The Crown of Silence

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Valraven has broken your heart,’ Khaster said. ‘But that is no reason to hurt another. If you must inflict pain, find your Dragon Lord, do it to him.’ The witch controlled his tongue. He was too drunk to speak so clearly, so eloquently.

  Bayard’s beautiful face had become hard. ‘You know nothing of my affairs.’

  ‘I know he’s shut the door on you,’ Khaster said. ‘You are right. We are both fools, but perhaps you more than me. Val is like me. He’s Caradorean. However you seduced him, the glamour’s gone now. You’ll never have him back. He’ll be repulsed by you, mourning for his wife, who but for you would still be alive. Val is devastated about her. Your perversity could never replace a wife’s love. I know this. I know him better than you do.’ It wasn’t true, of course. Khaster suspected Valraven had never loved Ellony, and Bayard himself must think that too, but Khaster knew his words would still hit the mark.

  The room had fallen silent. They were all terrified, Khaster thought. No one could predict how Bayard would react to this. He might leap up, skewer Khaster with a dagger. He might order his cronies to do it. But no, he merely laughed, although his eyes remained cold. ‘It was thoughtful of you to tell me this in front of so many.’

  ‘Let the boy go,’ Khaster said. ‘You are forcing him against his will.’

  ‘Creatures such as him have no will,’ Bayard said, sneering, but he pushed the boy from his lap, without even glancing at him. ‘Maybe you are turning, Khaster. Maybe you’re not as chaste and holy as you like to think. It’ll do you good. You bored Pharinet half to death. She needed real men in her bed. Take the boy. Let him fuck you. It might even make a man of him.’

  I have to escape, Khaster thought, feeling so weak and sick he could not even consider Bayard’s insults. He had to get out of the room.

  The boy scrambled to his feet and took hold of Khaster’s arm. ‘Come, my lord,’ he whispered, and then Khaster was being propelled out through the door, through the pressing crowds into the night of The Soak. Here, he collapsed on the muddied pavement.

  ‘Stand up,’ said the boy. ‘Walk. He may come after us. Or send someone.’

  ‘Leave me,’ Khaster said. ‘Make your escape.’

  ‘He’ll kill you,’ the boy said. ‘Believe me, I know he can.’

  Khaster laughed weakly. ‘Too late. He’s already done that. Just run, boy. Get away.’

  ‘I am Tayven,’ said the boy, pushing back his hair. ‘I have a name. Get to your feet. I’ll not walk back through this place alone.’

  ‘I’m no use to you.’

  ‘Rot. You wear the uniform. It’s respected. It’ll afford us some protection, even though we lack numbers.’

  Khaster allowed himself to be hauled upright. What a spectacle. He needed more to drink. He needed oblivion. Tayven, however, would not hear of entering another Soak establishment, and hired a water taxi to take them to Penthion Bridge. Khaster was too tired to argue. Once back in the city proper, he could go to the ‘The Shining Cup’ an inn that was close to the barracks. He’d rid himself of the unwelcome responsibility of Tayven, and drink until dawn. He felt weak, afraid. He was sure Bayard would make him pay for what he’d done.

  Once they reached ‘The Shining Cup’, however, Tayven refused to leave Khaster’s side, no matter how much Khaster protested.

  ‘If you want to drink yourself into a catalepsy, then I will take you home afterwards,’ Tayven said.

  The ‘Cup’ was a far quieter establishment than the inns of The Soak: spotlessly clean, the lighting neither too dim nor too bright, the air redolent of the familiar odours of ale and smoke. It was very late, so the place was nearly empty. A few elderly men sat together at a table playing a sedate game of cards, while in a corner, a group of girls, apparently bird-catchers from the nets hanging at their waists, conducted an urgent, furtive conversation in low tones.

  A row of wooden booths was set against the left wall, where patrons could hide themselves behind slatted doors and have some privacy. Khaster virtually fell into one of these and for some moments rested his face on the table. A girl came over to take their order and Tayven requested a mild wine. When it arrived, Khaster found the strength to lift his head.

  ‘I owe you so much,’ Tayven said, pouring wine into two wooden cups. ‘I was foolish to go out with Narin tonight. I should have guessed it was one of Bayard’s schemes. He’s been after me for months. I hate him. I am a fool.’

  ‘I am the fool,’ Khaster said, dragging one of the wine cups towards him, and spilling a great deal of the contents in the process. ‘I will tell you about it. I married the most beautiful woman on earth. She is the sister of the Dragon Lord. Did you know that?’

  Tayven ducked his head. ‘I know of your wife,’ he said. ‘Bayard has talked about her.’

  Khaster growled. ‘Did he tell you about her love for her brother, how close it was? Did he tell you that?’

  ‘He’s told everyone,’ Tayven said. ‘In Magrast, it’s hardly shocking news. You should know that.’

  ‘He’s had her himself,’ Khaster said. ‘He told me. Had them both at the same time. My best friend and my wife.’

  Tayven nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘The three of them killed my sister.’

  Tayven said nothing.

  ‘Didn’t tell you that, then?’

  Tayven shook his head. ‘No. Are you sure?’

  Khaster gulped wine, spilled it. ‘Oh yes. They drove her mad. She ran into the sea. It was some filthy ritual they were doing. Why did they have to be down on the beach at dawn, the four of them? What were they up to?’ He closed his eyes. ‘Poor lovely Ellie. She was innocent. They killed her. Black-hearted Pharinet, jealous of my sister. Killed her. Valraven. Never loved her. Used her. Killed her.’ The cup fell onto the table and the rest of its contents pooled around Khaster’s limp hands.

  Tayven stood up. ‘Let’s get you home,’ he said.

  As Tayven hauled him up the stairs to his quarters, Khaster couldn’t stop laughing. The guard on the door had seen him, staggering home with a pretty boy. That would start gossip. His legs wouldn’t work. Everything was too ridiculous. He sat down several times on the stairs and Tayven nearly lost his temper begging him to get up.

  ‘Leave me, then,’ Khaster said. ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘No. I’ll get you home. I want to.’

  Khaster vomited copiously and Tayven swore beneath his breath.

  Khaster’s rooms were on the second floor of the building. They were not overly-luxurious, but as well as a large bedroom, which doubled as a sitting room, he had a tiny bathroom and kitchen. His valet cooked breakfast for him there. Tayven manoeuvred Khaster into the bathroom, where he was sick again. Khaster hung over the water closet, loathing himself, his insides roiling and heaving. The Red Witch still twittered in the corners of his mind. Why had he done this to himself? It was senseless. Tayven gave him some water to drink, but wouldn’t let him sleep on the bathroom floor. He dragged him into the bedroom and Khaster crawled onto the bed and lay on his back, arms outflung. The ceiling bubbled above him as if with storm clouds. His skin burned. Tayven sat beside him and offered more water. ‘It’ll flush you out,’ he said. ‘Drink.’

  ‘I can see the stars,’ Khaster said, staring with unblinking eyes at the white ceiling.

  ‘I’m not surprised. Come on, drink.’

  ‘No more drink, no.’ He put his hands over his eyes. In the darkness, colours wove patterns that looked like dragons. He had forgotten about Bayard. All he could think of was the knot of tender flesh that comprised his heart. The pain was physical. It would never leave him. He felt Tayven lift his hands from his eyes. The light was dim in the room, but it felt like spears of sunlight.

  ‘This has to stop,’ Tayven said. He had the face of a judgmental angel, beautiful and because of that terrifying.

  ‘Then make it stop.’

  Tayven shook his head and the lamp light spun webs in his swinging hair
. ‘It’s been noticed, the way you are. Almorante is concerned. He likes you, Khaster. He would be your patron.’

  ‘As he is yours?’ Khaster managed a weak, cruel laugh.

  Tayven briefly closed his eyes. ‘That’s not what I mean. Bayard is a dangerous enemy. You would be wise to cultivate Almorante. He is very powerful.’

  ‘He can’t help me.’

  Tayven expelled a sound of annoyance. ‘I remember how you were, before you went to Caradore last time. You are different now. It can’t be! The person you were still lives inside you. You must find him.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you in my life before,’ Khaster said.

  ‘You haven’t noticed me. Why should you? You’re not interested in beautiful boys, and you would believe I have no other virtue. But I’ve been there when you’ve attended Almorante’s gatherings. I’ve watched you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re different. I know you despise me, yet the fact you can view me in that way is strangely refreshing. I’m used to the other kind.’

  ‘You will grow old one day. It will happen without you realising it. You’ll lose all that you are.’

  ‘I know. I’m cursed.’

  Khaster shivered involuntarily. ‘Then leave Magrast.’

  ‘I wish I could.’ Tayven clasped his knees and rested his head upon them. ‘I wish I had somewhere to go, but my life is cut out. I was sent to Almorante, and he will use me as he sees fit until my beauty fades and another is installed in my place.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Thenc I will be taken into the family business. My father has factories that make weapons.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tayven’s shoulders heaved and a sigh gasped round the room like a lamenting spirit. A greater sigh had never been expressed. Khaster was moved by it. How much we are victims of who we are, he thought. The Red Witch shrilled in his brain: ‘You are doomed, all of you. What is the point of life, of so much suffering, for brief, butterfly moments of sweet intensity that are as fragile as their powdery wings?’

  ‘Have you ever loved, Tayven?’ Khaster asked.

  The shoulders heaved again, but Tayven did not lift his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Khaster. ‘Nor I.’

  Tayven looked up then, and for a moment seemed like poor, drowned Ellony. Khaster saw the same confusion he used to see in his sister’s face, the total bewilderment with what was, rather than what should be. But even in that expression, there was an untouched core of courage and generosity. Tayven was so young, and the strength that shone from him was more pathetic than total vulnerability, because he’d had to learn it, breathe it, sleep it.

  ‘Come here,’ Khaster said, lifting an arm that felt like the limb of a golem, solid and heavy.

  Tayven frowned, half smiled. ‘What?’

  ‘Come here. Hold me. I need it.’

  ‘Khaster, you’re drunk, very very drunk. And you’re addled by harm. Think about what you’re saying.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What are we but despairing souls trapped in lumps of flesh? I need to feel warmth.’

  Tayven lay down beside him. Khaster hugged him close. The world felt so big around them, too overwhelming. We are small, Khaster thought, inconsequential, unnoticed by gods. He was exhausted, but he wanted to talk. He told Tayven about Caradore, about his family, his home, Norgance, about Pharinet and Valraven, how they used to be. He talked about himself. Tayven listened without commenting, his head resting on Khaster’s chest, his fingers gently stroking it. Eventually, Khaster ran out of things to say. He felt he’d emptied his mind. ‘Your touch is healing,’ he said. ‘My heart beats peacefully. I can’t feel any pain.’

  ‘That is probably because of the harm you’ve had,’ Tayven said.

  ‘No,’ said Khaster. ‘I know what it is. An old feeling.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve felt like this before. Drained, yet cleansed. I know. It was my wedding night. When I told Pharinet about her brother, what he was becoming here.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Tayven. ‘I can feel your heart. It’s beginning to beat fast again.’

  Khaster lifted Tayven’s head with one hand, stroked his thumb along the jaw. ‘Why didn’t I notice you?’

  Tayven pulled away, sat up. ‘Khaster, be careful. Remember why you didn’t notice me, exactly why.’

  ‘It seems ridiculous now.’

  ‘You will regret this.’

  ‘I won’t. Would you?’

  Tayven laughed. ‘Me? Why do you think I noticed you so much? This is a dream come true for me, but then it isn’t at all. I can’t change you.’

  ‘Maybec’

  ‘No! Listen to yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care. Kiss me. I want to find out how it feels.’ How was it possible to own such power? Khaster knew Tayven wanted him, so he couldn’t refuse. Was this any better than what Bayard had done earlier? He couldn’t tell. He just wanted to taste those lips. And then they were there against his, yellow hair hanging over his face. He was sinking down into a comfortable nest of dark feathers, where the blackness closed over him.

  Khaster’s valet came in late the following morning. It was a rest day, so he was used to letting his master sleep longer than usual. Khaster was awoken by the man’s embarrassed ‘excuse me’ and the swift closing of the door. He half rose, about to speak, but a vice of pain tightened around his head and he had to lie down again. For a moment, he lay with one hand pressed against his eyes, and then recollection stole like treacle through his mind. He looked to the side, saw a naked shoulder above the sheet, the lush spill of bright hair. For a while, he stared at this sight, totally numb. Then he poked the boy roughly, said, ‘Wake up.’

  Tayven rolled over, stretching, smiling like the sun, like a cat.

  Khaster tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He could taste ashes and sickness. Tayven slithered towards him, embraced him, kissed him. Khaster was so stunned by this he could barely react, but then managed to push the boy away. This did not appear to discomfort Tayven, nor warn him of what was to come. ‘You feel terrible, don’t you?’ he said. ‘That is the Witch’s legacy.’

  Khaster continued to stare for a few moments, then said, ‘Tayven, what happened last night?’

  Tayven sat up. ‘The Witch is a kind benefactress, it seems. Do you remember nothing?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘You were a mess. You were sick on the stairs.’

  ‘After that,’ Khaster said carefully. ‘Did wec?’

  ‘Did we what?’

  ‘You know what.’ Khaster sat up quickly, his head reeling. ‘By Madragore, I can’t believe this.’ He punched the bed.

  Tayven regarded him warily. ‘You’ve done nothing you should be worried about.’

  ‘Why are you in my bed? Why are you naked? Why am I, for that matter?’

  Tayven frowned. ‘You passed out. I undressed you, and stayed because I thought you might throw up in your sleep and suffocate.’

  ‘You just kissed me.’

  Tayven shrugged. ‘Last night you did not mind.’

  ‘You said nothing happened!’ Khaster was aware his voice was becoming hysterical. His valet would hear him.

  ‘It was a kiss, nothing more. Khasterc’

  Khaster turned away from the expression on Tayven’s face. He looked too much like Ellony again, and it was as if someone had slapped him hard about the head. ‘Did you initiate it? You must tell me. What did you do?’

  ‘I would not have done anything. I respect you. It was you. Before you went to sleep. We kissed.’

  Khaster shook his head. ‘This mustn’t happen again. Never. That’s the last time I drink like that.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then Tayven said, ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘No.’ Khaster rubbed his face. ‘It’s my fault. I was out of my mind.’ But it wasn’t true. He was angry. A boy shouldn’t look like that, feel
like that. It was wrong, horribly wrong. ‘You’d better go,’ he said.

  Tayven hesitated. ‘Khaster, don’t punish yourself. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. You needed comfort, that’s all. It says nothing about who you are. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Let’s just say Magrastian comfort differs greatly from Caradorean comfort,’ Khaster said. ‘I don’t want the taint of Magrast to touch me.’ He hated the prim tone to his voice, but he hated what he had done more. How he’d reviled Valraven for succumbing to Magravandian practices, now he was no better himself. People would laugh about this. And Bayard would exact revenge. Almorante, too, might not be pleased. This was his boy, after all. The mess was unbelievable, yet Tayven just sat there and told him he had nothing to worry about.

  Tayven slid out from beneath the covers to reveal his sinuous pale body. Khaster looked away.

  ‘Thank you for what you did for me,’ Tayven said, pulling on his clothes. ‘I’ll not forget.’

  Khaster could no longer speak. He kept his back turned until the sounds had finished and someone walked to the door. He knew Tayven waited, for at least a goodbye. The boy had some pride. He did not speak himself.

  The door closed. Khaster slumped back on the bed. He wanted to writhe in shame, scrub his body with salt. How could he have done that, kissed a boy? Was he insane? No matter how drunk he was, or how lovely the boy. He’d prided himself on being aloof from Magravandian customs. He would not let them seduce him. And yet they had. One by one. The drink to start with, then the more insidious Red Witch. He had friends among people he’d once scorned. And now this. He hadn’t wanted to come here. He’d wanted to stay at home and tend his father’s estates. He’d wanted to be Pharinet’s husband, and her a faithful wife. He’d wanted children, running free in the wild, heady air of Caradore. He wasn’t a soldier, certainly not an officer. He simply didn’t care enough about the emperor’s ambitions. Why should he? He was Caradorean, son of a conquered race. He was little more than a slave. Not like Val. Val had surrendered himself entirely to Magravandias, in body and soul. He was no longer the boy with whom Khaster had explored the forests above Norgance. He was the Dragon Lord, part of the emperor’s inner circle, where Khaster would never be invited. Almorante was a powerful man, yes, but there were others far more powerful. Prince Gastern, the heir to the throne, the emperor’s vizier, his mage-priests, his generals. Khaster didn’t want to think about making allies, yet part of him knew he should. What did it matter? His life, as he could see it, was doomed to be one he didn’t want to live. He would never be free, never truly be home. Caradore was lost to him, ruined, because of what had happened there. He would be forever lonely. He could not imagine finding a wife in Magrast, not one of those aloof, shrouded women, or the alternative, a brazen, shrill whore. But he needed a woman desperately. He needed to reassert himself, cast off the taint that had touched him.