“Get inside,” Omay said, his voice suddenly taut. “All of you. Quickly.” He turned and snapped at his family, and a couple of boys ran forward to take their horses and click at the camels, their eyes bright with curiosity.
Inside the house it was cool and dim, the lower steps of the stairs pale with dust, but the upper room Omay led them to was big. Pale spaces on the whitewashed walls showed where hangings had been removed, and polished wooden shelves stood empty. There was a faint lingering scent of smoke and spices.
“Namik Shan,” Omay said, bowing deeply, and then continued in Latai, his voice swift and urgent. Namik replied carefully, spreading his hands to placate the merchant. At last Omay closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels.
When he opened his eyes again, he seemed calm, and he switched back to trade tongue to speak to Cayl. “Use my house, Cayl, but do not tell me for what purpose. You have brought Namik Shan and his sons home again. That is enough.” He nodded again, as if reassuring himself. “Keep close to the house. Many remember the Nightingale of Taila and her husband still, and not all of them are friendly. If I can, I will send word to the Dark God’s children. They may be able to offer you help.”
“The resistance?” Raif asked sharply. “You can reach them? Our letters have gone astray these three months.”
“They have strayed into dangerous hands,” Omay said. “You are as much a wanted man as your father, Suheyla’s son, and not least for the fires you set in Rulat last summer.”
Raif’s grin was pointed. “Poppies make good ashes.”
“And I thought he was such a nice boy,” Gard murmured into Tarn’s ear, with a low snicker.
“Niceness wins few wars, Great Alagard,” Raif said, without turning, and then switched into Latai, thanking Omay in fluid, gracious words.
LATER, WHEN Omay and his family had left and Cayl and Aline had gone out to buy food, Tarn explored the house, from the sunken kitchen to the big family rooms above and the private chambers below the roof. It was crammed tightly against its neighbors, so close he could smell their cooking and hear their voices lilting out of the windows, and it reminded him of his old home. He could feel the people living around him, their anxiety and love for each other adding warmth to the dusk.
He ended up on the flat roof, gazing across the city as the sun set and the sky faded to a soft violet. Here in a residential district it was hard to tell how many soldiers were billeted around the city, but he could see the slow haze of smoke rising from their fires to blur against the clear bright sky.
The city spilled down the steep slopes of the valley below him, its southern walls a distant brown line far below where he sat. He could look down on the flat roofs of other houses and see lines of washing, fruit drying, and old men with white beards unrolling their sleeping pallets or smoking pipes slowly, their eyes fixed on the sky.
At the heart of the city, the remains of a great palace rose from the surrounding swirl of low buildings and round towers. It had been white-walled once, and the remains of blue-painted tiles still showed in places along the edge of the roof, although the stark blackened ribs of burnt rafters showed the effects of the fire that had ravaged them. The windows were boarded over, every board painted black and smeared with the symbol of the red fist.
Despite the pale walls, the whole place looked dim, as if the smoke in the air clung there more than to the rest of the city. The clouds had never parted over Eyr, by the end, and the flowering valleys had rotted away to slime and moss. The Shadow had not been here so long, and the clear skies gave Tarn some hope. Its mastery was not complete.
I will come, he promised it silently. I will cast you down again.
Closing his eyes, he felt for his strength. They were still there, the threads that had bound him to his hoard. Too many of them had frayed into nothing, snapped by time, but some remained.
Myrtilis was there, the thread stretched fine by distance, but as strong as steel. Aline was a rush of strength, and there were new fine links. He sorted through them, identifying each one and feeling the ebb and flow of his strength moving through them, washing out and returning sevenfold. Here was Ia, sharp and firm; Dit, a little glimmer over a steadfast bond; somewhat to his surprise, Barrett; fainter still were others of Sethan’s caravan—Jancis and Ellia, Jirell and Tira, Eryl and some of the other guards.
Gard was there, too, linked to Tarn by the spell that kept him bound in human form. It was a weight, sustaining neither of them, but it kept Gard safe, even though it felt like something that was not meant to be.
Tarn turned his thoughts away, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders out. He had sat too long, and the night was growing cold. He picked his way downstairs, leaving the roof to the stars.
He found Cayl in the courtyard, struggling to light the flat-topped stove.
“Damp wood,” he grumbled.
“Let me,” Tarn said and reached into the stove to call fire out of himself. After a moment, it lit, and he and Cayl stood back on their heels in satisfaction, enjoying the sudden rush of warmth.
There was no need to speak, and they stood contentedly for a while. Above them, in the house, Tarn could hear Gard, Esen, and Zeki chattering in Selar, their voices layering over each other. He wondered, idly enough, how it would be to settle somewhere with Gard, in some small house where their hoard were gathered around them.
Then Cayl said, his voice carefully relaxed, “You’re not so bad, for an old elemental. Haven’t made any unreasonable demands yet.”
“We used to police others, my kin and I,” Tarn said, not sure where this was going. “No one is above the law, be he god or spirit or man.”
“That I can agree with,” Cayl said, a wry note in his voice. “I’ve always been fond of the law.”
“Aye,” Tarn said and reached out to poke the fire again. The cylindrical stove was at a good heat now, blurring the air above it.
“I’ve been talking to Aline too,” Cayl said, watching him thoughtfully. “There’s a lot we’ve all forgotten about your kind, over the centuries.”
“So much gets lost to history,” Tarn said, thinking of Echta, whose name he had almost forgotten even though he still wore the man’s face.
“So I don’t know how this is done,” Cayl continued.
“How what is done?”
“Did they make pledges, your followers of old? Shed blood or cast spells?”
Tarn stared at him, startled. He had not expected this, for all he regarded Cayl and Sethan as his. “Some men liked words. Others simply gave their loyalty without any formality. It depended upon the man.”
“I like to have things in words,” Cayl said, as if he had never looked at Tarn with distrust burning in his eyes. “So, what do I say?”
“That you are mine to protect, part of my hoard,” Tarn breathed, hungering for it.
“Aye, then. I, Cayl Lattimar of Hirah and the Prince’s Hearth of Shara, pledge this to you, Tarn of High Amel: I am of your hoard and trust in you to do your duty.”
It snapped into place as clean and sharp as an arrow’s strike, and for a moment Tarn felt all of Cayl—his steadiness and implacable strength; his loves, friends and kin, and Sethan in the heart of him like a flame; the strength of his sword arm; and, in among it all, something as cold and bleak as stone, unnatural and icy.
Then the link faded into place, nothing more than a steady pulse of strength beside Aline’s. Cayl’s eyes had widened, and he drew his breath in sharply. “That’s a strange feeling. I thought it might burn.”
“No,” Tarn said, buoyed up by the sudden extra strength flowing through him. “I save my flames for my enemies.”
“I approve,” Cayl said, and then stepped back from the stove. “Shall we find something to cook on this thing? I’m hungry.”
“Did you manage to buy supplies?”
“Aye, though I don’t believe the meat really is lamb, whatever the butcher claimed.”
Chapter 27: Surrendering
THEY M
ANAGED to put together a sturdy stew, and everyone gathered in one of the big family rooms to eat, leaning against their packs and talking idly. Tomorrow they would have to gather the last information they needed before they approached the Shadow, but no one was in the mood for strategy tonight. Instead, they traded tall tales, and Zeki produced a flute, playing so Esen could dance in the middle of the room, her veils and skirts floating around her in a blur of color.
As his foster daughter danced, Gard leaned on Tarn’s shoulder, unusually quiet, and Aline smiled at them from across the room, the flickering firelight making her look wistful.
The house was big enough to have private sleeping rooms, though only the hard bedsteads remained. Gard piled their bedding on one as Tarn stood by the window, his eyes drawn again to the dark bulk of the old palace rising against the starry sky.
“Close the shutters,” Gard said, “and come to bed.”
“Do you think it suspects we’re here?” Tarn asked, without turning. “Does it know I am so close? Is it afraid?”
Gard came over and reached around him to pull the shutters together, closing out the night. Only the lamp he had hung from the ceiling hook lit them now, a soft yellow light that softened every stark edge of the empty room. “From what you’ve said, and what I saw of it when it had me trapped, it lacks imagination. It will know you’re ready to hunt it down, but it will expect you to come with armies again. It cannot suspect that we would come so quietly, like a thief in the night.”
“Quietly?” Tarn repeated, his mood shifting as Gard’s arms slid around his waist. “You’ve never come quietly in your life.”
“You like me for it,” Gard said blithely and dropped a warm kiss on the back of Tarn’s neck. “To bed, now. We can launch our war upon the Shadow tomorrow. Tonight, let us live and take pleasure in it.”
“That’s uncharacteristically agreeable of you,” Tarn commented, turning around to meet Gard’s kiss.
Gard’s eyes were sober, even as he slid his hands under Tarn’s belt. “Of the two of us, I am least likely to see tomorrow’s sunset. If this is my last night alive, I’d like to spend it getting fucked blind, if you don’t mind.”
“You’d not be much use in the fight if you suddenly turned blind,” Tarn said, his heart clenching in panic at the thought of Gard dying, “but I am happy to oblige, if that is your heart’s desire.”
“Well, we could try our best,” Gard said, squeezing Tarn’s ass thoughtfully. “Sometimes the intent matters more than the outcome, and I’m sure if we keep trying all night, it won’t matter if we don’t quite achieve our aim.”
Gard was drawing him closer, and Tarn went happily, tilting his head back to allow Gard to press kisses to his neck. There were patterns painted on the ceiling, he noted absently, as his body flushed in response to Gard—symmetrical patterns of black and white that soothed his mind until he let his eyes drift closed. His cock throbbed in response to every flicker of Gard’s tongue on his neck, and he sighed as Gard slid one hand right down, teasing his balls.
“I want to see you naked,” Gard murmured, lifting Tarn’s hair to nibble along the curve of his ear. “All laid out for me to feast upon. I want to see your cheeks flush, and your thighs part, and your cock rising for me.”
“Too late,” Tarn sighed. Each teasing brush of Gard’s fingers inside his clothes was making the blood rush to his cock. He could feel every bead of sweat prickling on his balls, and the steady beat of blood in his cock shuddered through him, making him hungry and restless. Every inch of his skin yearned for touch, making the rough brush of his shirt against his nipples and the soft edge of his collar torturous.
“I’ll hear you groan my name,” Gard promised, sliding his hand up to touch the head of Tarn’s cock, still teasing, not gripping him tight even when Tarn thrust up in clear invitation, gasping at the shivering pleasure.
Then he withdrew his hand and stepped back. Tarn snarled at him, annoyed when that only made him gurgle laughter, and then he said as Tarn lunged forward, “Strip.” Tarn had lost control of this game, and with a lesser lover, he would have seized it back again. The thought of letting Gard surprise him, though, sent a shudder of excitement up his spine. He peeled himself out of his heavy clothes, his hands clumsy with the still-unfamiliar fastenings. Gard, to his irritation, made no move to help, but stood back with his arms folded and an infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
Once he was naked, Tarn kicked his clothes away, breathing a little faster as the cooler air slid across his skin. He rolled his shoulders, aware how it made his muscles shift, and met Gard’s gaze. “So?”
Gard’s eyes were hot, and Tarn could see the bulge between his legs that betrayed his excitement. Gard turned aside, though, to pick up the basin of cold water from the windowsill. “Can you warm this?”
Tarn let fire spark out of his fingertips, sending it darting across the room to dance around the clay bowl, and cast golden reflections on Gard’s face.
“Gently,” Gard murmured and brought it over to where Tarn stood. Kneeling, he set the bowl by Tarn’s feet and pulled the headscarf out of the pile of clothes. He dipped it in the warm water and rose to his feet, then pushed aside the sweep of Tarn’s hair to expose his neck and shoulders.
The first press of the damp cloth made Tarn shudder, but he relaxed into it. He was a little disappointed. He’d hoped to be inside Gard by now, riding them both toward ecstasy.
Then Gard sighed, “You’re magnificent,” and Tarn caught his breath at the sincerity of it. Suddenly, the slow swipe of the cloth, rubbing away the dirt of weeks on the road, seemed more tender than a tease. He’d almost stopped hoping that Gard would ever show him such sweetness, and now he closed his eyes and leaned into Gard’s touch.
Gard worked his way across Tarn’s back, letting the water dribble down in slow trickles that teased their way across Tarn’s bare ass. Sometimes his lips pressed swiftly to the skin he had just washed, but for the most part he held back. Gard was quiet, his rough breathing the only sound that rushed around them, save the thunder of Tarn’s own pulse in his ears.
When Gard knelt to wring out the cloth and dip it into the basin again, his hair brushed against Tarn’s hip in passing.
Suddenly, Tarn’s arousal broke over him again, flaring across his skin like lightning. He was hard enough that the head of his cock was pressing damp kisses to his belly, and he couldn’t hold back a groan as Gard started on his chest, running the cloth in slow circles. Tarn got his nipples pinched gently through the cloth and let out a juddering sigh that turned to a groan of protest when Gard knelt and went straight to his thighs, bypassing the places Tarn most needed to be touched.
“Patience,” Gard chided, sliding the cloth behind his knees. He pressed a consoling kiss to the inside of Tarn’s thigh, so close that Tarn considered just dragging him up the last distance. Except it was obvious Gard had a plan, so he simply closed his eyes and clenched his fists, and endured the slow, damp tease.
Gard washed Tarn’s legs and urged him to lift his feet one at a time, coaxing the cloth between his toes and under his foot, lingering when Tarn shivered at the brush of warm fingers on his sensitive soles. Then, finally, he dipped the cloth into the bowl again and knelt up, his breath gusting warmly against Tarn’s groin as he reached round to rub the cloth across Tarn’s ass.
When it slid between his asscheeks and Gard began to rub gently around his hole, Tarn choked out his appreciation, rocking back into Gard’s touch, shifting his stance to allow Gard better access.
Gard dipped down to wet the cloth again and finally wrapped it around Tarn’s cock. The warm slick weight of it was a relief, and Tarn rutted against the rough stuff, his mind going blessedly blank as Gard rubbed, stroked, and slid the cloth around him.
Then it was gone, and Gard’s mouth was closing over the head of his cock, warm and wet and wonderful. The first slow suck made him shake, his balls drawing up as orgasm gathered like fire, crackling across his skin and making his hair sta
nd on end.
And Gard pulled off.
There was fire rising through him, enough to burn anyone to ashes, and Tarn could barely contain it to a snarl, opening his eyes to glare down.
“Turn around,” Gard said hoarsely, his hands shaking where they were splayed across the tops of Tarn’s thighs. “And bend over.”
Barely any of his mortal lovers had dared ask for this, and Tarn’s heart burned a little hotter still. Alagard was his, desert, body, and bright soul, whether he was willing to admit it or not, and Tarn was going to keep him for as long as they kept burning for one another, however many centuries this lasted.
He was ready for Gard’s cock, or his fingers, and was unprepared for what he got instead.
Gard’s pointed tongue curled around his hole, a slow wet point of heat teasing him open. At the same time, he slipped his hand forward to wrap it around Tarn’s cock, stroking him gently as his tongue pressed in slowly. Tarn shook between the two touches, craving more, but Gard kept his touch light and his tongue slow, only the tight grip of his other hand on Tarn’s hip hinting that he was affected by this at all.
Then, without warning, Gard tightened his hand and jabbed his tongue forward. He fucked it into Tarn even as he jerked at his cock, hand and tongue moving faster and faster, urgent and relentless, until Tarn couldn’t keep himself quiet, writhing as the fire rose in him, blazing up his spine as he convulsed around Gard’s tongue. He came with a roar, shooting across the floor.
Only his grip on the end of the bed and Gard’s arms wrapped tightly around his hips kept him standing, his head swimming as he shivered with the aftershocks. Then Gard stood up and pushed against his back, hands clenching around Tarn’s ass as he gasped, and Tarn went where he was guided, collapsing back onto the bed in a lax, sated heap.
Gard stood at the end of the bed, his breath coming fast and his chest rising and falling quickly. His eyes were wild, and his fists curling against his sides.
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