Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (25 page)

“They are at the Aerie?” Deygan’s voice was steady, but Casian could detect a hint of anger in his tone.

“So my informant tells me, Sire.”

“And he is reliable?”

Casian took a moment, as if giving the question careful consideration. “He has been in the past. He has grudges against Master Donmar, but I cannot imagine him inventing a story such as this. Not when so many people in the Aerie would know the truth or falsehood of it.”

“And you came straight to me? You told no one else of this?”

“Of course, Sire,” Casian made his voice soothing, let his aiea-dera extend toward the king. He had certainly not told anyone else. Information gave him power; he was not about to share that with anyone else. Strictly speaking he had not brought the information straight to Deygan, but had sat a while, wondering how best to use it—what the implications might be if he did.

“What do you intend for the Aerie, Sire?” It would serve him well if the Aerie became less powerful. If they had any inkling of what he intended they would surely try to stop him. Those bloody women and their seeings. And decades of seeings in the library, too.

“I will see it destroyed.” Deygan’s words brought Casian’s head up as if jerked on a rope. Destroyed? Casian’s heart hammered. The Aerie had always been there; it was hard to imagine the island without it. And yet, if the institution Sylas so much wanted to be a part of no longer existed, Casian might find him easier to convince. He had his healer training, certainly, but with the changers in disrepute, a changer-trained healer might find himself less in demand.

And yet…

“Might it not be better to allow the Aerie to survive, but with its powers reduced? With a council made up of changers beholden to you for their existence, any decisions they made would be a sham, their power illusory.”

“You see yourself at the head of the changer council?” Deygan quirked an eyebrow at him. The king had spotted his ambition, yet he encouraged it, in his own subtle ways, where Garvan had always discouraged him. Casian would find more fertile soil here with the like-minded Deygan than he had in Lucranne.

“No indeed, Sire. I see myself at your side. Yet there are men in the Aerie who have been passed over because Donmar did not see their true merit.” Gwysias would make an admirable head of council. He would owe Casian his position, and he would be easily compelled by Casian’s aiea.

“Donmar.” Deygan’s face twisted in disgust. “Scheming Chesammos. He served me well enough in the invasion, but he has been deliberately obstructive since. As if he could make up for what he did then by opposing me now. Pah! I’d like a reason to take him down a notch, and that’s certain.”

“Send them a message, Sire. An ultimatum. They hand over the Cellondorans or you will send troops to seize them, and you will not be responsible for any damage or loss of life that might result.”

“You think they would listen?”

Casian spread his arms in an eloquent gesture. “It is worth a try. If they hand the traitors over, that suggests they are willing to listen to your authority. If not, at least you know you cannot trust them.”

“See to it. Have the message brought for my seal. It can go with Ayriene. In the meantime, tell the captains to ready their men. I want the ballistas prepared and their crews rehearsed. Put the armies on war footing. Say nothing of this to Ayriene, or she will take word to the council of our preparations. The Aerie will regret playing politics with me.”

Chapter 25

A
yriene left Banunis as a falcon. Sylas envied the ease with which she transformed—the grace with which her bird form took to the air. He would be happy with his lower form, if only he could do at will what she seemed to take for granted.

Casian was in charge now. Deygan’s rules required Sylas to be always in Casian’s sight or be arrested again. The king’s suspicions were undiminished, and Sylas’s chances of becoming royal healer grew less by the day. Deygan had damned him by association, and he knew how close he had come to feeling a noose around his neck.

“So we have plenty of time to ourselves, with no masters here,” Casian observed, watching Sylas with lazy green eyes. “Can you think of any way we could amuse ourselves?”

Casian’s lascivious look made Sylas shiver with unease and desire. He felt the stirring that told him that the blood elder’s side effects had not yet taken hold. The Irenthi sat beside him, close enough that their thighs touched and Sylas could feel the heat of Casian’s body. He eased his neck inside his collar.

“Are you too hot?” Casian untied the laces that held Sylas’s collar closed. He slid a finger down Sylas’s neck, lingering over the pulse point as if to feel Sylas’s heart hammering faster. “You need to relax.”

Casian stroked Sylas’s cheek with his fingertips, dragging them up into Sylas’s hair. Despite his worries about his future, it was all Sylas could do not to turn into the caress. He had dreamed of this—guilty, restless dreams. Pietrig’s face turning into Casian’s; his father’s face turning into Ayriene’s as she beat him bloody; Jesely, wearing his mother’s linandra necklace, begging Ayriene to stop the beating. He swallowed hard.

“You are shaving,” Casian said, stroking the roughness of Sylas’s cheek, where the mirror told him a dark shadow now showed. “I wondered if you would bother while you were travelling. Jesely follows the Aerie custom of keeping clean-shaven, but Cowin wears a beard from time to time. He says it is because it is easier when he is on the road, but I think some of it is wanting to feel like a Chesammos, even among changers. I think I should grow a beard. What do you think? Would it suit me?”

“I…” The words caught in Sylas’s throat. He tried to steady his voice. “I think if you do, you have decided you are Irenthi, more than you are changer.”

Casian frowned, his fingers stopping their stroking. Sylas was glad they had stopped, and yet wanted them to continue.

“So you are changer more than you are Chesammos? Do you feel forced to choose?”

“What do you think?” Sylas winced at the bitterness in his voice. “The Chesammos are going against the king, trying to kill his sons. They are causing trouble between the Aerie and the lord holders. I am damned by the colour of my skin as soon as I walk into a room. If I can be a changer, I can escape that. I can be accepted. At least as much as a changer
can
be accepted.”

“But you have such lovely skin,” Casian said, his fingers wandering once more, loosening the ties further to reveal Sylas’s chest with its dark red markings. “It is the colour of dark honey heated slowly over a flame. And your eyes—your eyes are like knotted braele wood. You are such a beautiful man.” Sylas shivered as Casian’s fingertips made their way down his chest, tracing the red dots of blood elder. Casian smiled at the expression on his face.

“And you, you have hair like the moon.” The moment he said it he felt he had betrayed Jaevan. That was what he had thought about Jaevan when they first met. He had sworn Jaevan his loyalty, but Casian had his love, his heart, his desire.

Sylas had a momentary feeling of disquiet. Ayriene had only just left. She trusted him. But oh, the feeling as Casian’s lips caressed his skin. It was so warm in their room. His skin heated and he could feel the beginnings of a sheen of sweat, the moistness of Casian’s breath. He had a momentary pang of guilt as Pietrig’s face swam before his, then a moan caught in his throat as Pietrig was forgotten. Casian’s hands and mouth coaxed the response from him; he let instinct drive him. It would be so sweet to submit. So sweet.

If Sylas had not needed to give Jaevan the potion that evening, he would have stayed curled up beside Casian, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. As it was, he had to wash and dress before attending the prince. Casian would have to go with him—Sylas was not allowed out of the room by himself, far less to see Jaevan—but Casian was sound asleep when Sylas rolled out of bed and studied himself in the mirror above the wash bowl.

He poured water into the bowl and examined his reflection more closely. The marks of Casian’s nails showed red on his shoulder. There was salve in his pack that would help them heal, but they would do as they were for now. He lathered the soap, then paused before applying it to his face. Casian said he was beautiful—if that description could even apply to a man—but when Sylas looked in the mirror all he saw was the hated golden skin. Yet Casian cared for him and he—his stomach turned over—he loved Casian.

He glanced at the bed. It was empty, the covers pushed back. Casian stood behind Sylas in a silk robe, watching him in the mirror. He rested his hands on Sylas’s hips.

“You’ve been looking at yourself for ages. I never took you for the vain type.” He kissed the nape of Sylas’s neck. The fabric felt smooth and sheer against Sylas’s back. He had never owned a garment so fine, and for it to be a chamber gown, not to be worn outdoors, made it all the more luxurious.

“I was thinking.”

“About me?”

Sylas snorted. “Now who’s vain?” Casian’s face in the mirror took on a look of disappointment. “Of course about you. Who else would I be thinking about?” Other than Jaevan, maybe.

“Did you miss me?”

What sort of question was that? “Of course.”

“You could stay here, you know. With me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not for a while, anyway.”

“No, but when Jaevan is being tutored and does not need his potions any more, you will be off. You have been here, what? Ten days? Two weeks? When did you last stay so long in one place with her? When will I see you again?”

It was true. They rarely stayed more than a day or two in any one place, and Ayriene preferred towns and villages over the cities. She preferred to tend those folk with no regular healer than city dwellers with ready access to herbalists and apothecaries.

“I am an apprentice healer. I go where my mistress goes.”

Casian looked at him in the mirror, watching the blade scrape stubble from his face.

“I came to Banunis with no servant. My old servants were taken into my father’s household while I was at the Aerie, and he did not offer me anyone when I left. It is not seemly that a man of my status should be unattended. Stay with me. Be my manservant and let us be together.”

Sylas splashed cold water onto his face, turning this way and that to check he had not missed anywhere. “I have an obligation to Mistress Ayriene.”

Casian snorted. “And has she let you tend to anyone yet? Or do you just carry her books and boil leaves for her?”

“I do what I am capable of. I still have much to learn.”

“And in the meantime you draw her pictures. Does she mean to make you a healer, or are you with her to get you out of the council’s sight?”

That plunged a blade deep into Sylas’s own insecurities. He had stitched and bound wounds, and applied poultices, but little more. Did Ayriene not trust him with anything more complex? He shook himself. She trusted him to give Jaevan the elder root potion; she must trust him. But yet, he only had to give a goblet of potion once a day—a potion he had made with her watching for errors.

“I want to be a healer. I want to show the council that I am good for something.”

“Oh, you are good for something. I can vouch for that.” Casian’s eyes twinkled in the mirror and Sylas let his gaze fall to the wash bowl. He was flushing again; he could feel the heat in his cheeks. Was that all he was to Casian? A willing bedmate? Whenever Sylas mentioned
his
ambitions,
his
desires, Casian laughed them off as unimportant.

“I want you to stop marking. I have taken careful inventory of all the marks on your chest, so don’t think I won’t notice. I don’t want to risk those side-effects you mentioned, not now I have you to myself at last.” The heat spread to Sylas’s neck and Casian laughed out loud. “Will you never grow out of that? Not that it’s not endearing, in its own way.”

“What about your father?”

Casian shrugged. “I told you. He does not want any child of mine to inherit Lucranne, and he encourages our relationship since no potential heirs will come of it.”

“I will think about it,” Sylas said. He really did want to continue studying with Ayriene. A trade of his own would make him more secure than being Casian’s body servant, especially since he was afraid Casian would tire of him in time. The novelty of a Chesammos lover would fade and then Sylas would be left in service with no prospect of anything better. Maybe turned out of Lucranne service altogether and forced to take whatever menial job he could find to keep himself. He would not end up shovelling shit in the streets of Banunis, not if he could help it.

But that churning feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he loved Casian and wanted to be with him. With Casian’s arms around him he felt secure—as if he were where he was meant to be. So why did the thought of staying with Casian make him so uneasy?

He turned, brushing Casian’s hands from his hips and offering the Irenthi a quick kiss. “I have to get dressed and go give Jaevan his brew. And so must you, since I am not trusted beyond the doorway on my own.”

And as he tugged on his homespun tunic and breeches, he wondered how his life had taken this strange turn. And where it would end up.

Sylas and Casian went to the royal apartments, Sylas’s mind still spinning with unfamiliar emotions and future possibilities. His dream of staying at Banunis seemed a heartbeat away, but only at the cost of disappointing Ayriene, giving up his healer training and ultimately his dreams of becoming a changer. If he completed his training, would Casian be waiting when he came back, or would a new toy have taken his place?

As if Casian could read his thoughts, the Irenthi laid a hand on his arm. Sylas jumped, and the potion slopped around the goblet, a drop or two escaping and running down the edge of the goblet to stain his hand. In the dim light, it looked like blood. Sylas shuddered. Next time he would bring it in the stoppered flask. In his current mood, he was all too likely to spill it. He remembered the ink in the library. It seemed Jaevan made him prone to spilling things.

He observed Casian out of the corner of his eye, the Irenthi’s movements silky and catlike, the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks. Sylas would have thought him unattainable, this heir to a great house, had he not just spent the last several hours in his bed. Casian caught his eye and smiled. Omena’s wings, maybe the man
could
read his mind. Was it certain Casian was not an empath, or were Sylas’s thoughts so obvious?

Jaevan’s face lit up when he saw Sylas. The young prince was truly worthy of being described as beautiful, but still a boy. Casian was a man, taller and broader, if not as stunning in looks.

“It is time for the blood elder, Highness.” Casian was always so proper. Sylas would have used Jaevan’s name and Casian likely knew it. He could not resist emphasising the differences between them, and Sylas’s disregard for propriety made him look like an ill-mannered oaf beside Casian. But at the Aerie, Casian had made a point of using the masters’ names without their titles whenever he could get away with it. With the masters, Sylas had always minded his manners.

“Can I try it first?” He took a sip and pulled a face. “Ayriene warned me it was vile. I’m going to add some of this,” Jaevan held out a pot of honey with a wooden honey-dipper. He added a
lot
of honey, stirring with the dipper. He still had a boy’s sweet tooth, and he licked the drips from his fingers like a child. “Marklin says he wants to be a changer too, but I’ve told him he has to drink nasty medicine each night if he is. I think he’s reconsidering. Father would certainly prefer if he were not a changer, I think. Especially after Rannon.” His face clouded at the thought of his little brother, and Sylas thought he saw a hint of tears in his eyes. “Is Father still keeping it secret about me?”

“I think so,” said Sylas. “Although if you go to the Aerie to study, he may not be able to.”

“Many children from the noble houses of the mainland come to the Aerie to study, Highness, and they are not changers,” Casian said. “It is a sign of high social status for them to finish their education there. Your father will have it be known that you are building diplomatic ties, and no one will think any different. Or if they suspect, they will hold their tongues for fear of causing trouble between your houses.”