The Coquette and the Thane

PART II | Chapter XVIII

2:18 | Witchcraft and Kitten Boys

When Zyric woke, there was an instant between sleep and wakefulness, as usual, where it had yet to register that he was anywhere but his own bed, safe in the colony of Ire with nothing but open land stretching for thousands of paces to either side of the protecting walls surrounding him.  A moment of displaced confusion followed it as his new surroundings made themselves evident, and a sinking, disgruntled sense of resigned resentment after that, when all the details of his current reality made their way back to his sleep-addled mind. 

Only after the completion of this process, blinking to the side with a frown at the uninterrupted darkness of his cell wall, did it occur to him to wonder what had woken him.  It couldn’t be morning yet—could it?

His captors fed him well enough, but kept him mostly behind bars and blindfolded him when they moved him, so he’d lost track of time some while back, and all he knew for certain of his location was that he was no longer on a ship.  They’d docked and moved him ashore as soon as they did, relocating him to a new cell immediately.  The space was cool, windless, smelt of the underground and mold, and never brightened with anything but artificial lights—fire or magic, he’d seen both—and he reasoned with himself in the hours he spent awake that he oughtn’t to complain.  He was still alive, after all. 

But he missed the sun.

Whatever had woken him though wasn’t the kid that came around come morning to deliver his breakfast, and Zyric frowned, standing from his cot and scanning the empty, barely lit spaces of his prison with an attentive eye for anything out of the ordinary even as he ran his hands up his forearms to warm them, stilling a chill. 

Fortunately—or not—he didn’t have to wait long.

Seconds into his search, a speck of otherwise empty air shimmered with a brief, ethereal glow, a luminous, white-blue ribbon of light painted a circle on the floor, and he took an instinctive step back.  Unfortunately, before his mind even finished absorbing the obscurity of the situation, the light faded, and he grunted under the weight of a full body hitting his. 

Without thought, Zyric spun, his left hand sweeping around to snatch up a vulnerable wrist in a quick vice, pinning it fast behind the intruder’s back and twisting it to just enough of an angle to get a solid lock on his elbow joint, and his right palm muzzling the immediately subsequent outcry. 

It took moments, with a quivering body trapped to his chest, a frantic pulse thundering under his fingertips, and muted, dying whimpers burying themselves in his palm, for it to dawn on Zyric that the owner of the dark hair and long, pale throat swallowing thickly below him was clearly at least as startled and alarmed as he was.  And, given the body’s size and trembling state, probably not much of a threat.

Slowly, puzzlement gradually taking the place of reactionary fear, Zyric relaxed the degree of the twist on the invader’s wrist until it would no longer be painful—also reducing the chances of accidentally breaking whoever-it-was’s arm in the process—and took the time to inspect the…

…girl?

No, he corrected almost as quickly as he thought it.  Not a girl, but a slim, young boy—around his age, actually, if he had to guess—with skin only a shade darker than moonlight and uncalloused, richman’s hands.  His clothes, too, bore the look of the wealthy, and by this point, his noisemaking had died to quick, shallow breathing. 

“Who…” Zyric started, shaking his head with a deepening frown, “…are you?”

It seemed to take a moment for the boy to realize that this was directed at him, at which point dark lashes flit up, and deep, oddly familiar sea green eyes turned on him.  It took another moment, an indignant huff, and a darkening glower from his temporary captive before Zyric realized he had yet to lower his hand.

“Oh, right,” he blurted.  “Sorry…are you…you’re not going to scream, are you?” he asked, still tentative.  And then, because he somehow felt it needed to be said, he added, “I won’t hurt you, I promise…”

The boy’s eyebrows lifted together a fraction, betraying honest surprise, but his body relaxed, too, so Zyric took it as a positive sign and warily let his hand drop away.  For several long seconds, green eyes, dark in the shadows, drew curious, seeking paths over his face.

Finally, after a jerky, confused shake of the head, the boy repeated, “Who are…you?  Where’s…”  For the first time, his eyes started to take in his surroundings, darting about the ‘room’ and widening progressively as he did.  “What…where am I?  What is this place?  Why-”

“Hey, now wait a second…” Zyric jumped in, a touch defensive—he had been the one invaded upon, after all—but, figuring the boy didn’t seem dangerous, he let go of his wrist, allowing him to step forward freely, “…you were the one who appeared out of nowhere from the funny…” He waved his finger in a shapeless, accusing pattern at the spot where the other boy had appeared from, “…white-blue glowy…circle…thing,” he pointed out.  “I think I deserve at least a little explanation for-”

“You were the one who tried to kill me when I arrived!” the noble boy burst back, at least as flabbergasted as himself and turning to face him when he said it.  “You…you…” His affronted tone ebbed, his attention taking in Zyric anew.  “You’re…your…skin, it’s…”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Zyric grumped—what did this kid think he was, an amateur?  A bit on the dramatic side, too, to say the least.  It wasn’t as if he had broken his arm.  “That was all self-defense-”

“Oh, my mistake, since I clearly attacked you-”

“-and trust me,” Zyric assured, rolling on over him, “…if I was trying, you’d already be long dead anyhow…”  If the boy looked skeptical, Zyric ignored it.  “And…I would say I did have a bit of a reason to be on the startled side, I think…seeing as…you know, I was sleeping…and alone…in a locked cell…and then…you…how are you here?”

“I-”

At the top of the stairwell that lead down to Zyric’s level, something metallic clacked loudly, and both he and his new cellmate froze, stock still as voices came down to them in bits of intelligible fragments. 

“…swear I heard something…”

“…just the kid dreaming again, don’t bother…”

“…I’ll only be a moment…”

More metal clinked, hinges creaked, and the entry door groaned.  Zyric’s heart rate must have doubled in a half second.

‘Shit, shit, shit…’ his mind silently raced, blindly seeking options—which weren’t, unfortunately, forthcoming.  How the hell was he supposed to deal with this?  “They can’t see you!” he hissed desperately.  “If they do, they’ll-”

“Get on the bed,” the noble boy ordered, his tone a flat, impersonal whisper, his eyes on the stairs, and Zyric wasted at least three seconds impersonating a fish out of water.

“Get on—?  But they’ll see y-”

“Get,” the boy insisted more stubbornly, “on…the bed…now.” 

Practiced at this, he was, Zyric observed with a glower.  Good at giving orders.  Thought he could boss just anyone around, did he?  Well- 

“Hurry!” the boy snapped, as quietly as could be managed.  “Pretend you’re asleep,” he added, and Zyric, as much to his own surprise as anyone else’s, found himself stepping back, obeying.

“I could hide you under the-”

“Please have the sense to close your mouth…” the other nearly begged, and Zyric cooperatively did just that, though piqued and thoroughly confused. 

None of it added up.  Sure, it was dark, but it wasn’t that dark.  The boy couldn’t possibly hope to disappear into thin air.  And yet, with no other viable options, Zyric let him have his way, slipping under the covers just in time for booted feet to step into view, and he watched through a thin slit in nearly closed eyes as the guard came down.

Any second now.  Any second now, he’d see him…

Zyric waited with baited breath, a guilty knot curling in his stomach along with a spike of irritation.  If the boy had just let him hide him-

But, to his bald amazement, the guard’s eyes looked and moved on, lingered on his own ‘sleeping’ form, and then, with nothing but a grumbled snort, he left, muttering incomprehensibly to himself the whole way back up.  Zyric stared openly, agape.  Only after the door creaked back shut and the deadbolt clacked back into place did he jerk upwards again, rounding on his companion.

“He looked straight at you,” he burst out in a baffled hiss.  “I watched him!  How in the stars’ names did he not see y-”

“Think,” the noble boy advised quietly, back to his flat, impersonal speech patterns if slightly more strained than before, and he clutched the wall behind him, his eyes shut, looking all but exhausted—though why, Zyric couldn’t imagine, “…and then ask again, in a moment, if you are truly that thick.”

“Y…but…he…”  ‘Alright,’ Zyric reasoned, ‘think this out.  Surely, there’s a perfectly sane, logical explanation for all this.  Weird magic circle + boy appears out of nowhere + guard stares at boy without seeing him = ?’ “You’re a…witch?” Zyric ventured, and his cellmate’s eyes snapped back open, and where had he seen that color before? 

Come to think of it, his face looked oddly familiar, too…

“No, I—it’s not…erm…well…” The boy shivered, and Zyric stood, taking an instinctive step forward.  The kid looked ready to collapse at any second.  “I…suppose that’s…close enough,” he conceded.

“Are you alright?” Zyric asked, taking another step closer, wary as if encroaching on a wounded animal, but the boy shook his head.

“No,” he answered, startling Zyric despite the fact that it was obviously true, “…I’m not.  I think…I’m going pass out.”

“Y—bu…what?” Zyric blundered, moving in on the boy in earnest.  “No, you…you were fine a moment ago,” he insisted and caught the boy’s sinking elbows. 

“I’ve never used so much magic at once…”

“You really cast a spell on him?”

The boy met his eyes.  “I did…” He shrugged, “…at least…” and his eyes sagged wearily, “…a small one.”  Something must have shown in Zyric’s face, because next, the boy tittered out a ragged laugh, a tired, worn quality defining the sound.  “It really wasn’t anything to get impressed about…”

“I’m…not impressed,” Zyric responded, not even sure if he was convinced.  “Really, that’s…not impressive at all.  I have magical, girly witch boys appear randomly in my sleeping quarters all the time.”  The boy’s eyebrows lifted, gracefully, and—why the hell was that reason enough for Zyric’s cheeks to stage a mini light show without his permission?  Zyric didn’t blush; he wasn’t a girl.  “What’s your name?” he clipped out, determined to change the topic.

“What’s yours?” the boy countered, and Zyric half glowered at him.

“Ladies first,” he insisted, and to his surprise, the boy smiled.

After a moment, he said, “Well?  I’m waiting.”

“I’m-” Zyric immediately jumped in with a defensive tone, but when the noble boy’s lashes dipped and fluttered, sinking and painting dark stains on his cheeks, fresh panic welled up in Zyric’s chest, and he finished, “Zyric.  I’m Zyric.”

“Rhyan,” the boy witch, Rhyan, answered, a touch breathless.  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you…Zyric.”

“Umm…yeah,” Zyric agreed, “…I guess.  You….you too?  No, wait, don’t-” 

But that, unfortunately, was that, and Zyric’s arms filled the following second with the full, dead weight of his newly unconscious companion.  Great.  He huffed, pursing his lips and aiming his irritation at the top of the unwitting boy’s head. 

“Oh, what?” he asked the sleeping body.  “No, don’t mind me, just pass out that’s fine, no problem.  I’ll catch you,” he assured.  “Wait, what’s that?  You need my bed, too?  No, no sure, go ahead…it’s not as if I was using it…”

Silence.

Zyric sighed, and shifted his grip, rearranging the smaller boy to plant his head on his shoulder, dipping to catch behind his back and slip his other arm under his knees before lifting.  Light little thing.  Figured.  Probably never worked a day in his life, and who needed physical strength and endurance training when you could conjure fireballs with your mind?

“Some great, all powerful mage you are,” he grumped to the empty space of his cell.  “Oooooh, oogity boogity, I can make guards look through me without seeing me but can’t stay awake for five minutes afterwards…”  He knelt at the lip of his cot, careful to lay his burden down gently even as he prattled on.  “You even realize how lucky you are I’m not anyone else?  I could have been…fat, or…mean, or…filthy dirty and want you for all kinds of…umm…nasty…things…” 

Watching the peaceful rise and fall of his companion’s chest and sketching his eyes over the effects of the pale glow of his cell on the distinctly soft, delicate angles of Rhyan’s face, Zyric felt a slow warmth rise anew up from his neck and turned away. 

“Well,” he muttered, at length, sitting at the edge of his cot and stubbornly turning his back to the witch boy, “I’m sure someone would find you attractive…you know, if they were into that kind of thing…”  Silence filled the corners of the room, and Zyric shut his eyes, but tiredness remained the furthest of his concerns, too much else jumping in to make chaos in his mind and make sleep impossible.

How as he supposed to hide a body, come morning?  Would the boy be awake again by then?  How had he gotten in here and why?  Accident, surely, but there had to be a reason of some sort, and who was he?

“I hope you realize that when you wake up,” he informed his companion solemnly, “you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Village of Trivett, the Resting Centaur Tavern

By the time Baisyl woke, greeting the ‘obnoxious’ sunlight with a low groan and a muttered curse, he found items pre-prepared for him when he finally ventured to force his eyes open, namely: a glass of water, a piece of fruit, and a bit of cheese and bread as well as another small vial, all set out on the small counter beside his bed.  Baisyl was just starting to wonder whether or not he ought to dare to consume the contents of the vial when the door opened.

Before he managed to snap out anything grouchy about manners, privacy, or the common custom of knocking, Kedean’s irritatingly wakeful voice cut in with, “Oh, good.  You’re up.”

Baisyl gave a half-hearted glower and sank back onto his bed, tugging petulantly at his sheets and wishing he wasn’t.  His head felt like a wasps’ nest, his eyes refused to stay open properly, and the sun was far, far too bright to be natural.

“Drink that vial first,” his guard advised.  “It’ll help with your headache, and when you’re through, try these on.”

So the vial was for drinking, Baisyl mused blearily and forced himself back up onto an elbow, squinting at the unnervingly blue contents in the small glass container.

“What does it taste…” he started to ask, and then the latter half of the sentence sank in.  “Wait, try…?”  About there, something light landed with a soft flop on his bed, and with a single, passing glance, Baisyl identified the items in question.  “Oh, no,” Shoulders sinking, he immediately shook his head, fervent, “…no, absolutely not.  There is no way-”

“You stand out from a hundred paces in the clothes you’ve been wearing,” Kedean pointed out with far too much rationality for Baisyl’s tastes, “and they’re blood soaked, now, besides,” he added. “You look like a woman to anyone who sees you, but you’re walking around in peasant towns, dirty, in the blood-stained clothes of a wealthy noble man.  Do you expect people to turn a blind eye to that?”

Baisyl winced, and reached messily for the vial by his bed.  “But…” Even before it left his lips, his argument sounded pitifully weak, “…I hate dresses…”

“Only one of them is a dress,” Kedean consoled him with his characteristic, unstrained patience, “…and it shouldn’t be half as uncomfortable as the ones you’re used to.  It’s made of soft material and plain.  Nothing complicated.”

“No corsets?” Baisyl entreated hopefully, popping the cork on the vial and knocking back the vile, bitter blue contents with a grimace and a hasty swallow.

“No corsets,” Kedean repeated.  “There are a couple loose tunics and a set of trousers as well.  I thought they’d be less conspicuous, at least, than your current getup.”

“Mm…”  Feeling better already, surprisingly, but for the taste in his mouth, Baisyl sat up.  He downed some of the water, sloshing it about in his mouth to clear the taste before swallowing and slipping his legs over the edge of the mattress, his eyes on the new attire.  “So…” He reached for the nearest piece, the dress, drawing it to him and testing the make of the cloth between his fingers before holding it up to his chest appraisingly, “…how did you know my size?”

“I…” Kedean hesitated a moment, and Baisyl looked up just in time to catch his guard’s eyes darting in a similarly appraising manner over his figure before they flit guiltily away.  “I guessed,” he said, and Baisyl allowed a brief, self-satisfied smirk to linger on his lips, but made no comment.  “I spoke with some of the other travelers here at the inn this morning,” Kedean said abruptly, changing the subject, and Baisyl gave a half interested nod.

“Oh?” He tugged at the base of his undershirt—the only thing he’d worn to bed besides drawers, given their severe lack of supplies—and slipped it off over his head, ignoring the chill that rippled under his skin at the exposure.  “And whatever for?  I was under the impression that you knew the way?”

“I…do…” Kedean said, his voice taking on an unmistakably more rugged quality for reasons Baisyl didn’t even pretend to be unaware of.  When he looked, he found his guard’s eyes stubbornly trained on the far wall.  “I just thought it might be wise…if we could find someone else to travel with, again.”

“Another precautionary measure to stick out less,” Baisyl observed.  “That makes sense.  Did you have any luck?”

“I…unfortunately only found one pair heading in the direction we want,” Kedean admitted, “…a boy and his father, but they didn’t seem too keen to pick up any new cargo, least of all strangers.”

“A boy…” Baisyl fiddled through the provided clothes, debating.  “A child?”

“Not yet twenty summers, but close, I’d guess,” Kedean said, and Baisyl looked up.

“That old?” he said, surprised.  “Well, in that the case…” Baisyl turned back to the dress, leaving the tunics aside.

“You’re wearing that now?” Kedean asked, not surprisingly confused.

“Twenty,” Baisyl said by way of explanation, gathering up the skirt before slipping the bulk of it over his head, “…is a very vulnerable age,” he asserted, and fit his arms through the sleeves, smiling as the cloth slid neatly into place because apparently, Kedean guessed his size impressively well.  Baisyl put his fingers to work on a set of laces at the bodice.  “I simply thought, given the circumstances, I might have another talk with them…a cause is not lost until you’ve exhausted all your resources, after all.”

“Baisyl-” The disapproval in Kedean’s voice was evident.

“Come here a moment,” Baisyl ordered, ignoring the tone entirely and pulling his hair around to his front, over one shoulder.  “Help me with the back.”

He might have imagined Kedean’s resigned sigh, but he didn’t think so, and made a valiant effort not to draw a breath as Kedean stepped up behind him, but failed with flying colors, heat creeping like a slow tide up his neck and to his cheeks instead and his back straightening with subtle tension in an effort to keep his composure.  Fortunately, Kedean didn’t seem to notice the change in posture, so Baisyl bore his body’s unwelcome reactions their close proximity in collected silence.

“You drank that potion quickly,” Kedean observed, obviously small talk, his hands moving to the spoken-of laces, and Baisyl wondered if all female bodies were this sensitive to a man’s presence.

Aloud, he said, “I trust by now that you won’t poison me…and that if you do, you likely have good enough reason-”

“Baisyl-”

“It helped tremendously,” Baisyl cut off whatever his guard intended to say, “…thank you.”

There was a moment of silence, filled only with the quiet rustle of cloth, friction and the distant sounds of the town outside.  Finally, Kedean said, “I meant to apologize for last night-”

“Why ever for?” Baisyl cut in again.  “I was the one who acted a fool.”

“You were drunk.”

“Which is no excuse-”

“I lost my temper,” Kedean insisted, sounding truly repentant about the matter, as if becoming openly irritated were the highest of sins.

“I goaded you,” Baisyl waved him off.

“I should have discussed such things with you earlier-”

“The subject naturally made you uncomfortable-”

“As it did you,” Kedean pointed out adamantly.  “My discomfort was no excuse to put you through further-”

“Kedean-”

“Your dress is done.”  The words came out clipped and almost forced, but Kedean didn’t move, and Baisyl found himself waiting, poised, edgy, with Kedean near enough at his back to feel the radiant body heat and his hands lingering, close but no longer touching, as if not quite ready to withdraw but uncertain how else to proceed.

“Thank you,” Baisyl said at last.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence stretched between them.

When Kedean finally made to pull back, Baisyl surprised himself as much as his guard by stilling the retreating hands with his own.  “Wait, I…”  Unfortunately, no excuse for the action was forthcoming, and he bit his lip. 

As soon as he started to lessen his grip, though, some of the reactionary tension in his guard eased, and instead of pulling out, Kedean’s hands settled down, coming to a gentle, tentative rest on Baisyl’s hips, Baisyl’s own fingers still barely entwined over them.  And so what if Baisyl’s pulse decided that was the perfect excuse to mimic a hummingbird’s?

“What is it?” Kedean asked, and from his voice alone one might have mistakenly thought that there wasn’t a thing going on out of the ordinary. 

Baisyl opened his mouth, but then, barely trusting himself to breathe let alone speak, he shut it again with a minute shake of the head.  Of course, Kedean’s thumbs then decided to draw slow, curious semi-circles upwards along Baisyl’s waist, his chest having moved in at some point to inches away from Baisyl’s back, his breath close enough to feel, and oh, right, there was a reason Baisyl wasn’t trusting himself to breathe, because the second he let out a broken exhale, an embarrassingly soft, keening whisper of a noise came with it.  

Why in the stars’ names hadn’t he just jumped off the rail of the ship lo those many days ago now when he had the chance, before he’d started making a complete mockery of himself?

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Kedean asked, and this time, petulant with himself as much as anything else, Baisyl forced words out to accompany his nod.

“Yes, I’m…fabulous, thank you,” he ascertained in a voice that sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.  “My head just…still hurts a bit, is all,” he lied through his teeth, blissfully ignorant of the trouble it would get him into seconds later.

“Does it?”  Kedean’s hands slipped out from beneath his, leaving his waist, and before Baisyl finished deciding whether or not to be disappointed by the loss, the same, painstakingly gentle touch brushed along his forehead on either side.  “Shut your eyes,” Kedean instructed, his fingers carefully tucking back the loose strands of Baisyl’s hair behind his ears, “…and try to relax.” 

Just when Baisyl started to wonder why precisely he ought to, Kedean’s index and middle fingers drew back, a half inch from his eyebrows to the tender dip of his temples on either side and started to knead small, unhurried circles into the skin there.  Baisyl’s eyes shut of their own accord.  Lethargy spread like wildfire.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long Kedean spent doing just that, the warm, lackadaisical response of his muscles allowing him to slip into a state where he remained rather pleasantly unaware of the passage of time—until, at least, Kedean’s hands drew away again. 

Even as he opened his mouth to protest, though, the hands settled back, this time with the heel of Kedean’s palms at groove of Baisyl’s neck and shoulders, and the tips of his fingers at the base of Baisyl’s hairline, providing slow, rolling pressure to the nape of his neck.  When he started moving down, tracing the same gradual, kneading circles down the line of Baisyl’s neck on either side of his spine, to the ‘v’ of his shoulders, and then back up, Baisyl mentally congratulated himself on remaining upright.

Was it normal that every roll of motion seemed to touch on nerve endings that spread sensitivity and a blissful trancelike state to every part of Baisyl’s body?

…did he really have the energy to care?

By the time Kedean stilled, the warm weight of his palms settling on Baisyl’s shoulders and providing a last, parting squeeze, Baisyl would have been quite content to cave at the knees and melt into a contented pile of goo on the floor, thank you very much.

Instead, however, his guard asked, “Better?” and Baisyl found himself nodding, if weakly, shaking his head as if to drag himself from a thick sleep and wishing that he didn’t have to move.  “Come on…we’d better get downstairs.”

“Yes, right, we ought…to…”  Baisyl blinked, stubbornly determined to rein in control of his senses.  “When…where did you learn to do that?” he asked, turning when Kedean stepped back, and his guard met his question with a shrug.

“A variety of places,” he answered.  “It was long enough ago now that I don’t remember precisely where…but it’s not that complicated.  There are pressure points,” He lifted his fingers to his own temples and tapped, “here, as well as the base of your skull, and a number of other areas all over your body.  I don’t know them all, of course, but…some basic ones are easy to find, and many are useful to know.” 

Apparently Baisyl’s curiosity made itself evident, because Kedean smiled even as he turned to start packing. 

“I can show you later, when we have time, if you’re interested…the first man to show me was a doctor as well as a fighting instructor.  Quite a lethal combination, but…” He finished layering Baisyl’s clothes into a carrying sack and moved back from the bed, “…also a useful one.” He nodded his head towards the table by Baisyl’s bed, where most of his food still lay untouched.  “I’d either eat that or wrap it.  It’d be a waste to throw it away, and you’ll be hungry later if you aren’t now.”

Obligingly, Baisyl set to wrapping up the meal, breaking off a piece of cheese and bread and satisfying himself with that before stowing it properly.  After that, there was little more prep to be done, and they were outside shortly.  Kedean, abiding by Baisyl’s wishes, pointed out the pair he’d mentioned previously, and hung back while Baisyl moved in to give ‘persuasion’ a second try.

Taron, oblivious of his shift in status from ‘that awkward looking boy straining under the weight of a too-large box of spices’ to ‘prey,’ continued staggering obliviously towards his father’s wagon, heaving, and-

Crack!

“Careful with that, boy!” his father barked immediately, despite being a good ten feet away at the head of their cart, prepping the horse’s restraints.  “If even one o’ those boxes splits and loses its innards in the street, that’s money out of your hide and food out of your belly, remember that!”

“Yes, sir,” Taron responded with strained sincerity, raising a hand to his shoulder and prodding at sore muscles as he trod sullenly back towards the stack with the rest of the load.  He’d swear to anything that his father got more bitter with each passing year, and would it kill him to not bellow like Taron was some animal that needed to be barked at in order to-

“Aah!”

Taron nearly tripped, running headlong in his distraction into something surprisingly warm and soft and loud—a something which had tripped when he’d run into it, and fallen down, and was now sputtering apologies at his feet.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the girl blundered, on her knees, hastily gathering up whatever it was she’d been carrying before he tumbled into her, and Taron, cheeks pinking with embarrassment, immediately dropped to join her.  “I didn’t mean to hit you, I’m so clumsy, I swear I wasn’t looking, but I always do this, oh, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Hey, hey, wait, come on,” Taron soothed, trying to put as much of a friendly tone into his voice as possible, “…it’s not that bad.  Here, let me help you-”

“Oh, no, you really don’t need to, I can-”

“Don’t be silly,” he insisted, smiling in spite of himself at her antics.  They were sort of cute, in an endearing, ditzy sort of way, and he’d never seen anyone with so much hair, let alone in that deep shade of red.  It was a striking color. 

“To be fair, I was the one who ran into you, so…you can’t take all the credit,” he teased, deciding that playful was probably a safe approach to lighten her anxiety.  “I wasn’t looking either, and…”  When she finally lifted her head, Taron all but forgot he was speaking, stalled up by startlingly deep, blue-green eyes and barely parted, full pink lips, “…you…” He blushed hot, “…ah…” and swallowed.  “Heh.  Wow, umm…am I dead?”

She blinked at him, all wide-eyed confusion and innocence, and Taron instantly felt like an idiot.  “Are you…what?” she asked, and his blush, if possible, intensified.

“I-I mean, nothing, I didn’t mean that,” he blurted.  “I just thought…you’re…umm…really, really…pretty…”  Pretty?  Taron mentally kicked himself at her look.  “That is, I don’t mean that in a creepy way!  I just…I’m surprised,” he said, “…not that I didn’t expect you to be pretty!  It’s just-”

She bit her lip, doing a rather poor job of hiding a smile as she dipped her head, and Taron, taking that for bashful appreciation, relaxed a bit.  “It’s really sweet of you to help me,” she said, “…and I am sorry for bumping into you…”

“Oh, don’t be,” Taron shook his head, “I’m just…helping my dad is all, loading our wagon, that is.  With tea.  And spices.  We’re spice traders.  Or, my family is…”  ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ Taron silently berated himself.  ‘She doesn’t care about tea, or any other dried up, stupid leaves-’

“Really?” she said, eyes going big.  “That’s fascinating…” Or, perhaps she did?  “You’re traveling too, then?” she asked, and Taron opened his mouth to confirm but she barreled on.  “Because I’ve been traveling recently…well, not alone of course, but…we were on a wagon, but oh, it was horrible, we were attacked, and I’ve been on horseback with my manservant for days now, it’s been awful…that’s probably why I hit you,” she said.  “I’ve been so tired, and sore…really not in my normal state of mind…” 

Taron opened his mouth to speak again.  “Where are-”

“We’re heading to…ummm…oh, Carthan or Kirthat, or Carthak or…some such city,” she babbled, and Taron’s eyes widened.  “I wasn’t paying attention when my guard told me, but he says we can probably find help there, if-”

“Father and I are headed there as well!” Taron cut in, figuring that to be as good a time as any, seeing as she didn’t look to be stopping any time soon and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to point out the fact.  At least the information seemed to startle her into momentary silence.  “You could…I mean, well, there’s plenty of room in our wagon,” he said.  “If you’re so tired of being on horseback you could…that is, there’s no reason why you couldn’t ride with us…if you wante-”

“Oh, truly?” the girl nearly squealed with excitement for the idea—and then immediately reeled it in, shaking her head.  “Oh, but I couldn’t-”

“Of course you could!”

“We’d be such a burden,” she insisted, shaking her head.  “I couldn’t ask you to do that for me-”

“Then don’t ask,” Taron said firmly.  “Consider it an open invitation, take it or leave it.”  He couldn’t help but grin, cheekily, from ear to ear at her look, and it only took a second for her enthusiasm to burst free once more.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” she gushed, gathering her things to her chest, and Taron made a very, very valiant effort not to notice too terribly much how the precise manner in which she went about doing it happened to push her breasts up, and together, making them look decidedly rounder and larger, and emphasizing their—gods.  He forced his eyes to her face with an embarrassing degree of reluctance.  “I just don’t know how to thank you enough,” she continued brazenly, “I…oh, I’m so happy.  I’ll fetch my servant, then?” she said.  “He’ll be happy, too, I’m sure…”

“Certainly,” Taron said happily.

“Though…” Here, her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “…I must warn you,” she said, and Taron leaned in instinctively.  “My servant can be at times a bit…odd.”

“Odd?” Taron repeated dumbly.

Her voice got quieter still.  “I just…I think he’s a bit…interested in me…you know?” Taron’s eyes widened, his lips shaping into an ‘oh’ of understanding, and she bit her lip with a quick nod.  “He always acts so peculiar around any boys who are friendly to me…I just don’t want you to get hurt, is all…”

“H…hurt?” Taron parroted again.  “I…no, of course not!  I can handle myself,” he assured robustly, giving what he hoped to be a self-assured smile, and she dipped her head, cheeks warming with something of a stifled giggle.

“Oh, I’m sure you can…well, you’d best get whatever your father wanted then?” she said, and he jerked up.

“Oh, right!” he blurted.  “Yes, I ought to.  You just…get what you need.  Find your servant, and bring him back here.  I’ll talk to my father and make sure this all works out, alright?”

“Alright, that’ll be wonderful, and thank you so much, again,” she repeated, waving and backing away as Taron nodded, stared a moment longer, and then forced himself to turn and head off towards the spice barrels.

As soon as the boy made it out of sight, Baisyl smirked, shoving down contained laugher, turning in an about face, and rounding the corner of the nearest building.  As soon as he did, a large, dark hand landed inches from his head, as close as it came to caging him to the wall without actually touching him.

“‘Odd,’ am I?” Kedean growled, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing but make Baisyl’s body ripple to attention, and Baisyl suppressed a shiver, his smirk broadening instead as he looked coyly up, gauging his guard’s expression through a veil of lashes.

“Oh, yes,” he teased in a half purr.  “Very, very odd…heard all that, did you?”

“I hear everything,” Kedean grumbled.  “It seems you’re quite the little actress…”

Baisyl rolled his eyes.  “Oh, don’t tell me you’re jealous…I got the job done, didn’t I?” he asked, folding his arms primly over his chest, and Kedean blinked down at him. 

“Jealous?” he repeated.  “Of what?  Of…that?” He made a vague wave in the direction Taron had gone, and promptly shook his head.  “Certainly not,” he denied, an obscure look on his face, as if the thought alone were mildly distasteful.  “He’s not at all my type.  You can have him.”

Baisyl blinked, backtracked, and then shot his guard a look.  “I wasn’t talk about him, I-”  And then, of course, it dawned, as Kedean graced him with a subtle, masked smile, that Kedean knew perfectly well exactly what he was talking about.  Baisyl huffed.  “You know…maybe I will have him,” he retorted.  “He does have an…odd sort of appeal to him…in a scruffy, leggy, abandoned kitten sort of way…”

Kedean pursed his lips.

“I’d venture to say that with a hot bath and a good scrub, he might clean up nicely…plop him naked on a large bed, arrange some sturdy restraints for his wrists, roll him over, whip out the oils, and you’d have a perfect recipe for-”

“Alright,” Kedean clipped, “…let’s see if their wagon is ready.”

Baisyl, smirking unabashedly, followed in the wake of his guard without further comment, silently dubbing the moment a personal victory.  If Kedean later muttered something about scruffy kitten boys needing to learn to keep their eyes and hands to themselves—and specifically well enough away from talkative, overly flirty redheads—well, that just reinforced the notion.

---

A/N:  Okay, once again didn't get as far as I planned, BUT the chapter is longer than the last and I think I made good progress.  Should be finally arriving in Carthak next chapter, as well as finding out more about why Rhyan ended up in Zyric's cell, yada yada.  Hope you enjoyed!

(P.S. Almost to the triple digits with reviews guys, I'm so grateful - thank you for all your encouragement!  I wouldn't have made it this far without you, I swear it.  =] )

P.P.S.  There WILL be actual hot mansex coming shortly, believe it or not.  Not next chapter, but...quite soon.  Y'know, for those of you who are interested in that sort of thing.  ;P