The Coquette and the Thane

PART III | Chapter XXIX

3:29 | Blind are Love and Jealousy

A shadow, expansive enough to be that of a storm cloud but faster moving and darker, rippled over the city wall at Carthak’s north gate, but no one looked up. 

Minutes later, on the roof over the complex where Captain Desper and her men originally detained Zyric Akuwa, a raven swept downwards, eventually coming to a graceful perch at the roof’s lip, and its head twitched once it settled, its keen eyes intent on the human traffic below.  Watching, analyzing.  Only a moment later, it lifted off again. 

Sweeping up into the air, it flew for but a few seconds before making an abrupt swerve into the alley on the side of the building shaded from the sun, and dove towards the ground.  An instant before impact, outside of sight of anyone, its shape contorted – shrinking, fur replacing feathers, and tiny paws replacing talons – so that by the time it hit ground, it was a rat, not a raven, that started its trek toward the building’s closest entrance.  It slipped unseen under an aged wooden door and skittered virtually invisible through the complex’s corridors, its movements precise and self-assured, its destination already determined.

Another scarce few minutes later, it arrived at said destination: a cell, tucked deep into the base of the establishment, barely lit and inhabited by a single occupant.  Lifting up onto its hind paws, it sniffed the air, whiskers twitching with the action as it assessed the area to assure itself that it shared the space with no one save the single prisoner.  Once satisfied with the place’s relative desertion, it darted inside.  The boy, fast asleep, didn’t stir.

Unfortunately, it was the wrong boy.

Mentally frowning, the rat – or, rather, the person inhabiting the rat’s body – hesitated.  Then, the shape of the rodent shifted, rippling, growing, and reforming.  Seconds later, a fully grown man with untamed, sandstone red hair, a rough scattering of stubble across his strong chin, and cool, assessing grey eyes stood in the rat’s place, silently contemplating the sleeping boy. 

This was where the magic lead.  He knew it without a doubt.  This spot exactly resonated with the fading aftershock of Rhyan’s unplanned arrival, like a lingering tint of ashes after a fire or a scar in the wake of a wound.  Yet, here lay another boy entirely, a young human, with a messy mop of dirt brown hair and the body of a stick puppet, begging the question: what happened here?  Where had Rhyan gone? 

After but another moment of indecision, Alroy pursed his lips and stepped forward.  On arriving at the boy’s side, he reached out, tracing a crude, simple rune in the air over the boy’s figure: a rune of masking, one that blurred the distinction between the reality of the waking world and the fog of dreams, not powerful enough to influence another immortal, but plenty enough to effect a small human.  Then, he stooped and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder; the child stirred before opening his eyes, brow knitting together as his lips parted.

“Ma…?”

Alroy stifled a wince.  How old was this child? Thirteen?  He couldn’t have been older than fifteen and might have been as young as twelve.  Silently, Alroy reminded himself that he wasn’t hurting the boy, just using him briefly, and that this was necessary to finding Rhyan.  He owed this much to his nephew.

Thus, aloud he said, “No…this isn’t your mother…” and the boy’s lashes flickered upwards like a wounded butterfly, struggling to lift but nearly failing; his eyes were dazed and unfocussed, blurred by Alroy’s spell, “…but I am not here to hurt you, you must know that.”

“Are you…real?” the boy murmured dazedly, blinking, staring, and blinking again as though trying to bring Alroy into focus but failing.  “Am I dreaming?”

“You’re dreaming,” Alroy said, “…but it is very important that you answer my questions truthfully.  I am looking for someone.  My family.  My nephew…”  It felt strange to say the word “family” after disconnecting himself so completely with everything of the sort for so many years, but he pressed on.  “He may be in great danger.  Do you know anything of the boy who was in this cell before you?”

“The…boy with the magic?”

Alroy blinked, startled.  He hadn’t expected it to be that easy.  Quickly, though, he nodded.  “Yes, the boy with the magic.  I need-”

“Shouldn’t’ve helped them,” the child blurted, cutting Alroy off and shaking his head, distraught.  “Shouldn’t’ve helped them, cap’n was so angry…but I didn’ have no choice, they didn’ give me no choice, I couldn’…”

“Shhh…” Alroy soothed, and then, “…they?” he repeated, needing to keep the child calm but also intently curious as to the unexpected turn of events.  “Who were ‘they?’”

“The magic boy and his…friend, the dark one, the boy the cap’n was so mad ‘bout, he-”

Zyric. 

It clicked with Alroy immediately, and for a moment he stopped listening entirely.  If this child spoke the truth, it meant that both Rhyan and Zyric were here, in this city, right now.  Together.  What were the chances of that?

Having got what he wanted, Alroy hushed the boy again, shifting the vein of magic on him just slightly.  “Continue your sleep, child, and forget me…” He stood and stepped back, watching the young human as his eyes followed his progress, “…recount my visit to no one…but know that I am grateful.”

Shutting his eyes, he focused on the shape of his body, its size and features, and gave a mental push, guiding his magic through his veins to reshape him, shrink himself and take him back down to ground level in the form of the rat he’d arrived in.  When he blinked his large, glossy black eyes back open, the boy was still watching him, though dazedly, a tiny frown on his face.

“Rats…there are…talking…” His lashes dipped, heavy, “…rats…” and he fell back to sleep.

Alroy started back towards the surface, his mind reworking his newfound information, turning it over in his head and formulating a plan of action.  He needed to find Rhyan, find Zyric, and assure their mutual safety, as well as find a way to get them back to Ire if at all possible; he couldn’t very well just leave them here.

Where were Baisyl and Kedean, though?  If the ship they’d been on had been attacked and Zyric captured, where had they ended up if not imprisoned as well?  Perhaps Zyric had answers.  Regardless, it helped little to concern himself about such things now.  In fact, considering all the progress he’d made thus far, Alroy decided that before he engaged in any further labours, he rightly deserved a stout drink.  Or two.  Or several.

Surely someplace in the span of the city served alcohol before noon.

Carthak, City Streets

Zyric dodged traffic effortlessly.

He weaved, back and forth through the crowded streets, his body acting instinctively while his mind moved tumultuously, like a somersaulting fish in too-busy water.  Most of his focus, he devoted to not thinking – at all – clearing his mind, emptying his thoughts, and throwing up mental defenses.  He was overreacting, he told himself, and there was no need to drag Rhyan into something that didn’t concern him.  He ought to have been over this anyway.  He was sixteen, not ten.  It was nine years ago.  Surely, he ought to have been over this by now?

Peripherally aware of said noble following at his heels, Zyric picked an alley and turned off down it.  After a brief glance to the ground to assure that he wouldn’t be collapsing into a puddle of mud or other unmentionables, he turned his back to the wall, shut his eyes, and slid down it, coming to a sit with his head tilted back against the brick, eyes shut, and morning sunlight in his face.  He heard rather than saw Rhyan slow to a stop outside the alley, hesitate, and then start, uncertainly, in towards him. 

Wordlessly and without looking, Zyric tugged open the knot in the small cloth wrapping up the food he’d gathered and lifted one of the apples.  Holding it up, he announced, “Breakfast…” and then, opening one eye to assure that he had Rhyan’s attention he added, “…catch,” before tossing the fruit up, towards his companion.

Startled, Rhyan’s eyes widened like a rabbit caught suddenly and unexpectedly by a human visitor, but his hands darted up.  Instead of catching it, though, as Zyric expected, the apple seemed to slow in its approach, as if caught in an invisible bed of molasses in the air between Rhyan’s palms, and eventually, it came to a complete standstill, suspended perfectly in midair before him.  Only then did Rhyan close his hands in, catching it.  When he looked up, Zyric must have looked very impressed, because his pale cheeks warmed and he cleared his throat, pursing his lips and looking off to the side, letting the apple transfer to one hand and drop to his side.

“Sorry, you…caught me by surprise,” Rhyan said, not meeting Zyric’s eyes.  “I’m, ah…rather unaccustomed to having people…chuck things at me on random like that.”

Feeling the corner of his lip curve up in spite of himself, Zyric shrugged.  “What’s to apologize for?  Not like I haven’t seen you do stuff like it…and ‘sides…” He reached down to the open cloth now on the ground beside him and picked up the other apple, lifting it to take a bite, “…it’s pretty wicked neat to watch.”  At Rhyan’s look, he blinked.  “Wha’?”

“You oughn’t…speak with your mouth full,” Rhyan said, and immediately Zyric rolled his eyes, but it pleased him that Rhyan approached anyway, eyeing the ground warily as if trying to determine whether or not he could safely sit down before apparently opting out and leaning against the wall beside him instead.

“Dirt don’t bite, y’know…” Zyric pointed out.  A part of his mind noted with mild curiosity that people on the main street seemed to be stopping, or at least slowing down, significantly more often than normal and gracing them with furtive, puzzled glances before whispering back to each other, but he largely ignored the observation.  For the most part, he was used to getting stared at – mainly for his skin – and if anyone had seen Rhyan’s little apple floating parlor trick, he couldn’t exactly blame them.

“No…” Rhyan responded to his quip, “…but it does carry diseases, among other things…no harm in keeping oneself sanitary.”

“Nn.”

A relatively relaxed silence passed between for a moment as each of them ate.  Then, several bites in, something seemed to occur to Rhyan, a flicker of a frown passing over his face before he glanced down to Zyric, looking curious.  “Where did you get the money for these?  I thought you were captured by pirates…surely they didn’t leave money on you?”

Zyric blinked up, all innocence, and wiped a hand over his mouth before shaking his head and answering, “They didn’.”

Rhyan’s frown solidified.  “So…how did you pay for them?”

Coughing behind his hand, Zyric shrugged, and then dropped his palm to flash Rhyan a grin, privately amused by his naivety.  “I, ah…borrowed ‘em.”

One blink.  Two.  By the time Rhyan’s confusion turned into a scowl, Zyric openly started laughing.  “You stole them!”

Zyric waved him off, most of his attention focused on taming his mirth.  “Now look, ‘steal’…is a pretty harsh word-”

“It’s a word with a very precise definition,” Rhyan clipped, “…a definition that seems to fit perfectly with what you just did, an-”

“I’m sure,” Zyric insisted, “…that I’ll pay whoever it was back in his next life…or…y’know…” He shrugged, “…who’s to say he didn’t deserve it?  Maybe I’m the Mother Goddess’s way of extracting payment from him for hittin’ his kid or something.  Fate…” He waved his half-eaten apple at Rhyan, “…works in mysterious ways.”

Rhyan looked baldly dubious.  After a healthy pause, he huffed, and turned his scowl forwards.  “You have an odd sense of justice…and you’re still a thief.”

“An’ you’re still hungry,” Zyric said, point blank, “…but if y’don’ want the rest o’ yer apple…I’ll happily help ya finish it.”

Rhyan glanced to him, then to his apple.  A second later, with a skyward eye roll and disgruntled groan, he flicked his fingers briefly at the patch of ground beside Zyric, casting aside the majority of the dust and rubble to clear a spot, and then, carefully, lowered to a crouch and settled to sit at his side. 

“Just so you know,” he grumbled halfheartedly, “…this in no way means that I approve…”

Zyric’s scoff did nothing to tame his smile.  “Right,” he responded, holding out a candied nut square of some sort to Rhyan – which the boy took, “…’cause I totally need the stamp of Lord Rhyan’s Official Approval to go about my business and feed the both of us, yeah?”

Rhyan’s glower was like watered down poison, and he opened his mouth, but apparently gave up halfway through and shrugged it off, turning his attention instead to the candied treat in his fingers.  Eyeing it speculatively, he tilted his head.  “What…is this?”

Zyric rolled his shoulders.  “Dunno,” he replied carelessly.  “Compressed sugar.  Nuts.  Maybe some maple or caramel or somethin’…looked like a local street candy o’ some variety and the rest of it looked good.  I had a chance, so I nabbed one.  How’s it taste?”

After tossing him a quick, testing glance as though to say, ‘What, I’m the guinea pig now?’ Rhyan sighed, resigned, and brought it to his lips.  Warily, he flicked the tip of his tongue out – quick, pink tongue – tasting charily as though expecting something venomous.  Then, satisfied enough that it wasn’t toxic, he wrapped his lips around it, breaking off a small chunk with his teeth and holding in his mouth, judging the flavor. 

“It’s…” After a moment too long, he frowned, and Zyric almost asked what the matter was when Rhyan abruptly blurted, “Is that your brother?”  It threw Zyric completely.

“Is…what?”

Rhyan nudged his chin up, indicating the opposite wall.  “It’s a poster,” he said, “…a wanted criminal.  Look at it.  I only met your brother once, but…” Already standing, he took another bite of the confection – which must not have been all that bad, Zyric deduced – and crossed over for a closer look.  “How many ‘…black-bodied heathens…’—oh, well, that’s flattering—‘…eight heads high with twice the body of an average man’ do you know?  It says he’s…” He squinted at the text, and Zyric stood and approached as he read aloud, “…‘wanted for the physical harassment and…maiming of two city guardsmen’…as well as…‘temporarily holding two migrant spice traders – a youth and his aged father – hostage’…mm…perhaps not your brother.”

Frowning, Zyric eyed the pictured man speculatively.  “Looks like a humanized gorilla,” he deduced eventually, and Rhyan spared him a cursory glance.

Then, briefly clearing his throat, he nodded severely.  “You’re right…it bears a much keener resemblance to you.”

He said it with such a straight face that it took Zyric a moment to process.  After which, he gave Rhyan a startled, puzzled stare.  “Did you just…tease me?”

Rhyan’s eyebrows arched up.  “I believe I’ve teased you before.”

“No,” Zyric shook his head, “…you’ve insulted me and called me a fool-”

“‘Fool’ is a bit harsh,” Rhyan commented, and Zyric opened his mouth, “…dimwit, or dunce, I think…might be more apt.”

Zyric pursed his lips.

“In any case,” Rhyan continued undeterred, “…as I’m fairly sure I’ve told you, I harbor no particular animosity towards you-”

“I’m just…sayin’,” Zyric said, perhaps a touch more huffily than necessary, “…seems like the first time you teased without bein’ half serious…”

Rhyan blinked at him, a picture of innocence.  “Who said I wasn’t being serious?”  Turning back to the wanted ad, he shook his head.  “Genuinely, I see a definite likeness there…it’s all in the gleaming, barbarously evil glint in its ey-”

Zyric knocked their shoulders together – a gentle shove, but enough to set Rhyan off balance and interrupt his train of speech, as intended.  To his surprise, Rhyan knocked back.  When he lifted a hand to push at him again, Rhyan caught it, stalling him, and then Zyric twisted, breaking the hold and then catching his wrist and turning and-

Somehow, Rhyan ended up with his back to the wall, pinned, wrist to the brick and Zyric’s free hand open, palm flat to the opposite side of his shoulder, “caging” him in. 

The pulse in Rhyan’s wrist beat fast under Zyric’s palm.  Like a tiny bird, struggling to escape the confines of his skin.  He smelled like expensive soap—still—despite the time they spent cooped in prison cells and lying on dirty rooftops, and the part of Zyric that was a healthy, hormonal teenage boy kindly reminded him that Rhyan was ridiculously pretty. 

Stupidly so, even. 

Boys oughtn’t to have ever been made so pretty.  Or so slim.  Or so – Zyric’s thumb flicked up indecisively, brushing along the skin of Rhyan’s wrist and hand, and he felt the ripple of Rhyan’s shiver, watched the way his dark lashes sank to half mast even as his brow knit together in confusion – soft.

Realizing his body’s newfound ‘interest’ in the situation, Zyric’s cheeks flared up, and he swallowed.  When he opened his mouth though, Rhyan’s attention shifted lower, to his lips, and Zyric lost track of the words in his throat.  And more or less all thoughts in his head.  Well, outside of those specifically related to either himself or Rhyan, most specifically those related to whether or not he could get away with leaning in really slowly and-

Rhyan diverted his gaze entirely, looking suddenly quite pointedly cross with a spot on the ground several feet to the right.

“Well?” he clipped, and it jerked Zyric out of even his simple thought process. 

“Er-”

“You’ve successfully proven that you’re stronger than I am, Zyric, but we both knew that already.”  He turned his glare back on Zyric, meeting his gaze flatly.  He was still cute, angry, but in a different way; baby hyena cute as opposed to squirrel cute.  “Other than that, I fail to see the point of this exercise.”

Zyric frowned, and then blurted – because his mouth was significantly better at talking than his brain was at censoring his words, “You’re prettier when you’re not grumpy with me.”

Rhyan’s expression evaporated.  “Y…what?”

Face catching fire to his eartips, Zyric dropped his hold on Rhyan instantly and took a staggered step back.  “I, ah—that…nothing,” he hastened to correct himself.  “I didn’t—ignore that.  Please?  I really-”

“Did you just call me ‘pretty?’”

“Err…well-”  Commotion at the alley’s front drew his attention, and Zyric’s backwards progression away from Rhyan stilled.  Shoulders sagging as the situation sank in, he groaned aloud. 

‘Salvation,’ it seemed – at least in some obscure and painfully ironic sense of the word – had come in the form of a group of armed guards.  A commoner led them, pointing down the alley to Zyric and Rhyan before nodding repeatedly and saying something out of earshot.  Perhaps, Zyric thought belatedly, he ought to have paid the furtive whispers and stares from earlier more mind after all.  As the guards started towards them, Zyric swore beneath his breath.

“Why are they—?” Rhyan started to ask, but Zyric’s attention was on the walls, on the space behind them, seeking out any plausible escape route.  He found none.  They likely wouldn’t have been able to outrun the men in the end anyway, he reasoned, and there were too many – four, no, five of them – for fighting to be a realistic option.  In layman’s terms, they were screwed.  Thus, with no other option open to them but to back into the alley’s dead end, they waited where they stood as their ‘visitors’ closed in.

The officers made a semi-circle around them, trapping them to the wall, and Zyric stepped in front of Rhyan automatically, instinctively situating himself between his friend and the perceived threat.  The center man stepped forward.

“Heathen and witch,” he greeted, and Zyric blinked, having expected a different form of accusation – thievery, perhaps, but not this, “…you are wanted for crimes of physical violence against two city patrol men, as well as taking aggressive coercive measures against two merchants and illegally entering the walls of the city after your passage was denied.”

“Wait,” Zyric shook his head, “…on what grounds-”

“It will serve you best to hold your tongue,” the guard snapped, and Zyric shut his mouth, if for no other reason than being convinced it wasn’t likely to get him anywhere.  “The witch,” the guard continued, “…is charged with using spellcraft to undermine the will of aforementioned merchants, in addition to an attempt to seduce-”

“To what?” Rhyan yelped, and Zyric took a step back, closer to him.

“-one of aforementioned guards in hopes of waylaying charges against him and gaining safe passage into the city in return for favors of the…comfort…variety.”

“I’m not a whore!” Rhyan snarled it this time, and when the guard took a forceful step towards him, Zyric blockaded the affront.

“You’ll do well to mind your-”

“We didn’t do anything!” Zyric objected.  “You can’t just come at us out of nowhere and-”

“A warrant for the arrest of a dark skinned foreigner and his fire haired witch of an accomplice has been out for two days,” the guard cut him off, forcefully.  “We have an eye witness to your companion’s magic tricks and you fit the description given by the man originally laying charges against you.  You will be held in prison with no judgment passed until the wronged party can be brought before you in person.  If he finds you to be mistakenly taken, you will both be released.  If he finds you guilty, however…you will be publicly flogged.”

Zyric tensed.

“Sixty lashings for the guardsman who’s arm you broke, thirty for the guard you knocked unconscious, and ten each for the merchants.”

Zyric’s head swam—sixty, thirty, and twenty…a hundred and ten lashings?  His stomach turned, roiling internally as his fists clenched, nails biting into his palms to keep his body steady.  It was a death sentence.  He wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise.  He’d seen what a whip could do to naked skin; he knew. 

The severity of lashings could vary tremendously depending on the variety of weapon, method, skill, and temperament of the enforcer, but for a public flogging against a criminal for which there was already obvious bias and contempt?  They would rip him apart.  Literally.

He’d rather of been beheaded.

“Fifty for your accomplice,” the man continued, but Zyric barely heard as the four others closed in, roughly binding the both of them in irons, “…twenty for soliciting prostitution and thirty for the use of dark magic for unlawful means.”

Zyric shut his eyes as their detainers dragged and then shoved them forward, initiating the march towards their new temporary cell.  It wouldn’t matter, he tried to console himself; the man who’d lain the charges would see them and know they were innocent.  They’d be set free.  Even if somehow he still mistook them for guilty, perhaps they could escape again.  Perhaps there would be a way out. 

Maybe…

Carthak City, Western Quarter Tunnel System

“My men are in place,” Jerith spoke crisply and civilly, all business.  “They’re aware of your coming arrival and armed, should the situation call for it.  Ten in all.”

As Baisyl quickly learned at the outset of the meeting, Jerith and Kedean had already privately discussed and dealt with most issues in relation to the setup and execution of the upcoming exchange, and their current conference was merely a last, precautionary review of the situation before they set things in motion.  As such, he found himself largely sitting on the sideline, listening without adding much of anything as the other two conversed.

“Thank you, Jerith,” Kedean said at length, bending subtly at the waist and inclining his head with respect.  “I am grateful…and indebted to you for your aid.”

For a moment, Jerith kept his silence.  Then: “See to it that Zyric makes it out safely.  He’s a good boy…and the Goddess knows, birds like that don’t belong in cages.”

A ghost of a smile graced Kedean’s lips.  There, and then gone.  “I will.”  He turned for the door, and Baisyl stood to follow.

“And Kedean…”

Kedean glanced back.

“Walk carefully yourself as well…” Jerith tilted his head, a hint of something almost teasing slipping into his expression, “…I’d rather not have to send an army in there after I’ve found out you need rescuing, too.”

For a half second, Baisyl thought he saw Kedean grin – an uncharacteristically boyish look that reminded him strikingly of his very brief encounters with his lover’s younger brother – but then it was just a smile again, though more defined and definite than the last.  “You could always consider it payback for that nest incident at Narkotsha.”

Jerith’s eyebrows jerked upwards, surprise – and then a blush – sweeping his face.  After a brief moment of fumbling for a suitable comeback, he blurted, “I had that handled!” and Kedean chuckled, saluting the abashed mercenary leader on his way out.

“Of course you did, sir.”  And they were gone.

Once out of the room, Baisyl repeated, “‘Sir?’” questioning, and Kedean glanced down to him.

“For the most of the time I spent with them, Balasar lead us with Jerith as his second in command.  Certain times were less formal than others, naturally, but sometimes I suppose I still use the title out of habit.”

Baisyl nodded.  “And the, ah…‘nest’ incident?” he asked, and the corner of Kedean’s lip curved up again, but he shook his head.

“He’d have me shot if I told you.”

Baisyl’s curiosity peaked.  “You mean he’d try to have you shot if he found out that you told me,” he pointed out, none-too-subtly prodding, and amusement sparked in Kedean’s eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed unhelpfully.  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

When he added no more than that, Baisyl huffed.  The instant he opened his mouth, however, another familiar voice cut them off, “Keda?” and Baisyl felt his fists itch to clench.  He felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck tensing up as naturally as a wild cat’s hackles rose when it faced a threat, real or perceived, and he fought not to grit his teeth. 

What was she doing back?  Hadn’t she bothered them enough already?  And, perhaps more importantly, why did this one woman irk him so?

He knew superficially, of course, and yet the extent to which her very presence affected him vexed him.  He was a rational, composed, and mature human being.  So why was he stepping between his mate—err, lover—and the approaching female like a dog guarding its territory with bared fangs?

“Natara,” Kedean greeted, either oblivious of or not acknowledging Baisyl’s subtle course of defensive action.

“I meant…to apologize,” Natara said, her eyes angled down, not quite meeting either of their gazes, and her tone sincere – though it did little to sooth Baisyl’s nerves.  “I ought not have assumed…” There, she trailed off, and then changed course.  “It was presumptuous of me to take for granted that I could enter without explicit welcome.”

“It’s fine,” Kedean said, too gently for Baisyl’s tastes.  “You didn’t interrupt anyth-”

“We were through,” Baisyl clipped, his meaning implicit and deliberately sharp, and a part of him pointed out that he ought to have felt guilty for the flicker of pain that passed through Natara’s expression – however quickly she attempted to mask it – but a baser part of him purred with satisfaction instead, pleased to see his knife-twisting reap the desired effect. 

With his back to him, he missed Kedean’s wince, but felt the ripple of his lover’s tension and disapproval.  The exchange seemed so natural that it never occurred to him to consider it odd or out of place, as though reading Kedean’s emotions were something he did every day.  Kedean’s hurt, however, made him second guess the logic behind his purely venomous attitude towards his ex-lover.

“I see,” Natara said quietly, drawing Baisyl’s attention back to herself, and for a moment, he thought she might withdraw immediately, but then, a small twitch of a frown settled into place on her features as she looked at him.  Reaching up, she tapped the side of her neck with two fingers.  “You should lift your collar a bit,” she suggested, as softly.  “There are marks where he…” A tiny pause, no more, “…where he kissed you.  They show up well…on your fair skin.”

And she left.

Only in her absence did guilt roll in over his anger, and Baisyl frowned after her, confused as he reached up to brush absently over his throat.  A biting, caustic remark wouldn’t have fazed him.  It was what he’d expected, what he was used to.  A sad, surrendering remark, though?  He didn’t know what to make of it.

Kedean turned from the scene.  Bottled frustration, guilt, and anger rolled through the room in waves, and he was the stone at their center.  Baisyl followed after him.

---

A/N:  "We were through." = "We'd finished fucking by the time you arrived, no worries."  Just in case there was any confusion.  It only occurred to me later that that might no be as obvious to others as it is to me.

Responses to all the reviews you left last chapter can be found here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/26793-the-coquette-and-the-thane-review-replies/page__fromsearch__1 !  =) 

Hopefully you hadn't forgotten that Baisyl can be a spiteful asshole from time to time.  :/  Jealousy's ugly, honey, you should have that looked at.  Unless you read it as "protective/possessiveness" which it IS in which case it's romantic and sexy.  Phhht.  Word choice.  Anyway.

Short chapter is short, but I wanted to get it out here this weekend.  More explanation of how Zyric and Rhyan could possibly be mistaken for Kedean and Baisyl (really, authority, really? Rhyan isn't even a woman, Christ...) next chapter.  Until then.  =)