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The temple of the Lady of Thunder was, paradoxically, roofless, which meant that it could only really be used during fine weather. Taše had an abundance of time to contemplate the absurdity of this decision as he stood, sweating a little, beside the altar with the chief priest of the Lady of Thunder’s service. He was a short, round man who looked as uncomfortable with Taše’s presence as Taše felt being there, and it made him feel at least slightly more positively inclined to the man to know that he’d had no part in orchestrating his temple’s selection for the song and dance that was to follow. They’d been there for nearly three hours already, and the gutters at the base of the altar were nearly overflowing already with the blood of three goats, five lambs, and nearly thirty pigeons, the humble offerings of the people of the city. A full ceremonial procession on a high feast day was the best possible excuse for everyone to start jostling for a piece of the Lady’s favor, like a flock of chickens chasing each other for a bite of some prize tidbit one of them had found in the dirt, and the temple had been packed all morning with merchants asking blessing on their latest venture or newlyweds begging for a child, as though the god of storms could do anything about that. At least the merchants had an excuse to wish for fair weather.
He had it a little better than the priest, though. He was obligated to lay a hand on all of the animals brought before them, as though a king’s touch might make them even more acceptable to the Lady, but he was not required to recite anything. The priest sounded hoarse already, and there was a visible river of sweat running down his temple, but he faithfully intoned the same words of acceptance over each beast before they were duly passed off to the temple attendants to have their throats cut. For a small fee, or a cut of the meat, the temple would carve the rest of the animal for the supplicant to take home for their meal that night, and Taše was nearly sick already with the overwhelming stench of blood. The open roof of the temple might have made that easier to bear if it hadn’t also left the entire altar and the square before it in full view of the sun, and the heat was beginning to wear on him even with the concession of a thin sailcloth canopy directly over the two of them and the rest of the temple attendants.
The discomfort kept his mind off what was to come next, at least. Taše was trying not to think about it, as he’d been doing all morning, but he’d still barely been able to choke down a bite to eat before leaving for the temple, too heartsick over the entire idea of what would come after. He’d only seen Ilmekhor once since that wonderful, dreadful night in his bed — only once, the evening after, when he’d come to knock on Ilmekhor’s door to offer an apology for vanishing before dawn that morning. Ilmekhor had met his stilted fumbling with perfect blankness, had heard out his excuses of an early meeting to fight it out with his council over the crown’s share of the river-trade up and down Mardan’s waterways, and had said very calmly that of course there’s nothing to forgive, Your Majesty has already indulged your servant beyond reason or expectation, though I’m grateful that Your Majesty took the time to explain the matter, was there anything else?
Taše had, at that point, grown accustomed enough to Mardani indirectness to know what that meant, and had stopped himself before he said something truly unforgivable, like I’d indulge any whim of yours if you’d only smile at me again. He’d taken his dismissal on the chin as best he could, and left with a final, somewhat stiff reminder that he’d see Ilmekhor safely out of the country at any hour of the day or night if he changed his mind. That, too, had been met with an unreadable look and a small bow, and Taše had left the exchange feeling a little sore around the edges, and highly ashamed of himself for it.
He knew better. He knew better than to expect anything, because there was nothing there to expect. He knew that all the flashes of strength and pride and warmth that flickered out from behind that seemingly endless reserve meant nothing, that the memories of Ilmekhor pliant and gasping with pleasure under him meant nothing, that the softness in his voice as he’d called out Taše’s name in his bed meant nothing. It had been the heat of the moment, and if what Ilmekhor meant for him to see was only that fathomless, quiet deference, Taše had no right in the world to pry beyond it or demand more.
He had no right now, and he would have less before long. He’d had to leave at dawn, too tossed-about between ceremonial attendants and representatives of the priests insistent that he not make a hash of the procession and the following ceremony to even catch a glimpse of Ilmekhor in the gardens. He’d left Mur’Aida behind, though, with strict instructions to keep at least two guards with Ilmekhor the entire way, and if he’d suggested maybe a little too broadly that he’d look the other way if they felt inclined to knife anyone else who tried to lay a hand on him past what was absolutely necessary, well, Mur’Aida had known him too long to tell tales out of school. Better he have to endure a few pitying looks from his own cohort than repeat the disaster of that first day, and his dignity was a lost cause as far as they were concerned anyway.
There was, at last, a break in the stream of pigeons, and Taše took the opportunity to rinse his hands in the ceremonial bowl and splash a little of the cool water on his face. The sun was relentless, and the priest beside him was gratefully downing his third cup of the heavily watered wine the temple attendants kept ready for them. The temple was on a bare patch of rock at the crest of a hill just outside the city, and it had been a long ride up from the heart of the palace even early that morning, when the air had still been cool and a little mist-soft below the hedgerows. Surely he wasn’t the only one to see the absurdity in holding the highest feast day of a god of storms on a day when the sky was nothing but unbroken blue from one end to the other — but then, he’d followed the Hunter at home, and even in Kolmant, where they took a looser approach to their gods, the Hunter was known for a certain lack of orthodoxy and disregard for proper festival days. Maybe it would have been even more absurd to wait for a cloud or two; he had no way of knowing, and it was difficult to care.
They had gone an oddly long time without someone thrusting a squawking dove into his hands, Taše realized after a moment, and a glance around the temple square informed him that they seemed, somehow, to have finally reached an end to the line of supplicants, though the square was still packed nearly from one side to the other. Then he heard the bells from the foot of the hill, and the faint lowing of a cow not best pleased at the situation it found itself in, and with a shiver even under the heat of the sun he realized what they had finally come to.
The mare came first, a pure black creature with a heap of flowers on her back in place of a saddle, led with a single cord about her neck instead of bridle or bit. Then the bulls came behind — three of them, snow-white, with gleaming horns. Taše knew they’d cost the crown’s treasury far more than they were worth for the meat alone, but he couldn’t much grudge the farmers their share of the coin, so long as it was only the beasts that would have to bleed that afternoon. The bulls were garlanded with hazel and the one in the lead, with the largest horns and a golden ring in its nose, bore a slightly charred and cracking yoke that Taše realized, after a moment, was carved of lightning-struck wood. It was appropriate, at least, but he could hardly bring himself to appreciate it when the herders drove them up before the altar and then parted just enough for Taše to catch his first sight of Ilmekhor in two days.
Taše’s own men were flanking him, which was something of a comfort. Everything else about the sight had Taše’s gut lurching with sudden dread. He was being led on a collar and leash, again, led by a ferret-faced man in the short robes of the priests’ servants, and Taše would’ve sworn it was the same fucking collar as the first wretched day in the throne room if he hadn’t known for a fact that that one was rotting at the bottom of a midden-heap somewhere behind the palace. It certainly looked similar enough, though, a heavy iron thing with a crude ring at the front. They’d bound him at the wrists and elbows to a long staff laid across his shoulders, keeping his arms outstretched like the horns of the bulls now stamping and snorting in the heat, and he was bare to the waist. Taše saw, as the rest of the procession approached, that he looked painfully flushed with the heat and the sun, and his chest and arms gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat that Taše might have found appealing if it hadn’t been so obvious that it was taking nearly everything Ilmekhor had in him to keep his feet. With a sick lurch, Taše remembered the miserable climb up the hill to the temple — nearly a quarter of an hour up narrow switchbacks and steep curves. He tried to imagine it in the full sun of midday, struggling to balance without the use of his hands, dragged by the throat, and fought the urge to wince.
The representative of the priests dropped the leash a few feet away, which saved Taše the task of striking it from his hands, but it meant that for a few feet Ilmekhor was coming toward him of no constraint but his own will, and the sight made Taše’s chest ache more than he’d thought. Of all the ways he might have dreamed of such a thing — a temple, a clear sky, an offering and a feast — this was nothing like any of them, only a sick parody of ritual observance. And yet…
There was a moment, between one slow step and the next, where Ilmekhor glanced up at him, suddenly enough that Taše had no time to look away or to school his face into something a little less revealing. Their eyes met, and Taše saw a strange little softening in Ilmekhor’s face, almost that of a tension falling away. Without prompting or ceremony he closed the last few feet between them and sank to his knees at Taše’s feet, and then — very quietly, he bowed forward over his knees and pressed his lips to the stones at Taše’s feet, left and right, and then leaned forward to kiss Taše’s boots as well. The long braid of his hair dragged on the ground, and as Taše took an instinctive half-step back, he made no attempt to raise himself, only held himself very still, with his forehead still pressed to the ground.
“Enough,” Taše said, just loud enough to be heard over the murmur of the crowd. It was nearly too much to be borne, but when he added, a little softer, “Up, please,” Ilmekhor obeyed immediately. To Taše’s utter astonishment, he shuffled forward on his knees a few more inches — and then his head tipped forward and came lightly to rest against the outside of Taše’s thigh, and with a little sigh Taše saw him relax all at once, as much as the cords binding him to the staff would allow.
There were blessings to be said over the bulls, and prayers to be made, but no one was asking Taše to contribute to that. Under the cover of the chanting from the priest, now a little hoarse and clearly exhausted but gamely persevering all the same, Taše dared another small glance down in Ilmekhor’s direction. The collar was digging cruelly into his neck, and the skin below was an even angrier red than the rest of it — and when Taše laid a cautious palm over the nape of Ilmekhor’s neck, he almost jerked it back again at the vicious heat pouring off the thing. The entire way from the palace — it filled him with the impossible urge to scream.
There was nothing to be done about it there, in front of the entire temple and all the onlookers, but he managed to pick up his glass without drawing too much attention, and — there was no help for this part — held it low enough for Ilmekhor to reach. “Drink,” he murmured, soft enough not to catch the priest’s ear, and after a moment Ilmekhor’s head lifted very slowly from where he’d been resting it just below Taše’s hip. Taše swore the place on his thigh burned as Ilmekhor blinked for a moment at the glass Taše held out to him, and then he leaned in to get the rim against his mouth.
It was unbearable. Taše could still see the place on the rim that was still wet from his own mouth, and the height and angle were suggestive at best. When he tipped the glass up a little, Ilmekhor drank in long, breathless gulps, and his eyes — his eyes never left Taše’s. It was the perfect show of a submissive pet, and when the glass was empty he licked his lips to catch the last stray drops and mouthed, very softly, thank you. It wasn’t followed by a master or even a Your Majesty, and for a moment the noise of the temple died away and Taše could almost believe he meant it.
Almost. Then the priest was coming to the end of his long recitation and the herders were bringing the mare and the bulls forward one by one for Taše to lay his hand between their horns and name them as his offering before the Lady. The largest of the bulls, with the yoke of the lightning-charred wood, seemed to look Taše in the eyes with the same soft, liquid, trusting gaze, and then one by one they were butchered there in the square, leaving the gutters before the altar full to the brim with the red-black blood.
“And finally, as the High Priest of the Lord of Light decreed in the omens — a renewal of the land’s own offering to the king, made beneath the Lady’s skies to confirm the earlier offering hidden behind stone walls.” Taše would have laughed at the absurdity of it all if he hadn’t been so heartsick over the whole thing, but at his feet Ilmekhor drew a visible breath and rose on his knees, going easily to his feet as Taše set his teeth and got a firm hand around the staff across his shoulders to drag him up. He went without a struggle as Taše pressed him down over the altar, chest and shoulders flat against its smooth surface. At least they were still most of the way beneath the canopy overhead; the surface had been almost cool to the touch when Taše ran a testing hand over it a few minutes before. Under him, he could see Ilmekhor’s head come up for a moment, seeming to take in the sight of the watching crowd for only an instant. Then he was tucking his head back and into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the smooth stone. Taše hoped for Ilmekhor’s sake that the red in his cheeks was only from the sun, but a part of him doubted it. But there was nothing for it — better to have it done and over with, if it had to happen. He splayed a hand between Ilmekhor’s shoulderblades, not pushing hard, but enough for a show of pinning him, and under his palm he felt the muscles bunch and tense, hot and a little sweat-slick. Ilmekhor breathed in, once, slowly, and Taše steeled himself and pulled away the loose span of silk wrapped around his hips.
The whole point was the show, of course — in the display of violence and surrender, a peace for the nation made in the struggle between them — but even now, Taše couldn’t bring himself to be truly rough. More to the point, even with all of Ilmekhor bare and stunning under him, the crowd was enough of a depressing influence that he couldn’t have set about having his way with Ilmekhor even if he’d wanted to. There was little he could do if Ilmekhor wasn’t ready for him, with so many eyes on them, but better to at least know —
At the pressure of a fingertip, he felt Ilmekhor’s hole part easily for him, slick and soft and warm, without a hint of resistance. Taše hoped, desperately, that there was no way Mur’Aida would have let anyone else lay a hand on him to do it, but almost as soon as that thought had presented itself to him, the immediate next conclusion arrived with all the force of a kick from a mule. Ilmekhor must have done it himself, then, and now all Taše could imagine was Ilmekhor sinking down onto his own fingers, spreading himself open — had he let himself enjoy it, had he moaned the way he did that night when it had been Taše coaxing those soft little sounds of pleasure out of him? As much as he hated himself for it, the problem of not being hard enough was rapidly disappearing.
As he stood there, half-frozen, Ilmekhor cracked one eye open, where his cheek was resting against the cool stone of the altar with the stench of blood rising all around them, and peered back at him. For a moment their eyes met — and then Ilmekhor blinked, slow as a cat in the sun, and Taše felt him go soft and pliant under his hands. His hands flexed once against the cords keeping his arms wide and immobile before deliberately opening, and his stance shifted just a little, spreading himself even wider for Taše’s fingers. For a moment, everything fell away: the heat, the slaughter-house smell, the waiting crowd and the short little priest and all his attendants, and it was only them and the cold stone and the heat of their bodies.
He heard Ilmekhor breathe out, half a gasp and half a groan, as his cock slipped inside, but he was nearly silent after that as Taše, mindful of their audience, quickly increased his pace. He was clenching his teeth a little after a few thrusts; Taše could see the tightness in his jaw, but when he laid a hand along Ilmekhor’s ribs in as much of a question as he could manage, Ilmekhor only arched beneath him with a little sound that Taše knew, now, was pleasure. He knew, now, what that sounded like in Ilmekhor’s throat, and even in this, even fighting to keep himself silent where he’d been far freer with his voice in Taše’s bed, he was beautiful —
The altar was low enough that there was a little clearance below their bodies, enough for Taše to slip a hand under them both and find Ilmekhor already hard and dripping to the touch. That was devastating in its own way, but when Taše wrapped his fingers around his cock and began to stroke him quickly, firmly, Ilmekhor shuddered and let out another choked-out little sound that set Taše’s blood on fire in an instant.
They would finish this, and Taše would see to it that there would never be a need for it to happen again, even if it cost him the crown, even if it cost him his life. If he thought too hard about it, truly allowed himself to feel the truth that after that day Ilmekhor would be gone from his life as abruptly as he had entered it, Taše thought he would throw his head back and howl like a wounded animal. But if it was to be the last, then Taše was going to do everything in his power to make it good for Ilmekhor as well, to have at least a chance of leaving behind a memory more pleasant than simple agony. He matched the snap of his hips to the pressure of his hand, trying every trick he had learned three nights ago, and Ilmekhor shuddered under him, panting in breathless little gasps with just an edge of a moan at the bottom of every thrust. Taše saw his brow furrow, saw him strain for a moment against the cords binding him, felt the flutter of his body with each spike of pleasure, and then Ilmekhor’s eyes flashed open, wide and wild. Taše saw him mouth a single please, and that, apparently, was all it took to finish him. His own pleasure nearly knocked him off his feet, but even the pure wall of sensation stampeding through him wasn’t quite enough for him to miss the way Ilmekhor arched up off the altar only moments later, head thrown back and chest heaving as Taše felt him spill over his fingers and onto the stone beneath them.
It was worse than it had been that first horrible time in the throne room; there Taše had only been doing his best to get through the whole miserable business as quickly as possible. He’d barely scraped together enough distance between his mind and his body to finish and let them be done with it, but that was before he knew what it could be, before he had Ilmekhor’s moans ringing in his ears and before he knew the feeling of Ilmekhor’s whole body tensing and trembling with wild pleasure. There was a part of him keening in wild loss at the end he could see rushing up now, faster with every moment. Taše wanted to strangle it.
What would come, would come. For now, there was the last of the work still to be done — to tuck himself back into his trousers without being sick, to run a gentling hand down Ilmekhor’s heaving flanks. He was limp across the altar now, whatever last reserves of strength had been carrying him seemingly fully exhausted, but at the touch of Taše’s hand his head came up, just a little, long enough for the sweating priest to sprinkle rainwater at them both and pronounce their part in the ceremony complete. That wasn’t the end of it, of course; the people were already coming furtively up to dip rags and scraps of blessing-paper in the blood at the base of the altar, and there would be a riot of candles on every rooftop in the city that night when they burned them — but Taše couldn’t bring himself to pay more than halfhearted attention to anything but Ilmekhor, as he slid down from the altar to sit at Taše’s feet. Gods be kind, all that and he still leaned to rest his back against Taše’s leg, still tilted himself just a little in Taše’s direction, though his head drooped as though it took more strength than he had to hold it up.
“Can I — can I see to the cords,” Taše asked, just loud enough to be heard over the reverential murmurs of the crowd and the reedy voice of the priest. His own voice stuck in his throat, ragged as though he’d come from a day in the battlefield, and every word ached. Ilmekhor only nodded, small but certain, and Taše bent with mingled relief and misery to pull the knife from his waist and saw carefully through the four sets of cords. They were tough and tightly bound, leaving raw marks as they came away from Ilmekhor’s skin. The first pair freed his right arm, enough that he could lower it while Taše moved to the other, and the moan he gave as his shoulders went slack with all the force of a loosed arrow —
The crowd was thinning, finally, and Taše chose a moment when it seemed that very few eyes were on them to offer Ilmekhor a hand. He seemed to stare blankly at it for a moment, but then he reached up and clasped Taše’s hand in his; still, despite it all, with the firm grip of a soldier and a man who knew how to keep going when there was nothing left to go on with. He would do well for himself, Taše told himself in an effort to strangle the wailing little beast in his heart; wherever he chose to go and whatever he chose to make of himself in the wake of this, he had strength and wit enough to thrive.
The temple offered little by way of shelter or privacy within its walls, but there were some outbuildings near the back for the use of the priests, and there was more of the watered wine there, and Mur’Aida and the two guards who had come up with him had horses ready for them to take the back path down from the temple. It was at least a little smoother than the sacred road that faced the city, though it would take longer to ride around the base once they reached the bottom, and Taše thought he saw Ilmekhor wince at the idea of climbing into the saddle. It would take time for the temple to clear enough for them to leave, though, and Taše was glad for the moment of rest, if nothing else.
“Where’s the key to his collar?” Taše murmured as they all stood sweating in the small outbuilding, and Mur’Aida blinked.
“Do you not…?” At a wordless shake of Taše’s head, he frowned. “They didn’t use a key to lock it, just snapped it on. I’ll ask —”
“One of the overseers of the palace slaves would have it, Your Majesty.”
Taše deliberately didn’t flinch at the sound of Ilmekhor’s voice, low and a little raw. “Then I’ll let Mur’Aida escort you back to your rooms,” he said, trying to keep his own voice as steady and calm as possible, “while I ride ahead to find one of them. I won’t be long.” But Ilmekhor only shook his head, a small, careful motion.
“Your Majesty can hardly be seen to be —” he broke off, clearing his throat, and added, sounding only a little less ragged, “forgive me — to be running up and down your own palace looking for your own staff. If I can impose so far… Your Majesty was able to pick the lock very easily the first time.”
“No imposition at all.” Taše didn’t think there was anything Ilmekhor could ask at this point that would be an imposition. It would almost be a relief if there were. “Would you…” There was a very fine needle to thread here, and it was almost painful to choose his words as carefully as he needed to. “I don’t carry them on me, though it’s no trouble to bring them to your rooms. But… there’s a private bathing pool in my quarters, if you would prefer that.” He couldn’t demand or pressure, not for this, not so close to the end, but he could offer. There would be a crowd in the public baths at this time of day; if he could keep Ilmekhor from staring eyes and carrying whispers and the inconvenience of sharing a bathhouse with dozens of strangers, it was the least he could do —
“Ah, the luxuries attendant upon the king, and those whom the king favors,” Ilmekhor murmured, with a touch of wry, exhausted amusement. Taše felt himself flush a little, about to reassure him that of course he was under no obligation, but Ilmekhor forestalled him, dipping his head in a small nod. “I’d be grateful, Your Majesty. I am grateful. Thank you.”
“No thanks needed,” Taše answered, knowing his voice came out a little strangled, but if there was one mercy in the whole thing, it was that Ilmekhor seemed exhausted enough to miss it. Mur’Aida didn’t, of course — Taše could feel his sidelong glance like a brand on the back of his neck — but it was hard to care.
It was a weary journey back to the palace — it was slow going, when Taše had to stop at nearly every cross-street to give his blessing on the offering of some shopkeeper or street urchin who hadn’t made it up to the temple with the rest, and more than once he tried to send Mur’Aida and the others ahead. They universally refused to leave him alone in the city — even Ilmekhor, though he was swaying slightly in the saddle by the time they reached the palace gates, and had to be helped to Taše’s rooms with a shoulder under his arm. But then Mur’Aida and the others were filing out the door, and it was only the two of them in the cool, dim room.
All Taše’s best efforts, and they were here again — Ilmekhor, sitting on his floor, weary and ill-used, with Taše sitting behind him working a set of lockpicks in a collar he should never have had to wear. He was more methodical this time, at least, afraid to jostle the heavy collar and abrade the skin beneath it even more, and this time at least he had practice. The hidden pins settled one by one, minute clicks that he could feel through the thin, stiff wires — but more than that, he could feel the slow rhythm of Ilmekhor’s breathing under him, the small shifts of muscle as his shoulders rose and fell, and did his best to commit the feeling to memory, to burn it as deeply into his bones as his brothers’ names and the scent of the dusty evergreen woods where he first learned to hunt. He was beautiful, no matter whether he was standing on his dignity or slow and soft-eyed with weariness, though Taše would have given his eyeteeth to never see him so worn-down again.
The last pin fell into place and the lock snapped open with a small click. Taše barely refrained from throwing it, but he forced himself to lift the collar gently off and set it down quietly as Ilmekhor stretched with a small sigh. The back of his neck was red and raw, but as far as Taše could tell, the damage would heal in time, though it looked painful in the moment. “I’ll ask for food and drink to be sent up,” he said quietly, as Ilmekhor pushed himself to his feet with a wince and Taše hurried to follow. “Something cold, that will keep. No need for you to hurry.”
For the first time Ilmekhor turned to look at him properly, something halfway between amused and quizzical in his expression. “Thank you, then,” he said, just as quietly, and with a last backward glance he disappeared into the bath, and Taše went to call for someone to bring a few plates, choking down the ache in his chest. Then there was nothing to do but wait, sitting awkwardly in the chair by the wide windows that opened out onto the king’s gardens. The same endlessly blue sky was just beginning to show a hint of gold at the edges, as the sun lowered into the west, and Taše stared unblinkingly out into it and wondered, not for the last time, why he had ever thought it would be a good idea to leave the borders of Kolmant.
He wasn’t prepared for it when Ilmekhor emerged perhaps half an hour later, damp-haired and still a little pink but looking far more alert as he came out, still rolling his shoulders a little. The loose shirt he wore was fine enough that Taše could make out the lines of his collarbones beneath it, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows — likely to spare the rope-marks at his wrists, but it drew the eye to his forearms, corded with tight muscle, and Taše had to fight to keep from staring too obviously. He still felt as though every horrible impulse of his heart was branded on his forehead for the world’s inspection anyway, but he had to try.
“Better?” he asked, feeling like every kind of fool, but Ilmekhor only paused, a small smile flickering across his lips for a moment before he ducked his head.
“Immensely, Your Majesty. My thanks for your hospitality.”
It seemed almost as though the walls were down — as though Taše could look beyond the screen of duty and obligation to the man beneath, the wind clearing a sightline through the smoke for a moment to see the mountains beyond. “No lasting hurt, I hope?” he asked, half-expecting the walls to rise again, but Ilmekhor only favored him with another half-smile.
“Only a knot between my shoulderblades tight enough to crack eggs on,” he said, and his smile even widened a little at Taše’s startled bark of laughter — pleased, and almost shy. It gave Taše just enough courage to take a risk, and trust he’d be sent about his business if the shot missed the mark.
“If another set of hands could help,” he said, letting the offer trail off half-made, and still, still, the walls stayed down.
“I’d be grateful,” Ilmekhor only said, quiet and for once warm with sincerity, and then he turned, trusting and easy, and braced himself against the doorway behind him. “Just along the — ah,” he added, as Taše placed the lines of his knuckles carefully to either side of Ilmekhor’s spine and pressed. This, at least, he could do — rolling the pressure carefully up and down, soothing away the tension and the knots of strained muscle, pouring every inch of desperate longing into a little easing of Ilmekhor’s pain. It earned him a small sigh, and Ilmekhor practically melted against the doorway, softening again under Taše’s hands. He was cool to the touch, now, damp hair swept in a loose twist over one shoulder to give Taše more room to work, and Taše applied himself to the task with the sort of focus generally reserved for the goldwork of the king’s crown in Kolmant.
He dragged it out as long as he could, until Ilmekhor’s knees seemed ready to give out under him, and finally Taše let the dream go. “Sit and eat,” he said quietly, and Ilmekhor peeled himself up with an agreeable sound, a little hazy-eyed but still so responsive, and came to sit at the low table by the empty hearth, where covered plates of trout and leeks and stewed pears waited for them. It was pleasant, for a little while, and then Taše forced down the last of his desperate nerves and said, quietly, “Mur’Aida is taking a month of leave to return to Kolmant. His elder sister died in the winter, and there are some remaining matters of inheritance that need him as a witness. He’s agreed to take you with him in secret.”
Ilmekhor’s glass hit the table with such force that some of the watered wine splashed over the rim and onto the polished surface, but Taše couldn’t begin to pay attention to that — not when Ilmekhor was staring at him with that particularly blank expression.
“Why?”
The walls were back in an instant; Taše could read nothing in his voice, in the single soft word. “Because the Kolmi keep no slaves,” he finally said, settling at last for honesty. Ilmekhor had been resistant to it the first two times Taše had suggested fleeing the country, but he’d assumed the first refusal was the result of a lack of trust and a desire not to see another in his place, and the second because Taše had threatened to abdicate as well. Surely there was no reason now for him to object — but Ilmekhor was only staring at him with narrowed eyes and slightly frowning brows, distinctly neither pleased nor relieved nor grateful. Taše hadn’t been expecting gratitude, acutely conscious that he deserved none, but he hadn’t been expecting this either.
“What am I to do in Kolmant, then?”
“Whatever you like,” Taše answered, sure at least of that much, but Ilmekhor’s expression only darkened even more.
“Whatever I — in what have I offended you, that you would send me away?” he demanded, sharp for the first time with anger, and fear and grief and bewilderment finally rose in Taše to a boiling point.
“The offense is my own,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant to, “when I gave you my word I would never lay a hand on you again. I’ve broken that oath twice in a fortnight, and I refuse to do so a third time.”
“I never asked you for that oath!” It was the closest thing to a shout that he had ever heard from Ilmekhor, and his eyes were dark and furious. “How much more should I have begged, for you to believe that I wanted it?”
“Tell me honestly you would have chosen to have your first time with a man be on your knees in the great hall with a whole audience watching you choke!” Taše snapped back, and regretted it in the same instant the words left his mouth. Ilmekhor went white to the lips, flinching as though struck, and Taše felt horror and crawling shame pool in his gut. “Ilmekhor —”
“I would not have chosen that, no.” Ilmekhor’s voice was very quiet, and utterly lifeless. “Though the first time that I did choose to lie with anyone, man or woman, it was in your bed — but I should not have presumed that a slave’s foolish desires would carry any weight with my lord and master. Forgive my arrogance in thinking so.” And as Taše sat dumbstruck, struggling to absorb the enormity of the disaster before him, Ilmekhor pushed himself to his feet and bowed, the low abasement of a servant and not his formal cavalier’s salute, and strode toward the door.
Despite whatever exhaustion and stiffness might have lingered, he was swift enough in leaving: Taše, scrambling to his feet, barely managed to catch the door before it fully shut behind him. “Ilmekhor, wait,” he began, and then before he could get as far as the “please,” the world inverted itself.
Looking back, Taše could say only two things with any degree of certainty: that the man hiding the knife in the basket of laundry he carried had not drawn it until he saw Taše appear in the doorway, and that in the instant he did, Ilmekhor had thrown himself between them, knocking aside the blade that had been aimed at Taše’s heart. Then they all went down together, the sharp scent of blood rising swiftly where Ilmekhor’s fist had broken the man’s nose a moment before Taše’s own knife had slit his throat.
“Taše,” he heard Ilmekhor’s voice a moment later, sharp with fear, “Taše, gods-all, tell me you’re not hurt,” and Taše made himself push away from the lifeless body beneath him. His heart was thundering in his chest, hard enough to hurt as he sat up, still coming down from the black terror of seeing that knife arcing toward Ilmekhor — if Ilmekhor’s last words to him had been in cold anger —
“I’m well,” Taše rasped, still hoarse with the fear of it, and Ilmekhor slumped down with a little gasp of relief. There was blood spattering the floor all around them, blood on his knuckles, and then Taše’s breath stuttered to a halt as he saw that Ilmekhor’s other hand was pressed to the front of his hip, dark stains already beginning to show between his fingers. “Ilmekhor!” The man with the knife had been moving so quickly; of course Ilmekhor couldn’t have diverted it entirely — he’d struck down, deflecting instead of trying to catch the man’s arm outright, and the knife had been nearly a hand-span in length, oh all gods have mercy let it not have pierced the gut — he was mouthing prayers already; he’d never been one for devotion but when it came to this —
“It caught on the bone,” Ilmekhor said, and then, when Taše stared at him in blank terror, he repeated himself, louder. His voice was a little tight with pain, but clear, and Taše surfaced, gasping, from the nightmare in which he’d be forced to watch Ilmekhor die after days of screaming agony. “It needs stitching, but it will heal,” he added as Taše, a little ashamed of his own useless panic, bundled some of the linens out of the discarded laundry basket and came to help him keep pressure on the wound as Mur’Aida and half his guard, drawn by the noise, came up at a run.
He was aware he was hovering a little, as the surgeon of his own cohort put the stitches in, but a part of him was still terrified that the wound would turn out to be a deep one after all. But in the end it was cleaned and stitched and bandaged, and then Ilmekhor was pushing himself up, grimacing, from the bloodstained sheets of Taše’s bed where Ner’Emri had sewn him up, and Taše heard himself say, quiet and awkward, “Stay, please. If you will.” Hazel eyes met his, narrowed a little, and Taše added, flushing a little, “At least the night, I mean — you should rest, and if you’d rather have the rooms to yourself I’ll find a cot elsewhere —”
“Your Majesty,” Ilmekhor said, “Taše. I’ll stay. If… if you’ll give me your oath I won’t wake alone.”
He was still pale from the loss of blood, except for the patches of skin that were still flushed an angry red from the sun, and his sweat-damp hair was slipping from its braid and sticking in wayward strands to his temples, and still, even pain-tense and weary, Taše thought he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. “My word on it,” he said, through a throat tight with hope, and Ilmekhor’s answering smile held all the warmth of absolution.