by Jez Morrow
The first part of the journey was through a land at peace.
The royal train marched past groves of fruit trees, lush fields dotted with grazing sheep and clusters of neat fieldstone houses.
Villages along the way to Laklare welcomed Devon’s approach. Village elders turned out to present him with gifts of fresh fruit, fat geese, and local wares. Children strewed the way with flowers. Devon leaned down from his saddle to accept kisses from young women.
“You are loved,” Xan commented curiously as Devon passed a matched pair of silver mugs to his attendants to stow in his royal litter with the rest of the gifts.
“You are surprised?” Devon answered coolly. He had flowers stuck in his hair. They were pink cyclamen blossoms, their petals pulled back like butterfly wings. Devon added, “You do know I send soldiers ahead threatening to flog them if they don’t show up cheering?”
“No,” Xan said simply. He didn’t believe it.
Good. Devon nodded. A flower fell from his hair into his lap. He turned his head to look Xan in the eyes. “Then yes, Gladiator. I am well loved.”
Devon’s column arrived at Laklare. The soldiers paused there a day and a night to refresh and to pick up more food and to unload the Sovereign’s gifts. The litter bearers were grateful.
The summer palace at the edge of Laklare, with its soaring ceilings and airy colonnades, was built on the shore of a broad glassy lake.
The local palace attendants had the Sovereign’s bedchamber ready for him, the fine sheets clean and scented on the wide bed, fresh-cut flowers in all the vases, potted plants in the hearth because nights here were mild. Perfumed water was drawn in the footed bathtub. Vast crystalline windows overlooked the ultramarine lake. The water lay glassy in the sunlight.
The chief of staff asked if ma dahn wanted him to arrange a companion for the night.
No, Devon told him. No. Days and nights in company of Xan had delivered Devon here hot, disturbed and edgy, nothing that the touch of a woman could ease. He refused to be irritable to a sweet and talented young lady who would try her best with no hope of pleasing him.
He rode out to the royal stables to find a mount more fitting a man of Xan’s stature than the poor beast that had carried him here.
They found a promising animal. It was an imposing draft horse with a handsome bronze coat dappled with ghostly points of gray. Its mane and tail were white-gold. It had all its teeth, a broad sturdy back and a sensible face. Its massive hoofs were sound.
And it took a liking to Xan. It snuffled his hair, blew hay-scented breath through wide fluttering nostrils and butted Xan in his broad chest. Devon thought he might have spied a trailing edge of an unguarded smile soften Xan’s face as he held the big head.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” Devon commanded.
The gentle look vanished. Xan said, “It is a good horse.”
“No. Not about the horse. Tell me your mind.”
“I haven’t the words,” Xan said. “Not in your speech.”
“Then speak to me in your own.”
“You don’t know my words.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Devon said. “Speak to me.”
Xan frowned. He met Devon’s gaze and spoke.
The sound of Xan’s voice was like sand on stone, shifting rocks, a guttural purr in a rolling desert cadence. A crease deepened between Xan’s uneven brows as he spoke, his expression becoming a brooding glower, his eyes glittering sharp. There was tension in his lower jaw. He bared his lower teeth as he bit words off. The movement of his lips was seductive.
As last Xan lifted his eyebrows quizzically, one higher than the other, and he said in the Raenthe tongue, “What did you hear?”
“I heard the wrath of the horse that doesn’t understand the bit,” Devon said.
“That is not what I said at all.”
“The words, no. But you told me you are feeling my foot on the back of your neck. I have the power of life and death over you like a god, yet I am not a god, and you are wondering how such a thing can be allowed in a just creation.”
The gladiator let his mouth drop open in unmasked astonishment. “Are the Raenthe mind readers?”
“No,” Devon said. “And you’re wrong about my foot on your neck.”
Devon put his palm to the draft horse’s withers and called for a stable hand to bring a bridle.
It was on their way back to the palace that Devon and Xan rode up behind an overloaded oxcart attempting to turn down a side path to a mill.
The wagon groaned under a tower of badly balanced bricks. The driver was taking the turn at a bad angle. One wagon wheel was about to fall into a deep rut.
The old miller, red-faced at the reins, was bellowing. Three young men put their shoulders to the cart, pushing under the leaning side of the tottering load.
One more step and that load would topple. The three young men would be crushed.
Devon gave a warning shout, but the men didn’t hear over the miller’s bellowing, or they were not heeding, or they were not sure what Devon meant by Look out! and Don’t! and Stop!
Xan leapt down from his new steed, bounded ahead, seized the ox yoke and steered the beasts, pulling with them. Cords of sinew stood out distinct and massive under the strain in his powerful haunches, his broad back, his hard buttocks. Xan forced the wagon away from the rut onto a safe path through the turn.
The brick tower straightened up from its deadly lean.
The foolish miller blithely thanked Devon for lending his two-legged ox, with no clue that Xan had just saved the lives of the young men, who turned out to be the miller’s sons.
Devon brooded about the incident late into the evening. He shivered at the tragedy that didn’t happen. If Xan hadn’t been there, those youths would be dead. Devon did not like to lose his citizens, not even foolish ones.
After dinner, Devon summoned the gladiator to his bedchamber. Devon was not sure why he called Xan to this particular room to give him this news. He supposed it was a nice fantasy to have Xan and Devon’s bed in the same room. Devon felt a warm thrill at the illusion of possibility. It gave him a sense that something sexual could happen, even though he knew very well that it couldn’t.
Xan presented himself dressed in a short Raenthe-style tunic over his barbaric fawnskin breeches. Xan’s sheath held a dagger. No one took it from him. He was first guardsman. He was required to be armed in his Sovereign’s presence.
“You saved those men’s lives and no one asked you and no one thanked you,” Devon told him. “Those are my people. I thank you. The horse we acquired to carry you—you may take possession of it in your own name. The beast is yours if you want it.”
Xan nodded, accepting the gift. Devon knew Xan liked that horse even though Xan wasn’t letting any emotion show now. He only looked thoughtful.
“Is there anything here that would please you before we leave Laklare in the morning?” Devon asked. “A favorite meal?”
“If I am not eating rats, I am pleased,” Xan said.
Devon tried again, “Do you want a woman for this night?”
“No,” Xan said. “I prefer a man.”
A fist in the groin could not have shocked Devon more. Devon tried to hold himself steady. The words fell on him like a double-edged sword and both edges of the blade drew blood.
Jealousy in a choking shroud made it hard to breathe.
Devon was not going to hire a male prostitute for the man he dreamed about. Devon was grateful for what Xan had done, but not enough to swallow razors for it.
Devon could not say why he never felt jealousy when he’d thought Xan loved women. A preference for women was a usual sort of disappointment. But another man? Another man was a rival. That was something jagged moving in Devon’s gut. That was a burning behind his eyes. That was the sweet taste you get before vomiting.
“That I cannot allow,” Devon said thickly, wondering what he had done to so piss off the gods.
“You disapprove,” Xan said.
Devon shook his head. “Security risk,” he said. That was only one-eighth of the truth. But it was true enough. “I don’t trust boy whores. If that is what you want, close your eyes and take a woman from behind.”
“I did not say boy,” Xan said.
The words fell on Devon’s ears muffled as through a wall. The words filled his body with longing. He could scarcely breathe.
He could not keep his voice natural. He felt his heart lodged right there under his larynx. So he tried to sound merely vexed and impatient. “If it’s a man you want, you’ll need to do with me. I shall have no men of that profession in here.”
“Ma dahn. I am dominant.”
Devon quivered inside, his knees weakened near to buckling. He had set himself up to be refused. And now he needed to get Xan out of here quickly. He was weirdly near tears and that would not do at all. He snapped, “I gave you choices. Take what you want. Or don’t.”
“I accept.”
“Very well.” Devon turned abruptly to the door to have his chief of staff arrange for a professional woman who specialized in anal sex.
A large strong hand closed around his arm. The touch was dangerous and electric. Devon stood absolutely still, but for his shallow breaths and the hammering of his heart.
Me.
Xan had accepted Devon.
Chapter Three
Devon felt a wall of heat at his flank. Quavering breaths came shallow through his nostrils. The Sovereign, the soldier who never hesitated in battle, was frozen in a moment’s sheer panic. What to do?
He wanted to touch Xan. But he would not. However this encounter played out, this was nothing but a favor to the savage, not a wish of Devon’s own to be indulged. Devon was scared, rigid in all ways.
He waited for whatever Xan wanted to do to him.
Devon didn’t need to do anything.
Xan tugged on Devon’s belt, loosening the clasp. The belt fell at Devon’s sandaled feet.
Xan’s broad fingertips brushed the bare skin high on Devon’s arm as Xan unfastened one shoulder pin of Devon’s tunic. With the pin freed, the fabric fell aside and hung down from Devon’s opposite shoulder. Xan pushed the tunic off Devon’s shoulder. Devon felt the cloth slide against his skin, down his hips, ass, thighs and calves to puddle in a rich pool of silky fabric around his feet. Clad only in sandals and jewelry, Devon was a slender, well-muscled, elegant figure, and he knew it.
He trembled, naked to the air and Xan’s eyes.
The petal texture of Devon’s perfumed skin must have struck Xan a strange thing in a soldier, but soft skin was not strange to find in a resident of a palace where servants poured floral oils with the bath water, and even the granite in the chamber was polished to a shining finish and carved alabaster glowed milky smooth.
The Raenthe delighted in beauty, in sights and sounds and scents and tastes. Raenthe loved to decorate their bodies and Devon was a true Raenthe. His tunic had fallen away to reveal a very fine chain of delicately fashioned gold links which draped just above Devon’s narrow hipbones. A scallop in the fine chain looped down the front of Devon’s belly to dangle a pendant over the black hair of his pubis. A black gemstone, with a lurking heart of deep red fire within the pendant, winked in the lamplight, half-hidden by Devon’s upthrust cock.
Devon’s cock ring fit tight just below the head of his engorged penis.
Devon felt exposed, as if no one had ever seen his body before.
No one had ever looked at him like this.
Xan’s eyes, his desert eyes that had seen so very much, fixed on Devon. Devon felt Xan’s gaze and couldn’t bring himself to look up to meet it.
Devon stood with his weight on one leg like the statue of the youth in the garden, his head lowered and turned aside, shy.
I am not shy, I am terrified.
Devon’s thick lashes lowered over his downcast eyes. His gaze locked on the terrifying, tantalizing swelling in Xan’s crotch.
Devon shivered in the warmth.
Everything around him seemed to be sparking and glittering, the burnished wood of the bedposts and the facets of cut gems.
Hunger and heat rose between gladiator and Sovereign. Devon heard Xan’s breaths welling in his deep chest.
Xan trailed the back of one rough-skinned forefinger down Devon’s hard-muscled chest. Xan’s finger tripped over Devon’s right nipple, sending ripples of sensation through Devon’s body.
Devon became aware of the crown on his head. Devon still wore the thin gold circlet, signet of his rank. Awareness caught up with him that this was an extraordinarily bad idea.
This was the most spectacularly brainless thing Devon had ever done, and every part of his body was singing under Xan’s gaze.
Devon lifted his hands to take off his crown.
Xan murmured low, “Leave it on.”
Xan circled ‘round behind Devon and pushed him. Devon caught himself against the stuccoed wall, his hands splayed before him so he was staring at all his rings. Two or three rings adorned each finger of his left hand, fewer on his blade hand and none on his trigger finger. Devon’s weapon of choice was his handheld crossbow, a tightly wound little weapon with small lethal bolts.
He tried to push himself away from the wall and stand up straight, but Xan pushed him forward again and kicked one heel sideways to make Devon lean into the wall, his legs spread.
Devon’s rings became a glinting blur before his eyes. Xan’s broad warm palms stroked down Devon’s hips, then up the insides of Devon’s thighs to his groin. Devon melted into Xan’s touch. It was all he could do to make no sound. Xan’s strong hands squeezed the lean, hard muscles of Devon’s ass.
One broad finger sought, found and paused with light pressure on Devon’s anus. Devon inhaled. The tight gate burned, yearning.
Xan’s probing finger moved away. Devon’s disappointment was far stronger than his dread.
Then a horrible thought struck him. Xan was playing with Devon. This was not about desire. This was about humiliation. Xan knew Devon’s desire. Xan was setting Devon afire just to watch him burn.
Even if Devon’s fear was true, Xan’s hands stroking Devon’s buttocks were something out of a dream. Devon tried very hard not to love this.
Xan’s hands moved forward of Devon’s hips. Xan’s fingertips brushed the hair of Devon’s crotch. Devon wanted to roar at him to touch his sex. Devon’s balls felt taut. His rigid cock was weeping to be touched.
Xan’s hands withdrew. Devon keenly felt their absence. He felt the loss of Xan’s heat as Xan stepped back.
Xan’s heavy leather belt hit the floor with a chunk.
Devon pushed himself away from the wall and stood straight up.
When Devon turned around, Xan was unfastening his fawnskin breeches. As Xan’s fly parted, Xan’s cock pushed out, hard, solid and formidable as the man. His cock was dark, ruddy, and thick.
Xan took Devon’s head between his great hands and pulled Devon down toward his stiff cock.
Devon’s legs bent. He put one hand out to touch Xan’s muscular thigh for balance as the savage pulled his head to his groin. Xan’s smooth rigid shaft pressed hard against Devon’s cheek, his thatch of light brown hair pressing soft at Devon’s mouth and nose. Devon’s eyelashes moved against Xan’s sex as he breathed in Xan’s scent, his head filling with male musk. His exhalation fluttered Xan’s pubic hair. His lips and tongue felt swollen with sexual hunger. He would have loved to go down on Xan of his own accord, to give, like a lover gives. But this was not love and Devon was determined to give nothing. Let Xan take his pleasure and be done.
One knee touched the floor.
The gladiator’s hands moved lightly in Devon’s hair. Xan’s fingers caught the edge of Devon’s gold coronet, reminding Devon that his symbol of lofty rank was still there. Xan had made Devon leave it on as he dominated him. Devon caught the meaning of it. He just didn’t care at this moment.
Xan’s fist closed on a thick hank of black hair behind De
von’s head and pulled Devon’s face away from him a cock’s length.
Xan took his own cock in his other hand and moved its moist rounded tip back and forth across Devon’s lips. Xan drew wetness on Devon’s parted lips, first the upper, then the lower. The sensation on Devon’s lips was intoxicating, utterly, magnificently male.
Of its own will, Devon’s tongue moved forward to touch the tip of Xan’s sex. Devon could feel the slit, felt a drop of precum express from it.
Devon’s mouth was open and begging. And Xan’s thick rod slid in. Devon gave a muffled moan around its fullness. Oh!
He meant to act as if he was only just tolerating this.
His reserve dissolved. Devon’s tongue was all over Xan’s prodigious cock. He surrounded it, felt it in his mouth, adored it, reached forward with his tongue to stroke its root. He pulled back to the rim, only to go down again and feel Xan’s thickness fill him again.
Above Devon’s head, a sound escaped from Xan’s throat, a soft hiss like windblown sand over rocks. Xan felt something more than his own dominance.
Devon’s mouth moved up again. His tongue circled the base of Xan’s helmet. He found no folds of foreskin pulled back there. Some dim recess of his mind noted that he’d never known that the barbarians circumcised their male children too. And he went down.
Xan’s solid wall of abdominal muscles moved as he drew in deep breaths. Devon tasted Xan’s excitement. Devon’s hands moved without conscious thought, first gripping Xan’s mighty thighs to brace himself, then pulling down Xan’s fawnskin breeches so he could feel the naked skin of Xan’s hard ass and fondle Xan’s balls.
Devon made a tight ring with his forefinger and thumb just in front of his mouth as he went up and down on Xan’s cock. Xan’s fingers hovered lightly at Devon’s jaw. It was the kind of touch a horseman used on the rein when his mount was doing everything right.
Then Xan hauled Devon up by his upper arms and drew Devon into a powerful embrace. Xan’s sex pressed hard against Devon’s own erection. Xan’s rough-woven tunic felt coarse on the bare skin of Devon’s chest. Xan’s big hands moved in Devon’s hair. The Sovereign’s crown toppled to the floor. Xan’s mouth came down hot and hungry on Devon’s neck, his throat, his shoulder—just not on Devon’s wanting lips.