Page 2 of The Ivory King (Crowns of Melowynn #2)

A TENDAY LATER, WE SET OFF FOR KANAZEN , a smallish vills that supplied most of the peat for the kingdom of Melowynn. It sat low in a valley near Knight’s Way, a marshy land where the elves who paid liege to the Mossbell worked, mostly, in harvesting peat. Not only was peat used in keeps like Castle Moonsweald, the ancestral fortalice we now rode toward in full regality, but it was crucial for a wide plethora of things from filtering water in the underground sewers in the capital so that waste was cleansed from the stream before it emptied into the sea. Elves far and wide, humans and dwarves, as well as yeti, also used it for heating, animal bedding, fuel, and as a soil improver. And yes, the study of the Mossbell peat was part of my schooling, both from my old tutor Master Willowswitch, the surname fit the curmudgeonly prick, to woodland knowledge passed on by Kenton. For such a simple thing, for peat was merely partially decomposed plant soil matter, many hundreds of thousands of lives depended on it for survival.

My entourage rode along behind me, save for V’alor, who was at my side. We had cleared the main roads through the village, where the Ivory guard in their resplendent copper armor had ridden in a tight formation around me. I had not been concerned about the common folk of Kanazen shouting and waving or the small children rushing up around us to touch our boots or beg for coppers. A toss of a handful of coins sent them scurrying out of the way of our horses’ hooves as the adults sent blessings of Ihdos to us for our generosity. Throughout the two-day journey, V’alor had been the perfect military leader. Vigilant, respectful. Never called me by my given name in front of the men in our group. I had tried to pull him and the man who rode close to V’alor’s side, Pasil Greenleaves, a guardsman of lesser rank and V’alor’s closest friend, into a conversation about diplomacy.

“It is not our place to pass judgment on the workings of those above us,” V’alor stiffly replied. Pasil, a fun-loving man with short black hair and light blue eyes, cocked a slim brow at his commander.

“Surely it is indeed our place to voice concerns to the next in line. Lord Aelir seeks to know what the common man thinks of our diplomatic corps and—”

“If Lord Aelir wishes to spark conversation about such things, then Lord Aelir should speak to the Grand Overseer or the diplomats themselves. Our role, lieutenant, is to protect our lord against any and all danger. That is it.”

Pasil reined his horse, a fine gelding of darkest ruddy red coloration, to gawk at his guard commander openly. Then he shot me a look as he eased back into the flanks of the others riding with us. The air was thick with the smell of decaying vegetation mixed with the subtle scent of wet animals. Earthy and resinous, it clung to our clothing like the mist we rode through.

“I ask your forgiveness, my lord. I forgot my place,” Pasil said in deference as he melded back into the men.

“That was rather cutting,” I said once Pasil had eased away.

“The truth is often sharp. I shall send a bannerman to ride ahead to the castle so that they know of our impending arrival, my lord.”

The urge to call him out had been huge, but I bit my tongue. Something that I had learned was a large part of being nobility. If only we said what we were thinking most of the time, the noble houses would still be warring and my personal guard commander would be shocked to his dogmatic core.

Smalltalk fell off as we rode closer to the slate-gray stone castle. On either side of us were peat bogs as far as the eye could see. Mules and carts filled with squares of peat rolled down the road, the workers lowering their heads in respect, then pulling off to the side to let us pass. I nodded at the workers, soaked through and filthy, if they dared to peek at us from under floppy hats thick with muddy fingerprints.

As we neared the drawbridge, I could feel the eyes of the Mossbell guards on us. It was a gray day, the rains closing in and the damp winds snapping the trio of noble house banners against the battlements and donjon. Each house had its own colors and words of power. The Stillcloud banner color was ruby, which stood for power, loyalty, and friendship. Its crest was a golden swan. The banner for the Mossbell house was sapphire-colored, conveying healing, love, and serenity. Their house crest was represented by a white moose. The color for the Dewfall noble house banner was ebony, meaning intuition, protection, and defense, and its crest donned a magenta badger.

We were met in the outer bailey by the twins and their mother, the great lady Si’ofra. All were highborn, with long golden hair worn free as dictated by our society for all nobles, high cheekbones, and clear blue eyes. The Mossbell had taken to marking themselves with small tattoos, mostly on their temples, of pale white antlers to symbolize the snowy white moose that move through the peat bogs on a yearly migration.

The bailey was busy, as most were in grand castles, and while Castle Moonsweald was smaller than our keep or that of the Dewfall, it was kept well.

“Finally, you have arrived!” Lariam and Luchas shouted to be heard over a gaggle of geese being chased by a young lad with a larch stick. The twins were handsome young men of my age, slim, and always possessed of a smile or joke. They were identical in every way aside from a small scar that bisected Lariam’s left eyebrow. Of course, since they were not looked on to inherit the vills, they tended to be more frivolous than those who wore the weight of their people on their shoulders. “Your bannerman rode in nearly a day ago!”

I slid down from my mare, gave my sweet dapple Atriel a rub on her strong neck, and then let a stable hand take her reins.

“Make sure she is fed sweet hay and fresh grains,” I told the young miss, who nodded, bowed, and then curtsied. “And when she is brushed and happy, tell Cook Primrose that I asked for you to get an extra slice of warm bread with your meal.”

“My lord, you are truly kind and winsome!” she blurted out, then blushed from her toes to her pointed ears. Atriel, being a little bossy when she knew hay and grains were coming, began tossing her head. I smiled down at the girl and walked over to embrace my friends.

“A span of a day is seemingly much different here in the marshes than it is further south. For it seems our bannerman rode off in the passing of the sands through a glass.”

I pounded on their backs, each one, and then moved to bow to the lady of the keep. “My grandfather sends his regards to you, Lady Mossbell, and is suffering a great sadness that he could not attend the celebration for Lady Bonnalure, but his legs are swollen again and the healers forbid him to leave the keep.”

She placed a hand on my head as was customary. I straightened and met her gaze. She was a fair woman even though she was older, the signs of age just starting to show with the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. A warm wet breeze blew over the bailey, lifting her satiny hair into her face.

“We will miss the grand advisor at the dinner table and games, for he always brings wit and a keen aspect to our discussions,” Lady Mossbell replied as she folded her hands in front of her.

“I shall pass your words along. Oof!” I grunted as Luchas and his brother took hold of me from behind, giggling like mad otters, and pulled me away from my men. I gave V’alor one fast glance as I was yanked into the castle proper. He watched me go inside, barked an order to a stable hand, and then went to follow me. I shook my head. The glower I got was short-lived but intense.

Once inside the keep, the twins herded me through the main hall into a small library where Lady Bonnalure, their sister, sat reading in front of a fire. She, too, was possessed of fine features, long yellow hair, and slim pointed ears. Her dress was a soft green that played well with her emerald eyes. “I am sorry to interrupt your reading,” I said as the twins finally released me to attack a tray of meats and cheeses resting on a side table by a thick glass window.

“You did nothing of the sort. It is good to see you again, Lord Stillcloud.” She placed her book on her lap, careful to keep the thick woolen blanket over her deformed legs. “My fiancé has been called home. His grandsire has taken a tumble off his horse but assures me that he will be here for the feast tomorrow.”

“I do hope that the elder Lord Dewfall was not greatly harmed,” I said, then was tugged from polite conversation with the young woman to a small corner of the library.

“Honestly, Aelir, you are too polite by far. No one save Bonnalure gives two twists about that old goat Dewfall or his brackish-faced grandson,” Luchas stated as he shoved a roasted chicken leg into my hand. His brother sat in a padded chair, one long leg draped over the armrest, gnawing on a slice of pink pork.

“I hear you speaking, you oaf. My legs do not work, but my ears are keen!” The twins blanched. “Lord Aelir, I shall speak to you later. Do not let my foolish brothers lead you into any great trouble,” Bonnalure shouted out, then exited the library, the wheels on her chair creaking slightly as she left us to whatever tomfoolery the twins had in mind.

“Why is it that all those who are set to inherit become such prudes?”

I lowered my chicken leg to shoot Larium a sharp look. His brows flew into his yellow hairline. “Oh, not you, of course, Aelir. You’re not nearly as prudish as our sister.”

I placed my half-eaten leg on a clean plate. “So you are saying that I am a prude?”

Larium, who had a tendency to leap before he looked into most things, glanced at his twin for assistance. Luchas wiped his greasy fingers on his fine linen trousers with a sigh.

“Aelir, we do not think of you as a prude. Perhaps more a proprietarian.” He sat up just far enough to reach one of the pitchers of red wine and poured himself a glass.

“I think that is one and the same,” I replied with some bite. The twins smiled and shrugged in perfect unison. “I am not a man who lives his life by what society dictates.”

“Have you fucked your guard captain yet?” Lariam asked. My mouth fell open. The sound of a bard plucking a lute floated in through the open windows on the western side of the room.

“Why…what in the name of Ihdos are you talking about?” I sputtered, my cheeks hot, my appetite gone. “V’alor is a dear and trusted friend who has been like a brother to me throughout my childhood.”

“The Dewfalls fuck their brothers,” Luchas tossed out. Lariam whipped a leg bone at his head. It bounced off his skull and fell to the ground. “No, they don’t! I don’t know where I heard that.”

“Simpleton,” Lariam spat as his brother rubbed at the grease mark on his temple. “That is a rumor that has been spinning about the realm for years now with no basis.”

“I’ve never heard it,” I whispered. “I’m sure your mother would not have agreed to a union with your sister and one of the Dewfall men if such a thing had any truth to it.”

They both nodded their matching heads, but I saw a hint of disbelief in their eyes. To be honest, the breeding pool of elite elven houses was incredibly limited and as such, a few had begun suggesting we begin looking into accepting by-blows of noble lineage into our esteemed ranks. Not much had come from the whispers yet, but someday things would have to change. One did not breed a stallion to his daughter as the stable master had explained to me as a child, and while I did not grasp it then, I certainly did now. So perhaps the rumors about the Dewfall siblings had been overlooked to ensure a match between two pureblooded elves. Unsavory things were ignored every day to ensure the nobility remained unsullied by the taint of half-bloods or those who called the Verboten forest home. “Leaving that lurid talk for the fishmongers, I would like to make sure that no one thinks that a Stillcloud would dally with a servant of our vills.”

“And that is why we say you are a proprietarian,” Lariam replied as he sat back to sip his wine. “Your grandfather has hammered such archaic thinking into your head. Everyone who carries noble blood swives the staff.” Luchas bobbed his head, a leer coming over his face. It was a look that took away much of his handsomeness, in my opinion. “My brother and I have shared lovers for years now, from the grooms in the stables to the wenches who light the fires. All are quite pleased to share our bed for even a night. We gift them little trinkets or some silver, then send them back to their duties.”

This I already knew. The rumors about the Mossbell twins rode the winds like willow tufts in the spring. I’d been privy to a few of their excursions over the years but had never partaken even when they, and the men and women they were about to dally with, assured me all were fine with a fourth. I was not fine with a fourth, or a third, or a second. My tastes ran to one lover and one lover only. And that lover must mean something to me. Since my heart rested in V’alor’s capable hands, I had not taken many to my bed. Two over the past five years, and those had been professional courtesans who visited the castle when dignitaries arrived. Both were beautiful elven women, slim but rounded in all the pleasant places, and most skilled in the ways of pleasing a man. And while I enjoyed my time lying with each of them, their curves and sand sage scents could not pry my desire for V’alor’s broad shoulders, thick thighs, and rough hands from my breast. Elven sexuality was incredibly fluid. When a race is as beautiful as ours, male and female bodies both hold exquisite pleasures, but no other elf possessed what V’alor Silverfrond did in my eyes.

“I am aware of your bed play, but my tastes are—”

“Yes, yes.” Lariam sighed as if bored witless. “You are not so inclined. We do know that you are inclined to bed your captain, though. It is as obvious as the nose upon your face, and why you withhold from doing so escapes us.”

“Is he not willing?” Luchas asked, sitting up as he warmed to the conversation, long gold hair sliding over his slim shoulders. “Is his cock not functional? Does he prefer women over men?”

“What he prefers or does not prefer is irrelevant for he refuses to even discuss the possibility of lying with me, so may we please direct our discussion—”

“Ah, he is shy. Now I see. What you need to do, my backward friend, is make him jealous,” Lariam announced. His twin clapped in boisterous agreement.

“That’s asinine.” I coughed as I reached for a goblet of wine to wash down the suddenly dry chicken clinging to my throat.

“No, it is not, hear me out!” Lariam said, moving to the edge of his padded chair to gaze at me with excitement. “I once was in pursuit of a goose maiden named Pyra.”

“She had a brother named Petra who tended goats and had the thickest cock I have ever seen,” Luchas chimed in around a second chicken leg.

“He was a lovely male even if he did reek of goat buck.” Lariam sighed at the memory. “But Petra aside, Pyra played at being disinterested until she caught me with a friendly milkmaid.”

“I set it up,” Luchas crowed with pride, his chin coated with grease. The sounds of laughter rolled into the keep, the celebration beginning now that some of the early guests had begun to arrive. “We are master plotters.”

The twins grinned at each other. “I’m not sure if V’alor—” I began.

“Oh, surely he will respond with passion if he sees you in the arms of another lover. Lariam is currently bedding a lovely young man from the village. Brawny and fair of face, his name is Riley. He is half-human, but that takes nothing away from his appeal. I say it only adds to it as his bulk is far above what even our most muscular soldiers can attain.”

“Mm, yes, he is quite broad of shoulder. He works in the smithy,” Lariam dreamily said as my mind, usually quite sharp as I liked to think, began to masticate on this plan. Perhaps V’alor did need to see me in the arms of another to ignite his passion. I had seen the desire for me in his gaze dozens of times since I had come into adulthood, yet he denied it even existed. “Why do we not see if we can flush out his feelings for you during the ironwood stag hunt on the morrow?”

“Please tell me you did not bring that green-skinned druid with you? The last time he was here for a fete, he threw himself in front of the winded stag and forbade Lord Dewfall from taking the killing shot,” Luchas asked.

“No, Kenton and his husband are doing research in the Knight’s Way area with their students. They are due back when the moons roll full again to accompany my grandfather and me to the king’s coronation anniversary celebration as envoys for the wood elves.”

I remembered that hunt well. I’d been ten and six, Kenton twenty and six, and his actions had brought much disfavor to our house for months. We’d gotten scathing letters from the other noble houses reprimanding us for allowing our servants such liberties. Grandfather was furious and demanded I write apology letters to the elder Mossbells and Dewfalls. I was happy to oblige. My missives were lacking in atonement, though. They explained that our woodland cousins were not servants, slaves, or staff but equals, in all ways, and, as such, were free to express their thoughts on hunting or caging the beasts of the wilds. Needless to say, when Grandfather was inundated with ravens carrying more replies filled with shock and outrage, I’d been taken to task. That may have been the first time I had rebelled so loudly and with such veracity. Of course I’d had several privileges stripped away for a moon pass. I had greatly missed my outings and studies with Kenton and Beirich to “allow my thoughts to settle back into more acceptable ways of noble behavior” but I knew that change did not come without sacrifices. To this day, they still have not settled to Umeris’s satisfaction. Something that I took no small amount of joy in as would my parents had they lived. Both were liberal thinkers who took every opportunity to vex the grand advisor and further acceptance between city and wood elf.

“Praise Ihdos,” they both said in unison.

“Those rheas are such odd elves,” Luchas tacked on before flinging his chicken leg into the fire and plucking a pickled egg from a small round plate.

“They are elves, just as we are,” I replied and got a look from the twins.

“Yes, no, of course,” they hurried to reply as they knew well my thoughts on such thinking. “And yes, before you say it, we apologize for using that term. It is just…” Larium stammered as he tried to explain.

“It is hard to unlearn that which has been taught from birth,” Luchas slipped in.

“Try harder then, my friends, for we shall never breech the chasm between us and the wood elves if we toss about unsavory terminology for our kin.”

They nodded, but I could see they were seconds from rolling their lovely eyes. I worked to smile at them. Both grinned back as my reprimand floated off where most higher thinking went with the Mossbell twins. In one pointed ear and out the other as Beirich would whisper about many of the rather vacant young nobles.

“Right, so back to Riley!” Lariam exclaimed as he and his brother rushed over to sit at my feet, eyes bright with mischief, as they began to plot. I nodded along, unsure if I should even listen to their nonsense, but the longer I thought on it, the more I came to agree that V’alor needed to see that I was a man, not a child, and that others found me desirable. I had tried all other manners of breaking down his defenses and had been rebuffed. If it worked to woo a stubborn goose maiden, then surely there had to be some substance to the plan. Goose maidens were notorious for being as cantankerous as their long-necked charges, after all…

The following morn, I was bathed, brushed, and dressed by a lovely dark-haired valet by the name of Joralf, who was kind, courteous, and professional. He was also incredibly friendly and offered to start the hunt day by sucking me off. I declined as politely as possible, citing that if I spent, I would be lacking in the vigor required to fell a stag. Which was total flapdoodle as Kenton would say if his students were nearby. But it was a clever enough ruse to get the lithe young man out of my room after he had fussed about. Grandfather had never had use for a valet, and I had picked up that thinking, one of the few things Umeris and I did agree on. Once I’d left the nursery, I dressed myself. Surely I was not so utterly incompetent that I could not tie my own breeches.

“You sound just like him,” I chided myself in the tall, oval-looking glass in the corner of my chambers. My hair was pulled into two long tails that hung down my back to keep it from my face and out of the brambles as we galloped through thick forests. During a hunt or headed into battle was the only time nobles wore their hair in such a manner, for what need of braids did a man or woman of the upper houses need? In truth, I found it quite freeing. My hair was not in my face whenever the wind blew. I eyed myself in the mirror. Joralf had done a fine job helping me dress, even if his hands had lingered slightly longer than was necessary now and again.

My leather armor was deep green to help blend into the woods. Of course, if one was charging about on a horse, was camouflage really important? No, it was not, but the royal leather worker had insisted upon the coloration, and one did not argue with Morgrath, for she was as formidable as Widow Poppy, our cook. The chest plate was ornate, carrying the Stillcloud arms in the center, all hand-worked into the leather. The bracers were the same dark pine tone as the chest plate. I had forgone pauldrons for ease of shooting with my favored bow. Leather breeches, dark green leather boots, and a finely woven hooded shawl to keep rain off my head completed my ensemble. Outside, I could hear the gathering of horses and other nobles, the braying of hounds, and the shouts of the dog handlers filled the misty air. The assembly had begun, so I rushed to gather my bow and quiver, both elegantly crafted from the darkest cedar wood from the forests of our lands. The bow had been inlaid with a golden swan, our family crest, as had the quiver. They had belonged to my mother, and while the bow was smaller than what most men carried, I cherished it greatly, for my mother was an expert archer. Much better than my father would lament now and again when into his cups.

Running my hand over the inlay, I whispered a good morn to my parents then jogged through the keep, down the stairs, and out into the inner bailey where a massive feast was being prepared for the hunters. The twins and Bonnalure were dressed in light armor and ready for the day. Bonnalure was a good archer who enjoyed the hunts more than her younger brothers. Her saddle was outfitted with a chair back and a sturdy belt. Her steed, a surefooted mare of light brown, was steady and took verbal commands for speed and directional cues. The other guests, those who hunt, were making small talk. I moved among my peers, making light talk with the nobles until the first bell rang.

We then moved to the chapel. A small family shrine set into the western part of the castle. We passed over our bows and quivers to small boys in gray robes who would guard them until prayers concluded.

People were seated by their station, and so I was invited to sit with the Mossbell family as was Bonnalure’s fiancé, Ja’nor Dewfall, who inclined his head as I sat on his left on the cold, hard stone bench. Ja’nor was older than Bonnalure by many seasons, but he still possessed strength and vigor. He had lost his first wife in childbirth after the arrival of his seventh daughter. He needed no more heirs, but he did wish to see his girls raised by a genteel, pureblooded noblewoman, and so the match was made. Bonnalure did not seem displeased with her future husband, for even though his dark hair was thinning and shot through with silver, he was still virile and had a large estate on the edges of the Dewfall’s lands. She would be well-kept and incredibly busy with seven daughters to see over. The choice to take his suit had been hers and, it seemed, all were happy. He gazed upon her with devotion. If only I could see such emotion in V’alor’s eyes…

We chatted in soft whispers until the elder cleric, an ancient elf in gray robes, entered the chapel of Ihdos. All within went to one knee as the cleric moved to a small space before a large, skillfully carved statue of Ihdos, the god of wisdom and intellect. The white likeness towered over the cleric, an elven man with a strong chin, crisp, pointed ears, and hair that puddled about his bare feet. The sun touched on Ihdos, illuminating his face, and we all fell into prayer.

“Light of Ihdos, make me holy,

Save me from temptations,

Caste me from the night,

Carry me from the benightedness of the unenlightened,

Within your learned gates I find haven,

Never let my mind part from thee,

Shelter me in wisdom, sanctity, and literacy,

Lift me above the beasts to rule over them with gentle grace,

This I ask in the name of Ihdos, lord of all he surveys, wisest of all the gods.”

The first of many that would see us kneel, stand, sit, kneel, stand, sit over and over until we moved from the sixth hour of morn to the eighth. When the cleric said the final prayer, we filed out, the restless children of the party guests charging through the hunters to be scolded by their undermatrons.

“Is it just me or does Cleric Fanan grow more monotone with each passing season?” I asked Luchas and Lariam as they appeared on either side of me.

“His liturgies lull us to sleep instantly. The only reason we did not nod off this morn was because we have things to share with you. Come!” They each took an arm and steered me into the stables, where our horses were being readied for a day in the woods. They would be outfitted in standard riding saddles, aside from Bonnalure’s of course, but they would wear leather protection from the knee to the pastern to protect their lower legs from the thick underbrush they would be moving through.

I smiled at the stable hands as the twins hurried me to Atriel’s stall. The dapple mare whinnied at me in greeting. I was then shoved into her stall, the gate closing with a snap, and pinned to a stout wooden wall with one twin’s hand on each shoulder.

“Pay close attention. This is what we’re going to do,” Lariam whispered with a leer that should have warned me off of this plan, but sadly, it did not. Perhaps my grandfather was correct when he said that while books taught us much, nothing passed on more wisdom than age.

Another aggravated huff blew over my lips.

This was beyond annoying and wholly stupid.

The hunter’s horns had blown ages ago, calling those in the woods to head in a northerly direction, for the stag had been winded by the hounds. I’d lagged back, pretending my horse was lame, and then as soon as the others had bounded off, I rode like a wind demon southward. Finding the pond and the split elm was simple enough. I’d let Atriel meander to nibble on the top of fiddle ferns and dark grasses. She drank out of the beaver pond and then found a tree to lean against, much like I was doing.

Then we waited. For days, it seemed, but in reality, perhaps the sun had moved only an hour’s width. During that time, I’d swung back and forth like a pendulum. Eager to go one second and refusing to quit before the ruse could run its course. V’alor and my other guards had been given leave to take the day off as who needed guarding in protected noble woodlands? So the guards of the various high-born guests had decided to visit the village. I’d ridden off after breakfast without so much as a backward glance at V’alor or his men, but I could feel his gaze on me. He would be worried I was sure, for he was nothing if not a mother hen who clucked over her one chick.

According to plan, Larium would send one of the ditchers to find V’alor in town and relay that he’d seen Lord Aelir riding a limping horse south with a sordid type on my heels. I was rather sure that would tug the head of my guard away from any ale or dice game he may be involved in.

I took a sip from my waterskin, returned it to Atriel’s saddle, turned about, and found my face buried in someone’s chest. I yelped in fright when a huge man pulled me into a bear hug, fumbling for the short dagger on my belt. Arms pinned to my sides, I was about to lift my knee to crush his stones when he planted a wet kiss on my mouth. He tasted of old roots and dirt.

“Hello, Lord Aelir,” the big man said when the kiss ended. “I’m Riley, and I’m here to bugger you.”

“I…what?!” I barked, squirming like a worm on a hook, as Riley, who was possessed of a handsome face, fine dark curls, and big brown eyes, stole another kiss. And then another, his grip never relaxing as he licked a hot, wet path over my cheek and neck. The sensation was exactly like that time when a cow had licked my face. I nearly shouted at him to stop, then it came to me that I was to be enjoying this groping, and so I wiped the spittle off my cheek onto his shirt then began making lewd sounds. I’d been with a courtesan before. I could recall the noises that the woman made when I sank in, spurted, and fell off all within the time it took to sneeze. She had gotten no pleasure, I was sure, but by Ihdos, she sounded as if she were being well-loved.

“You taste like butter and honey biscuits,” Riley mooed, I mean, moaned into my ear before he plunged his tongue into my ear canal.

I shuddered. “Oh, oh, yes, lick my ear hole,” I cried out, then winced at how truly stupid that sounded. It seemed to spark Riley, though, for he crushed me tighter to the tree to grind on me. The man was well-endowed. No wonder the twins were so fond of the brute.

“I shall lick your tiny hole as well,” Riley growled, and then he howled into my ear with such volume it made me wince. His thick arms came free from my middle and then he was gone. In a blur, the big man was there, and then lying on the forest floor, blood gushing from his nose, the very sharp point of V’alor’s sword resting under his chin.

“You dare to manhandle the heir of the vills of Renedith?!” V’alor snarled like a mountain cat as Riley began to screech and kick his legs. “You are a vile and heinous bastard and shall suffer the fate of all that dare to—”

“No!” I yelled, shaking off the stupor. I darted around V’alor, arms out, and stood over Riley. “He was not doing anything that I did not wish him to do!” V’alor gaped at me as if I had just said I’d visited the moons. “Lower your weapon.” V’alor stared at me with an expression that I could not decipher. “I command it.”

That made his dark eyes flare but only for a flash of a second. His weapon left the underside of Riley’s chin.

“No pretty noble prick is worth being beheaded,” the poor, bloody smith’s assistant staggered to his feet and melted into the woods, leaving a blood trail on the dead leaves and spent pine needles like a stuck boar. I folded my arms over my chest. V’alor sheathed his sword, his brown eyes sparking with ire.

“You came into the woods with that half-troll for a liaison?” V’alor incredulously asked, and I nodded. Strongly. “Have you lost all reason, Aelir?!”

“I have lost nothing but my patience.”

He closed the distance so quickly that I blinked and stepped back. Right into the bark of the tree that Riley had just held me against.

“And I mine!” He stood over me, a large man with fire in his eyes. Not as large as Riley, who, I was certain, did not have a drop of troll blood in him, but much larger than me. “I think you re gress instead of pro gress in your maturity!”

“I am not regressing. I simply found a willing partner to fuck.”

His cheek twitched. “It is beneath you to speak like a common dock worker.”

“I shall speak as I wish! I wanted to fuck. The twins told me he was—”

“Ah, of course, the Mossbell twins. Two of the most ignoble and lecherous high-bred fools in the whole of Melowynn. And you took their word that some tryst in the woods with a rutting jackass was what you required to ease the ache in your balls? I thought you were more intelligent than that.”

His words cut deeply. I jerked myself from the tree, leveled my chin, and met his irate gaze.

“Perhaps if the man whom I longed to hold me would do so, I would not be driven to sloppy assignations with a smithy in the woods. Perhaps if the man who I admired and adored would stop pushing me away as if I carried a pox, I would not be driven to act like an ass in order to try to win your attention. Perhaps if the man who I lo—”

“Aelir, you should not be saying such things out loud,” he said, the anger that he’d been filled with now gone. “If someone should overhear you speaking about me that way, they would—”

“I do not care what they would do, V’alor. No one cares about who beds whom. The twins have slept with the entire staff of Castle Moonsweald as well as the entirety of the village serfs under the age of seventy.”

“Seventy?” His shock was clear.

I shrugged. “They say snow on the roof does not mean the fire in the hearth has gone out or some such thing. They say much. It is hard to sort.”

“And yet you let them talk you into allowing a strange man to seduce you beside a fetid pond?”

“Yes, and I would have done that and more if it meant that you would gaze upon me as the man whom you hold dearest!”

His mouth opened just slightly and then closed. Atriel knickered. A greeting to his gelding as it ambled past us to meet up with my mare resting under a fat tree. A pine squirrel with red stripes chattered at us from the canopy. A marsh wren sang his song over by the pond. The air was rich with the smell of mineral water, loam, and the scent of V’alor’s soap.

“You and I…” he choked out, cupped my chin in his scarred hand, and kissed me. Hard, deep, wet. His tongue slipped between my lips. As I grabbed his head, tiny bits of dead leaf and sticks from his mad ride through the forest to get to me crumbled under my palms as I tried to climb him, much like the pine squirrel had clambered up the plump pine it sat in. Joy burst to life inside me. I shimmied up him, mad from the taste of him, longing for more of his mouth on mine. “Ihdos forgive me. My desires for you are too strong to bear, Aelir.”

“Then do not fight them. Come to my room this evening.” I linked my legs around his waist, my lips moving over his, as he nuzzled his face into my hair. “Come to my room. Slide into my bed. Be my lover. I want no other, V’alor. It has been your name scribed onto my heart since it first beat.”

He inhaled, like a stag scenting the air for a hot doe, and let my hair coat his face. And then the sound of horns floated by, the shouts of men, and the thunder of hooves. V’alor peeled me from him, staggered back, and stared at me as if my face was unfamiliar to him.

I reached for him with a shaking hand. A gorse bush filled with ripe yellow berries shuddered, then parted to allow a huge ironwood stag to thunder through. Antlers with tines as long as my forearm swung this way and that as the panicked beast sighted us. Foam flecked, its mighty chest heaving. Its slate-gray pelt was wet with sweat. Its nostrils flared and its eyes went wide.

“Go,” I said, unsure of who I spoke to—the stag or V’alor.

Both left the pond. The man to the north. The stag to the west. Hounds arrived within seconds, keen noses catching the scent of the stag, howls bouncing off the trees, thin tails whipping in joy. The pack ran by me as the first hunter on a lathered white horse raced by, his horn to his lips. I skittered back to the ill-fated tree to let the horde move past. Not a one spared me a glance which I was grateful for. I was too recently kissed to be presentable to my peers. Nor did I wish to see them. I slipped away, around the tree, and made my way to the pond. There I sat for the longest time, hoping against hope the stag would lose the hounds in the marsh and V’alor would come to my room that night. My lips still tingled from his kiss. I sat on a mossy log until my ass was numb and my horse was ready for her oats and a good brush. I, too, was ready for the night to come. If only I knew of a way to speed up the sands in the hourglass.