Glimpses: A Collection of Nightrunner Short Stories

by Lynn Flewelling

  “No ... “ Seregil knew what he meant, though. Male unions were not uncommon in Aurënen and people talked. Ilar had even hinted at it, though they’d never gotten that far. “I hear it hurts.”

  “Just a little, at the start, then it feels very good.” Korathan licked Seregil’s ear and squeezed his bottom again. “I’d be honored to be the first.”

  Still awash in pleasurable sensations from all that Korathan had done to him so far, and glowing with wine, Seregil nodded slowly. “I suppose we could try.”

  ***

  They made love often after that, but always in secret. It was Korathan’s wish, and Seregil was happy not to give anyone more reason to gossip about him.

  Korathan was rougher with him than Ilar had been, but it was only passion and Seregil didn’t mind. Not at all, even on the nights when Korathan kept him until dawn, making Seregil late for work. Once there, Seregil had a hard time not thinking about him during the day—Korathan’s hand tight and merciless around Seregil’s cock as he rocked against him, into him, nipping his neck and shoulders…

  This sort of wool gathering earned Seregil more frequent thumps from Emidas’s stick.

  ***

  He was later than usual one morning near the end of winter, having had to fetch a heavy, crumbling tome from the palace library to be copied over. He’d forgotten to do it yesterday in his haste to meet Korathan.

  For once he was excited about an assignment. The book was very old and fragile, and had illuminated capitals at the head of each chapter. He was quite proud that Emidas had entrusted it to him and anxious to escape the monotony of manifests and letters.

  Seregil was relieved to see that Emidas wasn’t at his desk yet. As he started for his own, however, someone pointed at him and laughed. He tried to ignore it, but soon most of the room was laughing and talking behind their hands.

  “What?” Seregil demanded.

  “Nice love bites on your neck, Master Seregil,” Amidas snickered from across the aisle.

  Seregil blushed hotly, which only drew more laughter. He always tried to be careful, and not let Korathan mark him anywhere that showed, but the prince had been more ardent than usual last night. There must be something showing above his collar.

  If they knew who my lover was, they wouldn’t be laughing in my face, he thought angrily and had to resist the urge to blurt out the truth. As it was, he had no choice but to continue on down the aisle and hope they’d lose interest soon. Just as he reached his desk, however, his chief nemesis, Baleus, said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I bet he paid you well. I hear ‘faie tail doesn’t come cheaply!”

  The sheer magnitude of the insult stunned Seregil. An exile he might be, but in this benighted land he still had some honor. Lacking a sword, he hit Baleus over the head with the book as hard as he could. The fragile volume fell to pieces in his hands, pages fluttering down around the two of them.

  “You little bastard!” Baleus staggered up and swung his fist at Seregil.

  Seregil dodged the clumsy blow but couldn’t escape this second, vile accusation. As he raised his fist, however, someone caught his arm and yanked him away.

  Seregil pulled free and found himself facing a furious Emidas.

  “Stop, the pair of you! What is the meaning of this?” the scribe demanded, glaring at both of them and the scattered remains of the book.

  “He called me a whore, and a bastard!” Seregil told him.

  “Is that all?” Emidas regarded him in disbelief, then slapped him across the face. “For that you destroyed a three hundred-year-old book?”

  “Is that all?” Seregil gasped as more laughter broke out. The words hurt far more than the slap. Knowing better than to strike Emidas, Seregil instead snatched up an inkwell and emptied it over the man’s head, then snarled in his face, “You have no honor! Not one of you!”

  Shoving Emidas out of the way, Seregil stalked off for the door, pulling off his scribe’s robe as he went.

  “The queen will hear of this!” Emidas shouted after him.

  Seregil tossed the robe on the floor as he went out. “Yes, she will!”

  And so would Korathan.

  ***

  Research had kept Nysander busy in his tower for most of the winter. Being without an apprentice at the moment, he had to do everything himself, but he didn’t mind. As much as he missed Alia, he was happy that she’d found a place with a noble household. She wrote him regularly of her progress, as did his other former students.

  The tower was a bit empty without her, he had to admit, but he wasn’t about to take on just anyone. A poorly chosen apprentice was nothing but a nuisance and a burden. His thoughts turned once again to the lonely Aurënfaie.

  Given the close ties between the Orëska and the court, it was only natural that gossip should flow back and forth and Nysander had always found it useful to pay attention. Now and then one learned something of use.

  It was his friend Magyana who brought him word of Seregil.

  “I was just over at the palace,” the old wizard told him over tea. “It seems that young Aurënfaie has been dismissed from another post.”

  “What for this time?”

  “Apparently he attacked another scribe, and Lord Emidas himself.”

  “Indeed?” Unhappiness such as he’d sensed in the young ‘faie eventually found some outlet. “What were the circumstances?”

  “I don’t know, but Seregil’s with the household guard now. Word is he’s quite the swordsman. Perhaps this will suit him better.”

  Nysander sighed. Another missed opportunity.

  Magyana refilled her cup from the old brown teapot. “I heard something else of him, as well. Or rather, overheard it from the servants.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “That young Seregil is Prince Korathan’s current lover.”

  Nysander raised an eyebrow at that. “I see. I wonder if that is a good idea?” Korathan was known not to stay with anyone for long.

  “There was some debate as to who seduced whom.”

  Nysander thought of the unhappy young man he’d met. There had been an air of innocence about him, or so Nysander had thought.

  “My money is on the prince,” Magyana said dryly.

  Nysander shrugged. “Well, it’s no concern of mine, but I wonder how it will end?”

  ***

  Spring rain lashed against the bed chamber windows as Korathan tumbled Seregil onto the bed and stretched out on top of him. “I missed you! Three nights is too long. I don’t think I like this new post of yours.”

  Seregil wrapped his arms around his tall lover, inhaling his rich scent. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten it for me, should you?”

  “But you’re happier with the guard?”

  “Yes!” Seregil kissed him soundly and grinned up at him. “I’d almost forgotten the feeling of a sword in my hand.”

  “Really?” Korathan pulled Seregil’s hand to his cock and had him wrap his fingers around it. “Not much different, is it?”

  Seregil laughed and took advantage of their position, rocking his hips to rub their two erections together and pulling a sigh of pleasure from his lover. He loved Korathan’s body, loved knowing what do to do make him hard, make him come ... And Korathan could play Seregil’s body like a harp.

  The prince wasted little time on foreplay tonight. Making use of the flask of oil he kept beside the bed, he prepared them both, then gripped Seregil by the hips and plunged in. Seregil hissed at the brief pain, but as Korathan had promised him that first night together, it only lasted a moment and was well worth the pleasure that followed, especially when Korathan wrapped his hand around Seregil’s shaft and pumped him in time to his thrusts. Heat blossomed through Seregil’s body as he leaned back against Korathan, moving in perfect unison.

  So lost in pleasure were they that neither one heard Phoria enter the sitting room, didn’t even know she was there until she appeared in the open bedroom doorway.

  “What
in Bilairy’s name—?” She was paler than usual and looking at them aghast. “Seregil! How could you?”

  “Damn it, sister!” Korathan pushed Seregil away and pulled the corner of the comforter over the two of them.

  “Get out!” Phoria growled.

  Seregil knew she was speaking to him. He looked to Korathan to defend him, but the prince just murmured, “You’d best go.”

  Shocked, mortified, and deeply hurt, Seregil struggled off the bed, grabbed what he could of his scattered clothing and hurried past her. She slammed the door after him and he could hear her shouting at her brother. Yanking on his breeches and shirt, he was almost out the door and free before he caught the word “whore.”

  Barefoot and coatless, he ignored the looks he got from servants as he ran back to his room and shut the door. Fighting back angry tears, he collapsed into a chair by the window and waited for Korathan to come explain himself.

  But the night passed and Korathan never came.

  ***

  Nysander had forgotten all about Seregil again, until word came in early spring that he was in disgrace, dismissed from his post with the household guard, though no one seemed to know why.

  It was raining as Nysander as set off for the palace, and the bleak color of the sky reminded him of the Seregil’s eyes the day they’d met. At the palace the wizard was directed to the family wing, though to the end of it furthest from the royal quarters. A young page led him through several passages to the archway that led to the south garden.

  “He’s out there, my lord,” the page told him. “I tried to make him come in, but he won’t.”

  The rain was coming down even harder now, and he could just make out someone wrapped in a dark mantle hunched on one of the marble benches. Nysander dismissed the page, then pulled up the hood of his cloak and walked out to join the young man.

  Seregil ignored Nysander until the wizard sat down beside him and said in Aurënfaie, “Hello again, young Seregil.”

  “Who—” Seregil turned to look at him with what appeared to be annoyance, but his expression changed to one of respect when he realized to whom he was speaking. His face was thinner than Nysander remembered and his mantle was soaked through. Nysander couldn’t tell if it was rain on his cheeks, or tears. “Hello, Lord Nysander.”

  Nysander was impressed. He’d seen Seregil at banquets, and now and then with Prince Korathan, but they’d spoken only once and briefly.

  He cast a shelter spell to keep off the rain. “This is not a very pleasant place you’ve chosen. But perhaps it suits your mood?”

  “I suppose it does, my lord.”

  “I take it you are not very happy here in Rhíminee.”

  Seregil shrugged.

  “You are wasted here at the palace, you know. What post do you hold now?”

  “None, thanks to that bitch Phoria!” Seregil replied bitterly.

  “That’s no way to refer to the Princess Royal, especially here,” Nysander cautioned. This one had spirit, at least.

  “What will they do? Cut off my head? Lock me in their Red Tower? That’s fine with me. Anything would be better than staying another day in this miserable place!”

  Nysander suppressed a smile at the childish outburst. “I see. Well, then perhaps you would like to come have tea with me at the Orëska House. Look, you can just see the towers from here, above those roofs. The one on the right is mine. Really now, I think you are in need of some dry clothes, too. In fact, given how you are shivering, I think we should get you inside at once.”

  Seregil let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t have a horse.”

  “You do not need one, dear boy. I am a wizard, after all.”

  He made a cage with his fingers and summoned the translocation spell. It began with a tiny speck of darkness, but as he opened his hands and spread his arms, it expanded to a black, spinning disk large enough for a man to step through, which was its purpose.

  “What is that?” Seregil exclaimed, leaning closer to see.

  “A quicker way back to my rooms.” Nysander held out his hand. “You should hang onto me this first time.”

  He was surprised at how readily Seregil did so. The magic clearly interested him. The lack of fear was also encouraging.

  “Stand close to me and step in. It is just like going through a doorway.”

  Holding onto Nysander’s sleeve, Seregil stepped into the darkness with him.

  It truly was like simply walking into another room—Nysander’s casting room in this case—but as he emerged he found Seregil on his hands and knees, vomiting violently on the polished stone floor. Nysander was glad he hadn’t taken them to his sitting room; he’d have ruined the carpet.

  “What—what did—do to—me?” Seregil demanded between heaves. Nothing was coming up now, but he was still retching.

  “Nothing, I assure you!” Nysander said, cleaning up the mess with a spell. He’d never seen anyone react this way before.

  Seregil got to his feet with Nysander’s help and staggered out into the main work room. Once there he stopped and gazed around with his mouth open, taking in the towering stacks of manuscripts around the room, and the crucibles, books, and general clutter covering the work benches. The polished brass astrolabe on the mezzanine above glinted dully in the grey light coming down through the round glass dome that capped the tower. “You live here?”

  “I work here. I live downstairs. Come along.”

  Holding Seregil by the elbow, Nysander got him downstairs to Alia’s old room. He found a blue-and-white apprentice robe in one of the clothes chests and gave it to him. Seregil took it with shaking hands and looked down at it as if he couldn’t fathom what it was. It appeared he was still a little dazed.

  “Put it on, dear boy. Leave your clothing here for the servant and come to the room across the hall when you are ready.”

  Nysander went out and closed the door to give him privacy, then walked across the corridor to the sitting room. The servant had stacked wood and kindling in the fireplace. He tossed in a fire chip and flames quickly licked up.

  Seregil came in a few minutes latter, dressed in the robe, his wet hair looking as if he’d tried to comb it into some order with his fingers. The soft robe had been Saren’s and was too big on him, but at least it was dry and warm. Seregil was still shivering, so Nysander guided him to one of the armchairs in front of the fire and spread a lap robe over Seregil’s knees.

  “Better now?” he asked, swinging the kettle on its iron hook over the flames to heat.

  “Yes, thank you.” Seregil pulled his knees up against his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, looking very much younger in his oversized robe, bare toes just visible below its hem, curled over the edge of the armchair. “So, you use magic to stop the rain, go from here to there, and clean up your floor, but you make the tea yourself?”

  “Yes. It comes out much better that way.” Nysander settled in the chair across the hearth. “Magic has its place, but not for everything. Besides, I enjoy it.”

  “Oh.”

  They sat there in awkward silence for a few moments, but soon Seregil was looking around the room with apparent interest. That was odd.

  “What do you think of my mural?” the wizard asked.

  Seregil glanced at the thin band of paintings that ringed the room. It possessed more than a minor magic; it was the room’s chief defense. Seregil should have been mesmerized by it by now.

  “It’s pretty,” Seregil replied. “Whoever painted those dragons must have seen a real one. They’re better than anything I saw at the palace.”

  Nothing. No effect at all. Nysander had never seen this before. That, and the way the translocation had sickened Seregil were most interesting.

  “Tell me, Seregil, have you had any training in magic?”

  “Me?” Seregil gave another of those humorless laughs. “I’m no wizard.”

  “That is very odd, my young friend, because you do have some ability. I saw it in you the first time we met.”<
br />
  “With all respect, my lord, you’re wrong.”

  Nysander let that go for now. “Do you know any wizards in your land?”

  “A few.” The mention of his homeland drove the smile from his face, which only increased Nysander’s curiosity. Someone must know his background.

  “When you feel better, I will show you the museum. I think you will find it of interest.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  The kettle was hissing. Nysander took the brown teapot down from its shelf and added some Zengati leaf and hot water.

  “That’s good quality,” Seregil noted.

  “And how do you know that?”

  That won him the hint of a smile. “Fine tea smells good.”

  “I suppose so. Seregil, I would like to try something. A test of sorts. Would you please say the words altra amal?”

  “Altra amal.”

  For just an instant every lamp in the room and the fire flared purple.

  Seregil’s eyes widened. “I did that?”

  “You did,” Nysander assured him, leaving out that the spell should have put the fire out, and not affected the lamps. Nonetheless, a genuine look of wonder had come over Seregil, and it transformed him, just as his smile had, the day Nysander met him. This young man intrigued him more and more.

  “Can I try something else?” Seregil asked.

  “Tea first.”

  He filled two earthenware cups and gave one to Seregil, who held it to his nose first and inhaled softly with eyes closed before taking his first sip. “It’s excellent. Is it from the Koromba Mountains?”

  “It is,” Nysander told him, impressed. “Are you a connoisseur of tea?”

  “No, it’s one of the ones my sister always—” He broke off, and kept his attention on his cup.

  So, you do have some family. Nysander wondered if this was how he’d get any information from the young ‘faie, bit by tiny bit.