“I intend to move well beyond mere intercourse, but yes. As for his being ready, this is what I was trained to do. Sex for healing.” He looked into the fire, then closed his eyes, his blood humming, already anticipating what was to come. “He will be my client. This is what I do.”
“Is that all he is to you?” She spoke softly, delicate but insistent. “A client?”
He opened his eyes again and looked at her, letting his nakedness show. “No.”
She took his hand. “Show me these useful things.”
He took her back into the kitchens but also to the courtyard. He showed her the most exotic fruits, explaining the aphrodisiac qualities of each. He introduced her to teas, wines, and lamented the lack of oysters, only to find a barrel they hadn’t discovered previously. He showed her where he had found the softer silks and some of the oils as well and a sponge. He also explained to her how to use them.
“Why is all this here?” Emily asked, as they entered yet another room full of supplies. “How?”
Timothy ran his hand over some silk fabric. “I don’t know the answer to either. My guess is, since this is the bolt-hole of the androghenie, that they had it stocked full of things they liked. I suppose it is maintained by magic.”
“But such magic,” Emily whispered. “They have been gone so long, and everything here is so fresh and so real. Madeline says illusion is simple, but truth is difficult.” She paused, suddenly considering something. “Timothy, I don’t wish to be rude, but have you thought… I mean, it’s just so convenient, all these things…”
“It is safe,” Timothy said with conviction. He turned away so she could not see his inner conflict. He had wondered this too, but only when he was not in the Other Side. When he was here, the rightness of it was so strong he could not shake it. It was not a spell. It was not a trick. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.
It felt, in fact, almost as if this place were his. That it was, in a way, home.
“I will make you a sari from this,” he said, holding up a great length of rose-colored silk. “You will either need to perfect the art of donning it yourself, however, or you will need to be less bashful and let me help you into it.”
She looked ready to refuse, but then she touched the silk. “You will show me, and I will learn,” she said.
He did, and she learned; it was full dark when he left her, and she was flushed and nervous but excited as well. Timothy smiled to himself all the way up the stairs.
When he opened the door to the turret, Stephen was standing at the window, which was open wide to let in the thin light of the moon and stars. He looked agitated and a little angry.
“You took long enough,” he said.
Timothy shrugged and made no comment, only began to bring in his items from beyond the door. Stephen watched for a few minutes and then, almost grudgingly, came out to help.
“Thank you,” Timothy said, and he meant it.
“What is all this?” Stephen asked. He sniffed at a jar of oil, then closed his eyes and sniffed again.
“Supplies,” Timothy said. “I work tonight.” He brought in the last load and saw that Stephen was still smelling the oil, looking a little undone. He hesitated, hating the loss, then decided hers was the greater cause in this respect. Besides, he told himself, he could do this in the middle of a dusty road with no tools but his mouth and his hands. “Emily is at her toilet in the study; knock before you enter.” He nodded to the oil held tight in Stephen’s hands. “Please give that to her when you go; tell her it is one I forgot to show her and to use it sparingly.”
He enjoyed the way Stephen looked jealous again as he took the oil, and he wondered, not for the first time, if this clumsy puppy deserved such a rose as Emily Elliott. Then he reminded himself that the heart knew its own, and he vowed to interfere no more.
Stephen nodded brusquely to him and exited the turret, but before Timothy closed the door, he saw the young man uncork the oil and take one more long and drugging sniff. Timothy smiled wickedly, and then he shut and locked the door.
He crossed to Charles, who was still quiet and still against the floor. He pressed his hand to his lover’s back, easing as he felt the rise and fall of his breath. Then he bent and pressed a kiss upon his cheek before rising to prepare the bower.
* * *
This time Charles dreamed of stars.
He knew he was dreaming, which was also pleasant; he settled in and tried to make it last. He sat in a great vast darkness, but he didn’t mind because the air and space around him was filled with points of light. It gave him peace such as he had never known. In this place, with these stars, the sorrow in his heart seemed lighter and more transient. It was good. He needed more dreams like this one.
But slowly he became aware of a strange sensation, and as he focused, he realized something soft and wet was falling on his cheek, his chest, and down across his arms. He looked up, trying to find the source, and he stopped, arrested.
It was her. It was the Goddess, here, at last, and she was bent over him, her long stardust hair blowing in an unseen wind. Her eyes were soft and shiny as glass, and from them he watched silent tears fall, shards of diamond that turned to wet dust against his skin. A thin veil covered her face, so sheer it was almost not there, but it was enough to obscure the finer points of her features.
Charles’s hand trembled as he reached up to touch her face.
The dream faded. Charles tried to hold fast to it, and in his struggles, he woke himself. For a moment the waking and dream worlds were joined. His hand was indeed outstretched, but it was Timothy’s cheek his fingers touched. Charles’s head spun as, for one dazzling moment, the Goddess and the man before him were one.
Then the last tendrils of the dream faded, and it was Timothy alone who leaned before him. The Catalian smiled and reached for something beside him, though he kept his eyes on Charles. “A good dream?”
Charles felt the wetness return and glanced down to see that his shirt was unbuttoned, nearly off, and that Timothy was lightly sponging his chest. The water was scented, but there were other, stronger smells too. He glanced around, his eyes widening as he took in the candles, the smoking incense, the jars of oil. Then he saw the bowl heaping with succulent fruit and soft cream, and his stomach contracted in sharp, sudden hunger.
Timothy reached for the bowl, drawing it into his lap. He dipped something red and fat and wet into the cream, then pressed it against Charles’s mouth. “Eat.”
Charles closed his lips around the fruit, but Timothy did not withdraw his fingers. He pushed the fruit firmly into Charles’s mouth, then withdrew one digit at a time. When only one remained, he curved it slightly on its exit, and Charles tasted tart, tangy fruit and Timothy all at the same time.
Timothy smiled at him and reached for another piece. Charles noticed, his blood warming, that Timothy was shirtless, his skin slicked with sweat or oil or maybe both. He wore what Charles supposed was a sort of sarong, a skirtlike thing of gold silk. Against his darker skin, it made him look nearly naked, and the combined effect of his undress, the scents, and the rich plum Timothy pushed between his lips to explode, lush and fat, within his mouth were erotic, like nothing Charles had ever known. He felt his sex stir as Timothy’s fingers dipped into the bowl again before coming back to his mouth. This time there was no fruit at all, only his thumb coated with the sweet, heavy cream. Timothy brushed the cream against Charles’s lips, and Charles took him inside, fire racing to his sex as his tongue rolled gently over Timothy’s salty-sweet flesh.
But when his cock began to swell, something shifted in his mind. He remembered what had happened, what he had seen. Black fog fell across his good feelings, and Charles pulled away.
Timothy stroked Charles’s cheek. “No, quiera. Stay here with me.”
Charles shut his eyes. “I’m a monster.”
“Hush,” Timothy said calmly. “That’s not true.”
Timothy’s hand on his cheek felt good, and he wanted to turn i
nto it, to drag him down for a kiss such as they’d had on the stairs. But he kept remembering what the demon had shown him and what he had done.
“I killed Smith. I turned him into ash with barely a thought.”
“You saved me from him,” Timothy said.
“I remember feeling so dark, Timothy. I remember feeling the rage and the hate. It was so hot but so cold. I don’t ever want to feel that again.”
“Then don’t.” Timothy drew Charles’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.
Charles laughed bitterly. “You were right. I was a fool, and you were right. There is no Goddess, and there never was. There are only fools and pawns and those that control them.” His throat felt thick and tight. “I was so stupid. I believed in dreams. I sold everything for nothing but fancies in my head, fairy tales I told myself because I was pathetic and lonely, and I was stupid enough to believe they might be true.”
Timothy squeezed his hand, not enough to hurt but enough to get his attention. “Stop this.”
“No, you stop.” Charles shook free of Timothy and waved him angrily away. “Didn’t you hear? I was made. I was invented. I am nothing more than a puppet, stuffed with what my makers wished me to be.”
“Quiera, I was made to suck cock and spread my cheeks for whoever had the coin. Is that all that I am?”
Charles turned to glare at him. “You weren’t made for that,” Charles countered.
Timothy arched an eyebrow. “I was indeed. My mother was poor and had no way to feed me. As soon as I was finished suckling, I was given to the slave master at a local den. They intended me to be a member of what they called the ‘lot.’ I was to be a young slave for those who liked boys. I could be bought or rented as soon as I came of age, which was eight at that time. My playthings were rubber dildos, Charles, and in the evenings, if I had been good that day, I was allowed to watch the slaves mate.”
“That’s wrong,” Charles said with heat.
Timothy nodded, but he looked calm. “I do love my country, but we all have our sins. There was a movement to end the lots, and they were closed six months before I was to be put on the block. As a sort of public apology, I was admitted into the gardens themselves, a rare thing for anyone regardless of their birth origins. We all were given the training, but most of the lot boys fell back on what they knew and ended up placing themselves up for auction as soon as they reached the new majority of fourteen. I considered it. I wondered how I could be as good as the shining gods that walked naked through the grass, so graceful as they led their clients to their bowers. I felt shame that I, just a gutter boy, should be admitted to such a place.”
Charles said nothing, his mind spinning with the foreign images and ideas that Timothy was painting. He had always had a yearning for Catal and mourned the loss of what he’d thought to be a beautifully liberal culture, but now he wondered if it had been what he had imagined it to be.
Timothy dipped a sponge in the water and ran it over Charles’s chest and across his nipples, the light, rough contact making them pucker and turn erect. “But I decided to stay, to keep learning. And I did learn, and I did well. There were some who turned their nose at the former lot boy playing at court concubine, but some clients seemed to welcome the idea. In fact, in the end it was why I ended up in the healing gardens.”
This was a new idea to Charles. “You healed people with sex? I thought—” He didn’t know how to phrase the rest.
“That I was just a whore?” Timothy dipped the sponge again. This time he made a trail down the center of Charles’s chest, ending in a lazy circle around his abdomen. “There are no ‘just whores’ in the pleasure gardens. But I would not expect an Etsian to understand. Sex is not a shame in Catal. It is, in a way, our religion. Through uniting with another in body and spirit, we return to the source of life which made and released us. Through sex we celebrate and heal one another and create the most wonderful gift of all: new life.” He dipped the sponge again. “I was very good at my job. I loved it very much. Most concubines in my garden left by their late thirties to marry, either to have children with a woman or settle with a former client or another slave. Sometimes they did both. I never wanted it to end. I bragged I would be the oldest concubine in the garden and still the most popular.”
The sponge paused. Charles saw the pain in Timothy’s eyes, and he reached up without thinking and took his arm.
Timothy accepted Charles’s hand and kissed it. Then he drew him to his feet. “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Charles let Timothy lead him to the window, sidestepping candles and pillows and other exotic things as he went. Even with his heavy heart, just looking around the room made him feel soft and safe. He wondered briefly if this was a dream within a dream. But then he felt Timothy’s oil-slick fingers close over his own, and he knew it was real. There were touches that could not be replicated, sensations that not even dreams could mime.
Timothy let go of his hands and placed them on the stony ledge, nudging his attention up to the sky. It was clear and crisp and filled with bright, shining stars, much like in his dream.
“You do not have astrology in Etsey, but it is lifeblood to us in Catal. The patterns of the stars and planets reveal the patterns of our lives; they show us the fixed points which cannot be undone. But the night skies do not limit us, Charles. The heavens are there to help us understand what we are and lead us toward what we might be, but the dark space between them is the unknown, the space for us to choose and become the selves we wish to strive for. We can only move so far within the spaces, but we can move. And the only way someone can force us to move or keep us from moving is if we let them convince us they have that power.” He stroked the side of Charles’s face. “Those who engineered the circumstances of your birth may have intended a certain life for you, and it cannot be argued that there will be stars which they have fixed in your sky. And yet, even though they may have done all in their power to force you into the life they chose, it is still your mind, your heart, and your soul, Charles Elliott-Perry. You author the space within the darkness. It is there in the dark and the pain that we grow, and it is that vastness alone which defines the meaning and value of the light within.”
“What if I’m not smart enough to move in that space, or good enough?” Charles whispered. “How am I to do that all alone?”
“You are wise enough for what you need to do.” Timothy stroked the back of his hair. “And you are not alone. None of us are alone. But sometimes we must feel that we are. And those are always difficult times.”
Charles wished he dared to sink into Timothy and drown his sorrows in his gentle embrace. “You are wise enough. And I can’t imagine you ever feel alone.”
Timothy’s expression was sad and loving at once. “Oh, quiera, I always feel alone.” He stroked Charles’s hairline, his gaze following the path of his fingers. “The happiness I knew in the pleasure gardens is my anchor, but sometimes that anchor weighs me down.”
“Tell me about it,” Charles said. “Tell me what it was like. Please.”
Timothy continued to stroke Charles’s face, his eyes unfocusing as his vision fixed on the past. “Beautiful—the pleasure gardens were beautiful. They were like a fairyland, lush and rich and sensual everywhere you went. The grass was like a carpet, softer than velvet beneath your feet. The trees were full of fruit and flowers. There were gardens arranged for every type of scent. There were fountains that could ease your heart just by walking through the arch of their spray. And it was never cold there—cool at best, but never cold. In high summer, we would sleep for most of the day and come out at night to watch the jasmine bloom, to go to the Secret Garden and watch the stars dance our destinies across the sky.” He shut his eyes. “And everywhere you went, there were people. Men, women—everyone. So often they were making love. Healing. There was so much healing there. Our clients were so sad, so lost when they came, but when they left us, they were happy.” He sighed and leaned forward, resting his cheek a
gainst Charles’s forehead. “That is what I miss more than anything.”
Charles felt the heat rising within him again. He slid his hand down Timothy’s arm and smiled a little shyly. “You are still a healer, Timothy. You heal me.”
Timothy smiled back, not shy at all. “I would like to heal you more.”
Charles’s thumb caught on the edge of that silken sarong. Then he stopped, and he waited.
Timothy reached up and wordlessly began to undo the last buttons of Charles’s shirt. He slid the garment slowly over his shoulders and down his arms, letting it drift to the floor.
Charles gripped the edge of the window, holding tight as Timothy’s oil-slick hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers. He watched those hands push the linen down over his hips, his knees, his half boots. He felt his cock twitch, then hum and swell as Timothy removed his footwear, stepped him out of his trousers, and came back to his cotton pants, where Charles’s sex was now bulging proudly beneath the plain beige drawers. Timothy treated it to a passing, tender caress, but his hands drifted upward past his cock, sliding over Charles’s now naked chest and up over his shoulders before returning to his hips again. He undid the ties deftly, then let the cotton pool at Charles’s feet. Taking Charles’s hand, he led him silently back to the pile of blankets and pillows in the center of the room.
Charles’s head had barely fallen to the pillow again when he felt Timothy’s mouth, wet and hot as it closed over his left breast. He hissed in a breath and looked down, then felt the heat slam into him as he saw Timothy looking up at him, dark eyes burning as he teased Charles’s nipple with teeth and tongue. Charles shuddered and groaned, his arms rising to clutch Timothy’s slick, naked back. Timothy drew the nipple taut inside his mouth as one of his hands reached down between Charles’s legs and took his now throbbing cock firmly in his hand.
He lifted his mouth and looked up at Charles, his face glowing golden in the candlelight.
“I do not know what force brought us together,” Timothy said, his hand still moving rhythmically against Charles’s sex. “I do not know if it was fate or deity or a spell or simply luck. I do not know. I do not care. I do not care if you were born of a king or a gutter drunk. I do not care if you were engineered by dark magicians or by a god.” He kissed Charles’s chest, over his heart, then trailed more kisses down his midsection between sentences as he spoke again, his eyes still fixed on Charles’s face. “I do not care how you have sinned, by what you have done or by what you have failed to do. What I care is that you are here now, with me.” He ducked his head to take Charles in his mouth, first the tip, then the length of him, swirling his tongue over the sensitive skin before lifting his head again. “What I know is that somehow, I looked at you, and my heart knew you. That is all I need to know, quiera. That is all I will ever need to know.”
The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 36