Hallowed Bond (Chronicles of Ylandre Book 2)

Hallowed Bond

Chronicles of Ylandre Book Two

Eressë

Published 2010

ISBN 978-1-59578-735-4

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509

Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2010, Eressë. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books

http://LSbooks.com

Email:

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Editor

Devin Govaere

Cover Artist

Anne Cain

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Blurb

Time and circumstances may force true lovers apart but the tie that binds them can
never be fully severed.

When Dylen Teris and Riodan Leyhar meet one harsh winter in the dual-gendered realm of Ylandre, neither expects the encounter to lead to a fast friendship and abiding love. For a chasm of vastly dissimilar social stations lies between them, and not all Deira could imagine, let alone accept, such a relationship.

Circumstances eventually separate them for what seems forever only to conspire to bring them together once more in the most unlikely of places—at the court of Rohyr Essendri, Ylandre’s powerful monarch. Complicating their situation is the attraction that still lingers between them, waiting to flare once more into love. But when one is

unwilling to venture his heart again or wholly forgive its breaker, it may take a king’s interference to reunite these star-crossed lovers for good.

*

There is a glossary after the last page of the story.

Prologue

Ylandre, in the 2953rd year of the Common Age

“Sweet Veres, what a beauty!”

“Who sired him? Do tell us!”

“Yes, tell us! How did so gorgeous a Deir manage to elude our notice?”

Hirlen Teris grinned in amusement as his friends oohed and aahed over his infant son. With his thick raven locks and limpid earth green eyes, their irises delicately rimmed with dark grey, three-month-old Dylen was indeed a beauteous child.

“Thank you. He is lovely, isn’t he?” Hirlen said. “But as to his sire, that’s for me alone to know.”

Eldran looked at him in surprise. “Why the secrecy? It’s not as if we blackmail folk for a living!”

Hirlen laughed. “Nay, I am not suggesting that. But the Deir in question is, shall we say, in a sensitive position. It wouldn’t do if his indiscretion were to become public knowledge.”

“Ah, is it someone high in government?” Liave guessed.

“You might say that.”

“Then we shall badger you no more,” Miqar decided. “Though if you ever choose to share your secret with us, you know our lips will be forever sealed.”

Again Hirlen laughed. Miqar spoke the truth. The
hethare
would not have lasted for as long as they had if any of their number were known to tell tales. After all, one of the reasons well-born Deira patronized the famous fraternity of companions—whose services, convivial or carnal, could be had for the highest of prices—was that they could count on the
hethare’
s utmost discretion.

After his friends left, Hirlen settled himself comfortably by the window with his child, leaving his faithful attendant Tarqin to unpack his belongings. He observed the activity on the street below—the comings and goings of the city folk as they went about their business. How he had missed the hustle and bustle of the capital of Ylandre.

He had retired to a remote village in the fief of Ilmaren to birth his son. That in itself was not unusual.
Hethare
routinely had their children away from wherever their sires resided. Dissimulation was an effective way of ensuring that the products of their liaisons were never traced back to the Deira who had begotten them. It was the best protection for patrons whose reputations, for whatever reasons, would suffer severely were it known they had sired children on partners other than their mates or concubines.

What was uncommon was the timing and length of Hirlen’s seclusion. Two months before birthing was exceptionally early and three months after was a long time for a
hethar
not to practice his profession. But if the object was to cover every track that might connect a prominent Deir to his by-blow’s birth, some might even deem Hirlen’s departure too late and his sojourn overly short.

Hirlen looked at his son with pride. Liave was right. Dylen’s sire was a gorgeous creature indeed and had passed his beauty to his child in full. Not that Hirlen was plain of face—one who depended as much on his physical attractions as on his social skills and sexual talents had to be much more than pleasant-featured. But he could not compare with the Deir who had acquired his exclusive services for several months despite the exorbitant amount that exclusivity cost him. Not in handsomeness or stature or brawn.

He hoped all was well with his erstwhile patron. They had ended their affair right after the Deir’s last visit. The night Dylen was conceived.

Hirlen sighed. The circumstances had been less than ideal. It was not the way he had envisioned the conception of his first and likely only son. Verily, he should have put up more of a struggle when he realized what his patron wanted of him. But he’d never imagined the latter would proceed even when told his desire was not permissible. By the time Hirlen resisted in earnest, his lover’s alcohol-driven lust had overcome all prudence and principle. Coupled with his greater strength, he had subdued Hirlen and taken what he wanted.

Hirlen firmly set the sordid memory aside. No matter, it was in the past. And Dylen more than made up for that one unfortunate episode in what had been a pleasant and mutually beneficial liaison.

The bells of Rikara begin to toll. The two Deira glanced at each other wonderingly.

That indicated something of great import had occurred.

“Tarqin, find out what has happened,” Hirlen said.

“Yes, Teris-
tyar
.”

The servant hurried out. Several minutes passed before he came back, his face flushed with excitement.

“The Ardis has conceived!” he exclaimed. “We shall finally have a crown prince!”

Hirlen shook his head. “So soon. Poor Dyrael. Keldon certainly wasted no time getting him with child.”

“Well, the Ardan was under pressure to sire an heir soonest, wasn’t he?” Tarqin pointed out.

The
hethar
nodded. “Especially after he refused to name his brother his successor.

But they have only been wed a few months, and Dyrael reached breeding age just before the turn of the year. Precious little time to enjoy life before having duty thrust upon him.”

Tarqin shrugged. “The wages of being born into the Royal House. And they say Keldon loves him to distraction so he won’t be lacking in that at least.”

“I know, I know. Still, duty is duty even if softened by the attentions of a loving spouse.” Hirlen glanced at his infant son and smiled. “Look at me talk. For that reason as well must I keep my little one’s sire ignorant of his birth.”

“Will you tell Dylen the truth one day?” Tarqin asked.

Hirlen nodded. “It’s his right to know. But only when he is old enough to accept that it must remain our secret.”

Dylen chose that moment to wet his diaper. Hirlen rose to his feet and carried his fretting son to the bed.

Chapter One

Unlooked-For

Rikara, in the 2986th year of the Common Age

It was always coldest in the wee hours of the night. This was especially true at the height of a northern Ylandrin winter. Dylen Teris drew his cloak closer around his tall frame as he made his way down the narrow street to his house on the outskirts of the Quarter. As he did, his hand passed over the left breast of his tunic. He briefly patted it, pleased with the thick wad of banknotes secreted in the hidden pocket sewn into the lining of the tunic.

The frosty weather did not discourage patrons from visiting the Seralye. If anything, more Deira were drawn to the establishment and the services it offered during this season. After all, what could drive away the cold more effectively than lively conversation before a roaring fire with good wine or fine ale to loosen the tongue? And for those with deeper purses, a torrid tryst with a skilled
hethar
was more than enough to banish any remnants of the winter chill and fortify the spirit for the short trip home.

Perhaps to an empty bed or a lukewarm partner in a frigid one.

With the cold fiercer than usual, the sight of the small porch of his townhouse was a welcome sight especially with the oil lamp over the front door bravely flickering in the gloom. He quickened his pace, eager for the warmth of his home. It was fortunate that he grabbed hold of the balustrade as he hurried up the steps else he might have pitched forward on his face when he tripped over an unexpected obstacle.

Dylen glared down at what looked like a large bundle of clothing in the dim light.

Who in
heyas
left their trash at his doorstep
, he thought in irritation. A faint movement caught his eye. He bent to take a closer look.

“Holy Veres!” he softly exclaimed and turned the bundle over. He stared into a face whitened by the cold and gleaming hair flecked with ice crystals.

A hasty sweep of the unconscious Deir’s attire told him this was no homeless beggar who had sought shelter for the night. His crushed velvet tunic was of a style the most expensive clothiers alone provided, and his cloak was of finest wool. And only the best shoemakers fashioned boots of such quality and fashion. But warm as the Deir’s garments were, they were not equal to the freezing weather.

Dylen hurriedly unlocked the door then returned to the Deir and lifted him in his arms—despite being a dead weight, the Deir was not all that heavy. Dylen carried him into the foyer and kicked the door shut behind him. The tread of feet on the stairs followed the door’s closing.

Tarqin’s eyes widened when he descried Dylen standing in the foyer with an insensate stranger in his arms. The elderly servant hastened forward.

“Who in Aisen—?” he started to say.

Dylen shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But we have to warm him up quickly. He’s all but frozen stiff.”

Tarqin nodded and turned to hurry back up the stairs. “I’ll draw a hot bath!” he said over his shoulder.

“And tell
Adda
we have a guest!” Dylen called after him, carefully mounting the steps to the second story.

Dylen bore the Deir to his bedchamber and laid him on his bed. He stripped him swiftly, alarmed by the iciness of his hands and the pallor of his skin. He frowned when he noticed a fresh welt on his temple and wondered if it had aught to do with the Deir winding up unconscious on his front steps. Dylen also realized that the other was younger than he’d originally thought. Close to his own thirty-three years, he guessed. The earring at his left ear—pearlescent milkstone set in ley-silver—confirmed his assumption that the latter hailed either from the lesser aristocracy or the landed gentry.

He carried the Deir into the bathing chamber where Tarqin had filled the tub with warm water. Dylen eased his charge in, careful to keep his head above the water.

The door opened, and Hirlen Teris entered the room. He took in the stranger’s appearance and instructed Tarqin to reheat the soup from dinner. He knelt beside his son and placed his hand on the Deir’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Weak but steady,” he murmured. “Where did you find him?”

“I stumbled over him,” Dylen replied. “Literally. He was huddled on the front steps.

Adda
, he must be well-born. Look at his earring.”

Hirlen nodded, examining the Deir’s right hand. Palm and fingers were only slightly calloused. “I wonder what circumstances drove him into the cold?”