The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) (54 page)

Theron had told no one of the dreams. He suddenly wanted to spill everything to this calm, familiar figure. Terence was never shocked. Terence was competent. He would find a way, some way to relieve him of his burden, as he found ways to remove a grease stain from a jacket. He said, “Terence, I need a wizard.”

His servant smiled at the joke. When Theron did not smile back, he said, “A wizard, sir?”

“Yes.”

“What . . . sort of wizard, sir?”

Theron stared at him. “Get out,” he shouted.

The manservant looked as if he would say something—but then, without a word, he bowed and closed the door behind him. In a fever of rage and despair, Theron pulled clothes from a chest and dressed himself and left the house.

DAY AFTER DAY, BASIL SANK DEEPER INTO HIS WORK. Martindale’s history of the wizards, Karleigh’s memoirs, Arioso’s daybooks, the long lists of wizards and the pedigrees of the kings, the ballads and the legends and the festivals, the notes and fragments his students had found for him in the Archives: these were his whole world. And the Book, always the Book, tempting him with small spells of finding and persuasion to aid him in his task. Nothing else existed. Enemies, friends, false lover, all were as the wax that puddled and hardened at the base of his candlestick: the residue of flames long dark and cold. He ate only what the scruffy boy, unasked, brought him from the cookshop once a day, and slept only when the pen fell from his cramping hand and his heavy eyes pulled his head down onto the papers in front of him.

He hated sleeping. Sleep wasted time. Sleep brought dreams as sharp and bright as the stained glass in the Great Hall, dreams of rushing through the streets of University, late for a lesson, tossing his long hair back from his face, tugging his tunic straight, bending his head for his magister’s salute, learning to bring fire from a stone.

“Guidry was the last to speak the Old Tongue,” his magister said, his sorrowful eyes fixed on the green flame licking out of a hunk of turquoise. “He didn’t want anyone to know all he knew. And now we know so little, with more lost every year. I wonder if he knows, Guidry the Deathless, wherever he is sleeping. I wonder if he cares?”

I care
, Basil heard a voice whisper as he woke from that dream, and immediately went to drown the memory in clean water. But the pitcher was empty, the chamberpot full, the hearth cold, and the air colder still from the thin spring rain. Cursing, Basil huddled on a coat and gown, excavated a few coins from various caches, and left his room for the first time in days.

Some little thread of common sense told him that he was filthy and hungry and cold to the bone, that the Governors would judge against him unheard if they saw him in this state. So he went to the baths, and then to a quiet tavern he’d never visited before, which turned out to serve a very decent roast of mutton and young salad. On the way home, he stopped by the wood-monger’s and ordered a bushel to be delivered to Minchin Street. Feeling more himself than he had since the night of his quarrel with Theron, he thought as he crossed Kingsway to Minchin, Of course it wasn’t a spell. If there was magic once, there isn’t any longer, and besides, I have no training. He’s just tired of me, and I’m well rid of him.

At the street door, Basil smiled at the scruffy boy, who smiled nervously back and said he was sorry, but the gentleman wouldn’t have it that the master weren’t seeing no visitors, and if Doctor St Cloud wanted, he’d go for the Watch, for he didn’t think anything short of that would discourage him. Justis, St Cloud thought ruefully, gave the boy a copper, and thanked him for his many kindnesses. The boy blushed and grinned, took the copper and said he didn’t mind. Basil ruffled his greasy hair and mounted the stairs with a light step, ready to tease Justis for being a nursemaid.

But it wasn’t Justis sitting outside his door. It was Theron, his knees drawn up, his head down, his hair like a fine silk shawl draped over all.

The sight of him worked on Basil like a blow. He gasped and clutched the railing to keep from falling, to keep from running forward and taking Theron into his arms or striking him across the impossibly beautiful face he raised from his knees.

Theron was thinner than he had been, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes huge and liquid under bruised lids. He was dressed in brown and fawn, with a gold drop in his ear and a lovelock braided into his hair, and he looked haunted, hunted, hungry as a stag before the snow releases the grass in springtime. The air was thick with the smell of musk.

Basil worked his mouth, trying to find something to say. “Get up,” he managed at last. “You’re in the way.”

Obediently, Theron scrambled to his feet, hesitating with his hands braced against the floor as if he wasn’t sure whether he could stand upright. Basil thought he saw horns springing in the hollows of his temples where Basil had once kissed him. Then Theron straightened and moved politely aside, allowing Basil to come up the last steps, unlock the door, and open it.

“You may as well come in,” Basil snapped. “I’m not inclined to quarrel with you on the public stair.”

Theron bowed his head, stepped delicately over the threshold, and halted, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the air. He snorted, backed up a step.

Basil growled with impatience. “Come
in,
damn it! And close the door. I’m not your servant.”

White was showing all around the greenish pupils, and the fine body was trembling in its fine clothes, but Theron closed the door as he’d been told. Then he paced forward through the wadded paper and spoiled pens and books, knelt at Basil’s feet, and leaned his head against Basil’s leg.

By this time, Basil was trembling as hard as Theron was. Triumph, jealousy, lust, and rage shook him as a bear shakes a dog in its jaws. He felt himself swell, answering the need straining at Theron’s tight fawn breeches. He laid his hand lightly on Theron’s head, burrowed his fingers into the silky hair, and pulled his head back and away to look into his startled face.

“You mistake your place, my lord. This is not the Hill, nor am I a noble maiden. I will bring you no dowry, no land, no sons.” Deliberately, he tapped Theron gently between the legs with his booted foot. “Take this to her, my lord. It is none of mine.”

Theron moaned and reached out to stroke Basil’s thighs. Basil caught his groping hands and thrust him roughly backward. A part of him exulted in the success of his spell-casting. Theron was indeed transformed. In the old days, in the North, it had been a complete transformation: bone, sinew, and skin.

“I do not lie with beasts,” Basil said. “Go from me until your time is accomplished and your crown is won. You must come to yourself before you come to me.” Then Basil straightened, settled his weight into his feet, planted deep in the wooden floor, raised his arms, took the wind into his hands, and blew the Little King to his feet and toward the wild, where he must run until he tamed the beast within himself.

WHEN HE KNEW WHERE HE WAS AGAIN, THERON was standing on the embankment over the river. The University was behind him, and the ancient Council buildings. The smell of the river was wild. The green-brown water rushed past below him, on its way to the harbor mouth, where it released the detritus of the city, and the last of its memories of the great upcountry. He thought for a moment of leaping into the flood—not so much thought as felt his body poised for flight, to join the glory of that passionate, anonymous flow. But what he desired was more earthy, less exalted.

Theron remembered a place he knew, where a man could be had for the price of a drink, and headed down the river to the Apricot.

The Apricot had a low, narrow doorway off a street of tailors and leather-fitters, where men worked only until the light began to fade. In the glooming dusk, after they’d gone home, the tavern began to gather its custom. Theron paused in the doorway, his fingers still clenched on the solid wood of the door. The smell of all the men inside, the heat of them, made him giddy. They were waiting for him. But the noise, the constant motion in the close room, meant danger. He breathed deeply, filling his head with the scent, and plunged inside.

As quickly as he could, Theron made his way to the long counter where drinks were dispensed. He downed one of the small fierce glasses of clear apricot brandy the place was famous for, and then another. Around him, men were taking each other’s measure. The musk of their desire was heavy on the air, rising with the fumes of the liquor: brandy and sex and sweat and old fruit in the sun.

He felt a hand on his leg. A man nearly as tall as he was, with a soft ginger beard, his breath cloves and apricot as he said, “Another drink, scholar?”

Theron spun him around, locking his arm behind his back. “Easy, sweetheart,” the man gasped. “You do understand what we’re here for, don’t you? Do you know what this place is?”

Theron did not speak. He stroked the man’s face, then forced him to his knees, pressing him farther down, until his head was touching the floor. He put his foot on the man’s body. Then he turned away.

“You’re a nasty piece of work,” said a man in red. “I thought students were supposed to be mild. What are you studying, dear? Venery?”

He was in too close; Theron shoved him back, but the man closed in again, trying to bring his body’s heat, the scent of his skin and his hair within Theron’s bounds. It was intolerable. Theron shoved him harder. The man fell back, bouncing against another group of customers, who turned with irritated growls.

One of them took the man’s arm: “What is it, Fred? This kid giving you trouble?”

Fred shrugged. “I guess he doesn’t fancy me.”

“You want Big Lou to throw him out?”

But Big Lou had found Theron for himself. Lou moved slowly, as though his bulk made him swim through air like deep water. But it was not his size that held him back; he was stalking, approaching the young student carefully, not to startle him. The Apricot gave Lou plenty of experience with men who were not as stable as they might be.

Lou held out his hand. It was huge as a ham, and empty. “Evening,” Lou said. “Everything here to your satisfaction?”

“Everything,” Theron echoed.

“I wonder,” Lou said, “if you might be looking for those other longhair boys—the ones with the oak leaves in their hats?”

“Oak leaves?”

“Because I chucked them out, an hour or so back. We don’t like seditious talk here—though I understand the brandy can drive a man to extremes.”

“I am not here to talk.” Theron handed him a silver coin: a man’s wages for a week.

Lou considered it, and took it. “Is that another brandy for you, sir?”

Theron felt the drink burn along his arms, down his legs, right into his fingertips.

A man came up beside him, tall and swaggering. “Kiss me,” the man said, and Theron wrestled him to the ground—a good fight, muscle against muscle, sinew against sinew, enough to rouse him, but not enough to satisfy. He felt the other men’s interest, their breathing, their fury and admiration; he would stand against them all, and make them know their master, and bow to do him homage.

A circle had formed, like a clearing in the forest, with Theron at its center. A man, very drunk, rushed at him headfirst. Theron fought the urge to lower his own head and lock horns with him; instead he ducked his shoulder and took the blow there, sending the drunk reeling out of the circle. Another man danced in like a cat, sinuously prowling the edges of Theron’s space, stalking closer and closer. Theron moved his hands until they caressed the man’s body, a long and luxurious
pas de deux
, intimate and stimulating, teasing and inaccessible, that ended finally with the man curled up at his feet. Theron did not spurn him, but let him lie, and turned to face his next challenger.

There was betting going on, and kissing and stroking in corners where men went to hold each other and watch the fight. Theron threw down man after man, and cast them out. His desire grew, and he was lighter of heart than he had been in weeks.

When his true opponent came, Theron was ready for him. His hands locked on firm muscles, a solid strength that could stand against his. They stood perfectly balanced, and Theron trembled with the effort. The man was panting, sweating with desire—and that was what undid him. On a single breath he weakened, and in that breath Theron took him down, forced the man to his knees, and held him there for all to see.

He heard cheering as he took his prize.

THERON AWOKE ON A DIRTY MATTRESS WITH BITE MARKS on his shoulders and no money in his pockets, in a house he would never find again. He made his way out into the morning and home to Riverside, where he left his crumpled clothes by the bed and slept until afternoon.

Then he called Terence to bathe and shave him, and bring him chocolate and bread and butter and preserves and sweet rolls and an omelet and fruit and more chocolate. He apologized sweetly for his temper of yesterday, and said he was much better. He truly was. He felt light, his head clear, even his body free of its terrible sluggish weight of yearning. He dressed in tawny velvet and went to call on his betrothed.

The Randalls were glad to see him. Genevieve said he looked pale, then blushed at her familiarity. Lady Randall suggested that the young people walk in the garden together. Genevieve looked mildly alarmed, but Theron smiled encouragingly, and stood aside to let her pass without taking her hand.

In the garden, though, when they stopped beside a blooming cherry tree, she looked up at him and told him that the golden necklace he’d sent was the most wonderful gift she’d ever received, and they were going to alter her wedding gown so she could wear it. He looked down into the world of her sparkling eyes, the rosy flush of her parted lips, and knew she wanted him to kiss her. But he was afraid to break the fragile peace he’d earned himself last night.