why do anything? And all these things are disgraceful to my people, to even think of them, And yet, our old poems, for our people are now mixed with your people, speak of these feelings, these sadnesses. I thought maybe you would understand them and, perhaps, by your magic, help me.”
“I can do it,” Ash said, “but not tonight. Magic is not a waving of a wand, and I do not have the strength to look into the future right now. Will you give me till tomorrow night? Around this time.”
Prince Anson looked very sad and he nodded.
“What choice do I have?”
As Anson rose, the Royan said, “Stay here tonight?”
Anson looked at him.
“Stay,” Ash said.
Anson shook his head as one waking.
“You think I’ll harm myself,” he said.
“You would not be the first,” the wizard said. “You are not the first soldier to have this battle sickness, not even among your people no matter what the tales say. Why do you think those men in your tales were so eager to die young, to never live past thirty? They had lost their taste for life as well. The reason you feel it, the reason your people feel it now is because now you live too long. Too long not to feel.”
Anson smiled almost painfully. Gods, what a handsome man he was, and so young. It was he who touched the Royan this time.
“I promise you, I will not harm myself between now and next time I see you. I can’t,” he said. “I feel hope right now, and I haven’t felt that in some time.”
“Will you smoke with me?” Anson said.
Ash held out his hand for a cigarette and said, “If you will drink with me?”
“Shall we kill a bottle?” Anson asked as he lit Ash’s cigarette.
“Half of a bottle,” Ash agreed.
“I have an uncle who says if you don’t remember the night before it was a good one.”
“I have common sense that says that is foolish,” Ash replied and Anson chuckled low in his throat as the jug of whiskey approached.
Anson turned to see a well dressed man, in the old shirt of a rich merchant’s son, his hair still perfectly combed and scented, face so freshly washed it was nearly pink, move through the crowds. A boy who had been sitting on various stools for some hours, too well dressed and too well quoffed to be anything but a punk—a boy whore—turned to him. They talked a bit. Anson noticed Stephen, a young and friendly punk he’d gone off with a few times, who saluted him as if tipping his hat. Anson was not ashamed. He grinned wolfishly back at him.
“They say men come here to find all sorts of things,” Anson said, conversationally to Ash who had something like a longsuffering smile on his face as he pulled his cards together and placed them somewhere in his cloak.
“I come here to find all sorts of men,” Ash said.
“And did you find them?”
“I found one,” Ash said.
And then Anson said, simply, “Stay with me tonight.”
“You should have just asked when you sat down.”
“When I sat down I didn’t know I was going to.”
“I keep a room in a much more pleasant inn than this.”
“Show it to me.”
Ash crushed out his cigarette and handed Anson the whiskey. He got up and signaled for him to follow. Anson was taller, and leaner, and though the tavern was crowded, there was no need for him to press so tightly to Ash of the beautiful golden brown eyes and brown gold skin as he did. Out in the cooler air of the street, he had to catch up with him, and when they reached the end of the block, before they went on, Ash said, “Do you have any idea what you are dealing with? What I am? The appeal of you is quite obvious. Lean, a soldier with a sword at your side, muscles not too big, just big enough I can see through that damned shirt. I wonder what you see in this conjurer.”
“The same thing you see in me,” Anson said,
“They say my ancestors fought dragons. But they also danced with them. They never ran from fire. They ran to it.”
“They were fools.”
“Then I am too.”
“Yes. Most likely.”
A carriage bearing late night revelers clattered down the street.
“Come with me,” Ash said. “See how much my fires burns.”

MORE TUESDAY

 

[CharmedFan28]

Great to ready about some of Anson’s past and his meeting of Ash. I was fascinated with where the meeting was going to go and I look forward to reading what happens next. Excellent writing and I look forward to more soon!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Yes, it was time to read about Anson's past because we are very much about to step into his present and kick of the deep love story this particular book

 

[ChrisGibson]

WE RETURN TO THE PAST AND THE FIRST TIME ANSON AND ASH WERE TOGETHER


“Light a candle?”
“Just one candle,” Ash said, “so I can watch you undress, see you body golden and lovely.”
“It has never been lovely to me.”
“Then you are a very poor man for have missed yourself.”
“Undress with me,” Anson said.
Ash wrapped Anson in his arms, and Anson stooped down, planting his chin on Ash’s head. They kissed, and beyond the liquor and smoke of the tavern room, Anson smelled a wild spicy cologne, the late summer and Ash’s desire. Quickly they undressed each other and Anson beheld Ash, brown, strong limbed, deep chested. He kissed his firm lips.
Anson’s body, golden, long, with hair dark brown and cinnamon going down his stomach to make a small cloud over his sex, the tattoo of a dragon moving up the hills of his right bicep, breathing a strange fire as Anson stretched and his bicep flexed.
“There is music,” Anson said.
“From downstairs.”
Anson fell onto the bed on his back and opened his legs to Ash. It was so quick, and they were so quickly out of themselves. Head to the ceiling, then face looking out of the window to the street, and then down at Anson’s mouth opened in ecstasy, Ash entered him with a sigh of surprise. Anson’s large hands pulled at him. How hot, how tight how … home he was, how home Anson had felt since the moment Ash had seen him.
“Don’t come,” Anson whispered, and he looked at this long and large and beautiful man, thighs up for him, mouth open, face closed in pleasure.
“Don’t come. Don’t come. Please!” Anson whispered as they made a rhythm together, pushing and pulling, taking in, moving over silent hills of desire.
Ash was on his knees, and then his hands and knees, pressing into him, engulfed in this heat, in this tightness. Anson reached back, his broad warm hand on Ash’s thigh, guiding him in deeper. Now the orgasm was like a sharp magnet that tugged at his balls and turned his cock into something large and cosmic, slick and throbbing. The orgasm pulled itself out of Ash, causing him to go into a violent seizure and then, eyes gazing at the light of nothing, he knelt there still, too taken to even move. It was Anson’s warm, large hands that moved him, put him on his back. He felt Anson riding him, cock against his cock, lubricated by the slickness of his semen. They moved together in that incredible heat until cursing and swearing with a staggered, oh—fuck—my—god-god-god-damn, Anson came too. He came hot, the liquid flowing between their stomachs, to their chests.

“I know you,” Ash said. “I knew you.”
“In another life?” Anson said, not entirely joking, his blue eyes turning golden in the light.
“Perhaps in several,” Ash said.
They lay like that, Ash under the heat of Anson. Then, at last, Ash got up. He returned a few moments later, brown, nude, clean, with a white cloth for Anson. It was hot and moist and Anson cleaned himself with it. Anson rose and stood before Ash. He had the most beautiful penis, still firm, still erect and bobbing, balls hanging in their brown sack, the hair of Anson’s loins dark bronze, glinting gold, beautiful. Swiftly Ash took Anson in his mouth. He needed Anson. He wanted Anson so much that Anson came back to the bed and their fooling around turned into second sex. In the aftermath of it, in the late night the two men lay damp and hot and naked, tangled together, barely breathing.
Ash tried to laugh and sat up.
“Are we having an affair now?” he asked.
Anson pulled Ash’s warm body to his. It was important they be as close as possible. It felt so good to hold him, to be near him. He kissed him very softly and then squeezed Ash.
Anson told him: “We could.”


Anson woke from a sleep without nightmares. He rolled over, stretching for Ash and yawning, said, “Good morning.”
“It is a morning,” Ash agreed, reclining on one elbow, “And I find it good.”
“What time is it?”
“Early yet, scarcely day.”
“Damnation,” Anson murmured, “I do not want to leave. Is there much to do on your end today?”
“A few things.” Ash held out a hand and shook it feebly as if he were not sure how much these things mattered.
“I guess I better go,” Anson said.
“You don’t have to,” Ash said. “But you probably should.”
“I said I should go hours ago.”
Anson slowly separated himself from Ash and, on the edge of the bed, searched in the room lit only by dim lamps, for his underwear, his trousers, his shirt.
“And I agreed then, too,” Ash told him, sitting up. “But pointed out there wasn’t much of a reason we shouldn’t have the whole night.”
“And we’ve had the whole night,” Anson said.
He leaned over and kissed Ash on the mouth. They kissed like that a long time, and Ash drew him back into the bed where they kissed, tangled their bodies and tasted each other a long time before separating.
“It’s nearly morning.”
“It is morning,” Ash told him.
Ash helped him dress, and then wrapped himself in his robe and pulled him outside.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said.
They were quiet the whole time they went through the halls and down the stairs.
“This place is huge,” Anson whispered.
Ash said nothing, but only squeezed his hand.
At the door Anson said, “When will I see you again?”
“That should be my question. Promise you’ll come to me soon.”
They kissed again, a long while, Ash reaching up to press his hands into Anson’s short hair. And then he separated from him and pushed the great glass paned door open.
The sky was grey and the street was barely lit.
“It’s morning,” said Anson.
Ash touched his chest and agreed, “It’s morning.”
Anson walked down the steps of the hotel and turned to the right, walking along the high old buildings of North Gate. Broad Street was nearly empty but for a few sledge cabs and some early morning risers setting up stalls, tipping their hats. To the south, he heard the tolling of bells and looked up to see the spires of the great minsters. He turned into Birk Street and came up the steps that led to the great round tower where the House Guard of Kingsboro stayed. This was no simple barracks, and usually they had two servants, Ivy and Corn.
The Chapterhouse had a high stone stair, and Anson came up the steps humming to himself. The heavy door wasn’t locked, and Anson came into the foyer and then entered the large, high ceilinged parlor.
“You certainly had a night,” Jon said.
“You startled me.”
Jon was the chief bodyguard of Prince Cedd, and now he sat drinking, possibly, a mug of coffee, and his feet were stretched out before the large hearth.
“Did I miss anything?” Anson said.
“No. A few of us went out to a tavern. Cherval did wonder if you fell in the river, but Errik seemed to know you were alright.” Jon smiled slowly, and sipping from his drink said, “I assumed you found your boy.”
There were other parts of Westrial and, for that matter, of this city and even of this palace where Anson’s desires might have been frowned upon, or even condemned, but here, in this house, everyone knew what he went looking for now and again, at least twice a month, when he went into the Red District on the east end of town.
“I did,” Anson answered.
“And found him well?”
“Just left him,” Anson admitted in a quiet voice.
“Well, you’ll be able to go back to him a few times I guess. Though your look and your voice say this is different. It seems like you all have something serious for each other.”
“This is different,” Anson said, frankly. “I came looking for another boy and found… a very different man.”
Jon, no stranger to love, nodded, then said, “You care for coffee?”
Anson stretched and yawned.
“No, I need sleep.”
Jon chuckled and said, “I imagine you would have gotten very little of that. Well, off with you and to bed.”
Anson headed up the steps, and going toward his room he was mildly startled by the large black dog before Errik’s room. It opened its eyes, rose up, came to sniff Anson’s feet and then licked his hand before returning to guard the room.
“You’re a good doggie,” Anson said. Then he said, “Well, you’re a huge doggie.”
“To bed,” Anson yawned. “To bed.”



Havenhall rose up out of the towers of Kingsboro Castle, the work of Corboghast the Builder. In those days when the Ayl still crossed between here and the Grey Sea, he had come, the son of a great chieftain, schooled in the south, to build the great hall for King Duncan upon his marriage to Ginevra, the proud Royan princess. It was said that Queen Ginevra came with a dowry of one hundred fifty horses and a great table. So great was that table a new hall was required to accomodate it. The mage Elwin built the hall by his western magic and still it sparkled high above the city. The great Sun Wheel, Calligryan winked from the top ot it, its rays flowing over the city.
At the center of so great a hall, raised on a mighty dais of grey stone, was the Low Throne of the Kings of Westrial. Once it back had been higher, but it was said after Avred Oss, his descendants had taken the higher part of that throne into Rheged and vowed to never restore it until there was, again, a true High King over all Ynkurando. The stones arms the Royan has also taken, and so the Westrian kings had replaced them with expansive brass wings, tipped with bronze claws which had come from the Greyhammer, the ship Baeldeag and Eoga, the fathers of all Ayl kings, had sailed on when they came here a thousand years ago.
Of late there were men who believed the one who sat the Drakeseige was unworthy of it. They believed even that his weakness had brought the plague which had nearly destroyed the royal family and wiped out a third of the nation thirty years ago. But who could say? And so no one did. Not outloud.
Because the hall was loud, and because the King wanted to be quiet, to speak privately with the Prince, they exited through Sunnelong, the long terrace that ran to the left of the throne room where early morning sun streamed.
“When our guest comes tonight,” King Anthal said, “I want Anson with us.”
When Cedd opened his mouth, his father said, “That is my word. I insist on it.”
“He is a bastard,” Cedd said simply.
Cedd was pale with high colored cheeks and coal black hair,,and he would have been a handsome man if he wasn’t so damnably unpleasant and, his sister noted, dishonest.
“He is no bastard,” the Princess Imogen said, “simply because you treat him like one,” she turned to her father.
“He prefers to live the way he has.”
“But he is no bastard,” Imogen said, “and I wonder what you call me when I am not around.”
“Sister, you are the daughter of my father’s second wife.”
“I am the daughter of his third wife,” she said, looking at her brother and her father, “his second queen, and Anson’s mother seems to have known that being queen is a sort of death warrant, for she left, but neither of our mothers survived a fourth birth.”
King Anthal was old, and today did not feel like arguing. He simply listened to his children wrangle. He was weaker than he should have been, he knew this. His first wife had been a princess of the people of Hale, the black haired cousins of the Ayl. Tourmaline was sweet and kind, and what would have become of her son had she lived, Anthal could not say. Queen Tourmaline had brought a daughter into the world and then a little son, Timon, and this had been his joyous little family until the year of the White Plague. There seemed no way of keeping it out, and no one was safe from it. Tourmaline had died after Timon and Orethea, pregnant, leaving only young Cedd, and when the plague had blown through the south and moved into the North, Anthal set to the task of putting his people back on their feet.
There had been a ban on magic, placed in the days of his brother, and now Anthal saw this may have been the reason the plague could not be helped, for in the West Country there was no plague, and he had appealed to the Rootless Isle, south, in the Strait of Havren. And so the Lady Nimerly came with several of her women, and one night her sister, Essily, had come to him, and she had said, “If you perform the pledge with me and honor whatever child is born from us, then I will give you a son.”
His two children were dead, and Tourmaline was gone. Death was all around him, and as much from sorrow and the desire to feel as the desire for a child, he had agreed. This woman was golden skinned, the color of ivory, blue eyed with lustrous golden hair, lion colored as opposed to the usual wheat coloring of the Ayl people. Warm and inviting she was and for several nights he found comfort in her arms. When Nimerly and the other women of the Isle left, Essily remained. She stayed to grow big with child.
“You will love him,” Anthal said.
“I hate him already,” Cedd said frankly. He was five. Years later, he would add, “and the people will not accept him. He is nothing but a bastard, and this is how he will be looked upon.”
Essily bore the child and Anthal named him Anson. However hateful Cedd had been, it seemed he was right, for the people demanded Anson find a new queen and quick. A Royan princess would have been rare and odd, but perfectly acceptable. After all the royal line already had Royan blood. The Kings of Westrial gained their right to rule through marrying into the old House of Ynkurando. But a lady from the strange Island could never be a true queen or create a proper alliance. Essily returned to the island with Anson, perhaps to hide him away, and sent him back to Anthal when he was five years old.
By then, Anthal already had a new wife, Emmaline, a cousin of Tourmaline and as black haired as she. Nimerly brought Anson to his father saying the Holy Isle was no place for a growing boy who would be a warrior, and Emmaline was kind to her stepson, for none of her children would ever reign, and as the years passed and Anthal grew more and more distant and ineffective, Emmaline and her children came to understand that with Anson, they had a mutual enemy in Cedd. Emmaline had a habit of bearing daughters. Her two sons before had died, and while she lay giving birth to the one that would have been called Edward, at last, she died too.
Anson did not have to be pushed away to the barracks to live more or less as a soldier, to be demoted to the chief guard of his father the King. That had been happening for years. He was never present at great events, nor were his half sisters. Hilda had been packed off to a convent and Morgellyn sent north as soon as possible to marry the king of Essail. Only Imogen remained with Anson to resist their brother, to fight the good fight, and tonight, the old king promised Princess Imogen, “Anson will stand with us, as the royal prince he is.”

MORE TOMORROW

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a great trip back into the past! I throughly enjoyed it and look forward to more tomorrow!

 

[ChrisGibson]

Well, luckily for us all there will be more tomorrow!

 

[ChrisGibson]

WE CONTINUE THE STORY OF ANSON

As the sun set into night, the high hall gleamed like a diamond above the white walls and towers of the Everkeep. Downbelow guests, the honored of the land, had been streaming in for some time, and in the hall, the musicians were playing on viols from Senach. The expensive Solahni wine was out, and it seemed to Anson, not used to this finery, wishing for his old guard’s outfit and scratching at his collar, that no one took seriously an envoy from the West.
“They all want to gawk and see,” Jon said and when Anson nodded, and Jon perceived that he was trying not to go back to his father’s side, the captain of the guard said, “Off with you. You have to be prince tonight.”
He had scarcely spoken when the trumpets blared and, before the throne, beside Cedd, Hilda cleared her throat and began to motion frantically for Anson to come. He started to run, but stopped himself, and in a quick, measured and regal step, approached his family.
“You look fair, my son,” King Anthal said.
Cedd raised an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose as if he were smelling something foul.
“Presenting, his Royal Highness King Idris of Rheged, and his companion, the Lord Ohean Penannyn.”
“Ohean?” Imogen whispered.
Ohean was a name they knew, the sorcerer who in his tongue was called Penannyn, the Great Ash Tree. Exactly what he was they were not entirely sure. He was not the chief Enchanter, this was Cormach of the Hidden Tower. Ohean was no king’s magician as many of the wizards were. It was said he came from the Rootless Isle. But when he came, he came into the Young Kingdoms, he came in the name of the Royan nations, and when he spoke all Royan listened. Anson had never seen him. He had not come into the city, it was said, for some time, and only in secret.
King Idris of Rheged, flanked by two of his guards, entered unarmed. He was good to look at, medium in height, dark of skin with full lips that reminded Anson of Ash, the lover he’d left in the inn. A pearl earring glinted in his ear and his dark curly was soft like a lamb’s.
He moved to kiss King Anthal’s cheeks and be kissed in returne, and now approached Ohean. He was not tall, the same height as Idris, and he wore over a white robe, an open mantle, dark red, nearly maroon. In this hall where none wore hats or helmets, a great hood was over his head and now he removed it and gave a courteous nod to the king, as one would to an equal.
“My Lord Ohean,” King Anthal said.
“My Lord, King Anthal,” Ohean returned, his eyes strangely wolf like, “Prince Cedd, and my dear Princess Imogen, greetings and, greetings,” Ohean’s eyes met his, “my lord, Prince Anson.”
“Hail,” Anson’s throat was dry, “Lord Ohean.”
He could not believe it. Anson realized that Ohean had called him my lord, but not his brother. He also realized, as he looked at the magician, that this man, Ohean, was Ash.


The whole time Anson stood beside his father, trying to keep his composure, trying not to stare like a complete fool, the conversation between his father, King Idris and Ash, who was apparently Ohean, went on like buzzing bees about his ears. He needed to stop being an ass, after all, hadn’t he been with several men who had no idea who he was, who perhaps, having seen him on horseback riding with the King, were suddenly tongue tied upon learning the identity of their lover from the night before?
And yet, the things he had done were as nothing. For he had promised no love to any of those others, and though Ash had not promised love there had been something. Hadn’t there? Certainly he had not asked for it to be something. He couldn’t even be angry. He had found what he was looking for and so had Ash. No, Ohean.
Imogen nudged Anson and Anson cleared his throat and looked at his sister.
“My Lord King Idris was asking,” Imogen continued, “if the new foals for the cavalry were promising this year?”
“Oh, yes,” Anson cleared his throat. “Yes. They are… better than last year. Though last year was good. It’s always good.”
Anson saw Cedd scowling, and the old King said, “My son’s head is with the army. He is army man more than regal.”
“Yes,” Cedd said. “He’d probably sleep in the stables if he could.”
“It may prove a good thing,” Ohean said, “if things go on as they are in the north, then we will need a warrior on the throne of Westrial rather than a…” he looked to Cedd, “regal.”
“Well, I suppose he is regal enough,” Cedd continued. “After all, he must be related to you, Lord Ohean.”
Anson blinked at Ohean and Ohean said, “This is true, Prince.”
He looked to Anson, “The Queen Essily, who remained with his royal highness for a time, was my first cousin. We are blood.”
But while Anson was absorbing this, Idris continued talking.
“It is better for a king to know sword play over lute play,” Idris agreed. He was so handsome, the color of dark chocolate, but Ohean said, “I do not agree. It is often necessary in days like these that a king know sword play, but a lord of a land ought to be a whole man, minstrel and fighter if he can.”
“Like King Davyn?” Imogen said.
“Hopefully not, Princess,” Ohean said. “He murdered two hundred men in one night and offered their heads in the temple of Myr, and then wrote poems about it. But that was twenty centuries ago. I think we can do better than that. And now,” Ohean said, “I will take my seat.”
“But of course,” the King said, for he had forgotten to seat them, “you all will sit with us at the high table, and you, Lord Ohean, sit in the place of king’s counselor to Idris.”
“Forfend,” Idris shook his head. “Ohean is not my counselor, but an equal. He counsels all the kings of the Old Kingdoms, and I am not king.”
“Ohean is light to the Ayl as well,” Anthal said. Turning to Ohean he said, “Well then, will you be seated at my left, where no counsel has sat, where the great Elwin sat in days long ago.”
Ohean smiled, nodded, and folding his hands behind him, following the King and, Anson noted, before all others, including Idris. As he moved through the high hall, past the hanging banners and by the magnificent guests, the caramel skinned man, so unlike most in that ahll, paid them no mind, and was amazed not a wit when the servants pulled his chair back for him and sat him there.
The night was spent in what seemed idle chatter, and for Anson, sitting three seats away from Ash, between Imogen and Cedd, it was everything he could do not to shout to the wizard who seemed so courtly and so unmoved. But through the plain conversation he heard important things. Rheged and Westrial were old allies. Of the Young Kingdoms it had been Westrial which had often married princesses of that land. Over two hundred fifty years ago, when a high princess of that land had married Aethulwulf, the first king of House Aethylan. They discussed Edmund King of Inglad and the Hales, Twenty years he had been wed to his Halic wife, Edith, but sired no children on her.
“It is not that she cannot bear them,” Imogen said, “rather it is said that he will not bear them with her.”
“Daughter, such gossip.”
“Not gossip, but truth,” Imogen said, “and more than truth, the reason we should all worry a little.”
“The Princess is right,” Ohean said. “Edmund’s heir is the King of Daumany.”
“The King of Daumany lies on his deathbed,” Cedd said, “and he still suffers from the wounds we gave him when he tried to fight us.”
“Tried and succeeded and took many Westrian lives,” Anson remembered.”
“And do you imagine there won’t be one to displace him, Prince?” Ohean looked to Cedd, amused.
“Rufus is a bastard.”
“Rufus is the only son of King William, and beloved of him and Edmund,” Ohean said. “If things continue as they are, he could be heir to Daumany in the east and the northern kingdoms as well.”
“The North will never simply submit to him,” Anson said, suddenly.
“No, Prince Anson,” Ohean said, levelly, “it will not. The descendants of the Wulfstans remnants Edmund hunted down and supplanted will rise up after his death, along with Queen Edith’s family.”
“The remnants…” Cedd protested while Anson frowned. “The Wulfstans are all dead.”
“Let’s not discuss that here,” Ohean said.
“Well, aren’t they?” Cedd demanded, and though Anthal said nothing, he looked eager to hear the answer.
“Aren’t you all Wulfstans? Does not the blood of Wulfstan remain in the House of Senach, and even in Rheged and Elmet? Royal lines are as easy to snuff out as bed bugs,” Ohean said. “And often as troublesome. All I know, and I need no magic for this, is that what is happening now, at this moment, is setting the Young Kingdoms up for bloodshed, and this time around the Royan kingdoms will not be able to escape it.”
Anson sat back in his chair, choosing not to speak, but it was Princess Imogen who said, “Then what do we do?”
“My good lady, that is precisely what we are trying to find out.”

MORE TOMORROW

 

[CharmedFan28]

That was a surprise about Ash’s other name! Things are getting interesting in this flashback and I look forward to more of it! Great writing!

 

[ChrisGibson]

I don't remember if Ash's other name was meant to be a surprise to the reader or not. I know it was a surprise to Anson, but it's a surprise to Anson for reasons which will soon be revealed if it hasn't already.

 

[ChrisGibson]

CONCLUSION OF CHAPTER FOUR

The meal went on and after the dessert, a great pie from which when cut, red cardinals flew out, was served. Ohean stood up.
“I’m not eating anything a live bird has been inside of,” the mage pronounced in a low voice that made Princess Imogen laugh.
“Lord, Ohean, you should know illusion when you see it.”
“I need air,” the wizard said and Anson, seeing his chance, waited until Ohean was a ways off and said, “I need air too.”
Ohean was quick, his dark red robes swishing the floor as he headed through one of the many pillared doors to the portico that overlooked the city. By the time Anson had followed him out, he could already smell the smoke of sweet tobacco. The mage was quietly puffing on a cheroot.
“I hope you do not mind me following you,” Anson said.
“No,” Ohean said, looking surprised. “It was my intention that you would.”
Anson said, “I had no idea who you were. The other night. When things happened.”
“When we slept together,” Ohean said simply.
“Yes,” Anson said.
“You said you were a simple soldier named Cole..”
“But you are a mage,” Anson said. “You had no idea?”
“I had some idea,” Ash admitted. Then he said, “I had more than some idea. But I could not stay away from you.” Anson was surprised by this frank admission.
“Tonight, if Cedd had said nothing, had you planned to tell me that we were cousins?”
“I figured you would find out sooner than later,” Ohean said.
Anson’s face was stern and unchanged.
“What?” Ohean said. “When we were first together, I had no idea who you were, though I ought to have. I should have seen through that very quickly. And even when I learned it, took a moment for me to remember. When I had, I didn’t see much of a point in telling you we were cousins before you needed to know.”
“You are…” Anson sat down on his back side, “Incredible!”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment!”
“All the same, I’ll take it.”
Anson said nothing and Ohean said, “Are you upset that I did not tell you, or do you think that some taboo has been crossed? Because cousins come together in love every day. Royal families survive on it.”
‘Do you regularly take your cousins to bed?”
“Only my cousin, Thano.”
Anson blinked at him.
“He was my first love,” Ohean said. “But that was long ago, and the love has burned itself low into something else.”
“Do you remember me?” Anson said. “From long ago?”
“I do,” Ohean said. “I remembered while we ate, while I made to talk politics the whole time thinking of you then and thinking of you asleep next to me last night. I look on in wonder at the man you have become. I would never have pictured it when you were a child. When you followed me around and I carried you about.”
“Are you serious?”
“I did,” Ohean said, nodding. “And I loved you very well and mourned when Coviane sent you away—”
“Who?” Anson said.
“Coviane.”
“Who is she?” Anson began. “I remember a little bit. Nimerly is the Lady of the Rootless Isle. She is my aunt. She sent me away.”
“No,” Ohean shook his head. “Nimerly is Lady now. Coviane was lady after your grandmother, when my mother and your aunt and even your mother refused. They later came to regret this. It was Coviane who sent you away. Nimerly brought you here, though. I left with Nimerly and my mother to deliver you to the king, but a day before they went to Kingsboro, I turned off the road and went on my own to Rheged. I put you out of my heart. Perhaps a little too well. This is why when you were returned to me and we were together again, I did not quite know you, though I knew I belonged with you.”
Anson nodded. He said, “I imagine we both lied.”
“My name is Ash. It is the name to which I was born and still bear among my father’s people.”
“Cole is what they used to call me,” Anson said.
“Then neither of us lied,” Ohean said. “Only we did not tell each other everything. And why would we?”
He passed the cheroot to Anson who looked surprised and then said, “Thank you.”
He took a long puff on the cigar and returned it.
“Did you plan for me to come back to you?” Anson said. “Or was that… just something you said while we were making love.”
“I never just say anything,” Ash shook his head, returning the cheroot again. “When a witch says a thing it tends to happen. It makes it harder to lie.”
“What if I had come back to you tonight?”
“You would have been told I would not be in till late, for I had no intentions of staying here, and every intention of going back to the inn—”
“Then you were serious about me,” Anson said.
“Yes, Prince,” Ash said. “Even out of your glory, you are still a very beautiful man. I do not know why you think I’d lie about coming back to you.”
“Because we did things,” Anson said, simply. “Even if I am a beautiful man, as you say, when people share things in bed, when two men do, often there is rejection afterward. People do not always care for what they see. A beautiful man is a picture. The lover you lie with is flesh and blood, tastes and smells, tears and emotions.”
“And in the past,” Ash presumed, “have many who came to the Prince of the Western Ayl for his face and form not been able to stand the other things?”
“I look the prince because tonight they dress me as him,” Anson said. “Often I am treated as little more than the bastard.”
“But you are no bastard.”
“I might as well be.”
“Well, the bastard of Daumany is on his way to two thrones, so do not be overly concerned with that. Or,” Ash reached up to touch the side of Anson’s cheek, “your past.”
“What would you find out about me? Would you still want to know me, if we stayed together another night?”
“Are you asking me?” Ash said.
“Lord Ohean,” Anson’s voice was not daring or gallant as it had been the other night when he was just a soldier. His voice was almost unsure.
“If you are willing to stay in my rooms tonight, I am more than willing to have you.”
“And I wonder that you do not fear me or find me undesireable either.”
“Ah,” Anson smiled out of the corner of his mouth, shrugging humbly but his eyes twinkling, “but you said it last night. We are both dragons.”

WE WILL RETURN TO KINGSBORO NEXT WEEK