L E Bryce The Water Lovers of Sirilon

The Water Lovers

of Sirilon

Published by Phaze Books
Also by L.E. Bryce

Dead to the World

My Sun and Stars

Ki’iri

Becoming

The Golden Lotus

Concubinage

“Artifice” from

Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V

A Crown of Stars

Aneshu

This is an explicit and erotic novel

intended for the enjoyment

of adult readers. Please keep

out of the hands of children.

www.Phaze.com

The Water Lovers

of Sirilon

A collection of homoerotic fantasy by

L.E. BRYCE

The Water Lovers of Sirilon copyright 2007-8 by L.E. Bryce

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead,
organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Phaze Production

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Edited by Kathryn Lively

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-089-8

First eBook Edition – September, 2008

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Table of Contents

Ki’iri........................................................................... 7
Becoming.................................................................. 81
Still Life.................................................................. 145

Ki’iri

Ki’iri was originally published by Forbidden Fruit Magazine in
September, 2004.

Chapter One

The storm had been a violent one, wreaking havoc on

the docks of Sirilon. During the night, great waves had
crashed against the pilings, tearing ships and smaller
vessels loose from their moorings and throwing the
wreckage ashore. Divine anger it might have seemed, but
all knew that a stormy sea was the opposite—the joining of
Air and Water in passion.

Even among the faithful, there were plenty who

snorted at the notion of godly lovemaking, and aired their
opinions with the morning fog. “If the Lord Min would
have the sense to be gentler with His consort,” grumbled
Antáno, “we’d not have to contend with the neighbors’
endless bloody cursing.”

Daro listened quietly to his grandfather, nodding

occasionally to indicate his attention, if not necessarily his
agreement. Their fishermen neighbors complained in fair
weather as well as foul, and generally kept their boats in
such poor condition that they were likely to fall apart even
on a calm sea.

“In any case,” Antáno went on, “the storm’s passed

and I’ll not have to listen anymore this day to that sot
Shias go on about the Lady’s tits. Blasphemous old fart.
Were it my wife he was talking about, I’d strike him dead,
see if I wouldn’t.”

But the Lord of the Winds obviously did not care what

mortals might say or think, as Shias had always been free
with his colorful epithets. Daro did not expect the old
fisherman to be struck by lightning anytime soon.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Besides, Antáno had said plenty of similar things to

and about Daro’s grandmother while she still lived. It was
part of the daily banter in Sirilon’s dockside
neighborhoods, and no one thought anything of it.

“Now I’ve got a bit of business aboard Endine’s sloop

and that’ll take a while, see if it doesn’t with his tongue,”
Antáno was saying. “I’ll leave it to you to see to the hrill,
boy, as they’re like to have come back by now.”

“Endine’s ship is still afloat?” asked Daro.
Antáno shrugged. “It was bobbing up and down on its

moorings as late as yesterday, lad, and I’ve no doubt it
weathered last night. He knows how to take care of his
boats, that one does. The only thing of Endine’s I’d expect
to find in the water is his son after too much ale. Now I
promised him a senu’s advice and there’s like to be good
coin in it for us. Run along now, and if the hrill ask where I
am, tell them the old windbag’ll talk to them later, eh?”

Daro ducked back into the cottage to finish his portion

of the oatmeal that was warming over the fire, then drew
his sealskin long coat on over his clothing as his aunt
swept the kitchen hearth.

Outside, the air was chill, but already the sun was

beginning to peep from behind the clouds that were now
far beyond the white cliffs of the city. The day would be
brisk and gray, but the last wisps of the storm had already
blown inland.

Moist gravel crunched under his boots as he moved

down the beach toward the quay where he and his
grandfather did their work. The senu’s cottage stood in a
quiet neighborhood away from the busier wharves and
shipyards, but the violence of the storm had reached even
the most outlying areas of the harbor. Bits of broken wood
and seaweed littered the beach in all directions, while
closer to the water, brushed by the drawing and receding
surf was a dark, glossy corpse. Daro gave a start, but after

L.E. BRYCE

a moment saw it was a dead seal, not one of the sacred
hrill. He quickly made the sign of the Lady and moved on.

Even before he reached the end of the quay, he heard

the voices begin in his head. Like a gaggle of excited
children, the hrill clamored in the water, eager to talk to
him. He smiled and leaned over the stout wooden railing,
gripping it as he reached out to touch each shiny wet snout
that was offered him, and bade them take turns with their
news. Some of it was gossip, but unlike men hrill were
straightforward with their information, and wasted little
time in telling Daro where were the best places to shelter
or find mates, and where the most abundant schools of fish
could be found. Daro memorized these last bits of
information, for they were worth coin among the
fishermen.

By nature, hrill were a talkative lot. Daro enjoyed their

company and on warm days swam with them. Sacred to
the Lady of the Waters, they were known to rescue
drowning men from shipwrecks. To kill one, either by
guile or accident, was a crime, and the fishermen who
plied their trade in the bay took pains not to entangle the
creatures in their nets.

Daro’s head ached by the time the hrill left him. He

slowly straightened from his crouching position and
rubbed his temples vigorously. So many voices, all
wanting to be heard at once, could be maddening. His
aunt would have a cup of hot bergamot tea and a cold
compress waiting for him, and for the rest of the day
Antáno would remind her to speak in whispers.

Stretching stiff limbs, he turned to go when he caught

a glimpse of silver and sable flashing through the water
that lapped against the quay. A rounded snout gently
broke the surface, and dark eyes questioned him.

What is your name, fair one? asked a voice.
His headache forgotten, he bent over the gray water. It

was a hrill, but none he had ever seen before. They never

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

asked his name, for among them were no names that he
might pronounce, and they did not seem to know what
such a thing was.

“I-I am Daro,” he answered, extending a hand in its

fingerless leather glove to touch the hrill’s snout. “I would
ask your name, but I know you have none.”

The creature made a clicking noise. This was, Daro

understood, laughter of a sort for their kind. You are a senu
who speaks to the hrill, it said matter-of-factly. I saw you with
them before.

Hrill did not know what a senu was, only that there

were two-legged creatures capable of speaking to them.
Daro drew back slightly. “You are not a hrill,” he said.

In the water, I am as you see me, one of the Lady’s hrill. I

am something else, too, but nothing that would do you harm.

Daro cast his gaze over the water, searching for some

sign of the pod that had just left. Hrill never swam alone
unless they were dying, and then they beached themselves
like the seal that had washed up that morning. “What
manner of creature are you, then? You are not a
changeling who has come to lure me into the water and
take my body, are you?”

No, I am not a changeling, simply one who is lonely and

wishes to talk to someone. You are a senu who can speak to me
in this body. Will you speak to me?

Loneliness was not something hrill understood, or if

they understood it, they never articulated it in such clear
terms with him. “I-I…what do you want me to say?”

The creature asked if he had brothers and sisters, what

he did during his day, and what news there was of the
city. These were strange things for a hrill to ask, for they
never expressed any curiosity about the world of men.
Daro felt a thrill of fear and uneasiness at the thought of
what this creature might be, but he also sensed the being’s
loneliness, and his sympathy outweighed his
apprehension.

L.E. BRYCE

Do I keep you from other labors? it asked.
“No,” said Daro. “Speaking to the hrill is my only task.

Why don’t you swim with the others? I’ve never heard of a
hrill being lonely.”

Because I am not one of them and they know it, the

creature replied. Perhaps they do not know loneliness, but
other beings do.

It rose up slightly out of the water to touch with its

nose the hand that gripped the edge of the dock. Daro held
out his hand, palm facing downward, to accept the contact.
The hrill regularly butted their snouts against him, but
always the touch was cool. This was warm and smooth,
and he felt an exhalation of breath against his palm.

I thank you for your company, but I must go now. I will

return sometime if I may.

Daro did not ask what impelled the creature to leave,

or where it would go. He watched it disappear under the
water, and then, wincing at his stiff joints, he straightened
and limped from the quay, back up the beach to his
grandfather’s cottage.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Two

Antáno questioned him, drawing out all the

information that could be sold or bartered. With his aunt’s
compress still in his hand, Daro searched his memory for
all he had heard. He said nothing about the other
conversation he had had, made no mention of the creature.
It had been such an unsettling encounter that he had not
the words to describe it or the being.

He’d tell me it was a changeling, and maybe he would be

right. Changelings were treacherous creatures, taking the
forms of animals or stolen children, wreaking havoc
among those men unlucky enough to cross their path.
Daro knew the danger, as did everyone, from the cradle. A
changeling could have pulled him into the sea to drown or
ensnared him with sorcery. The creature he had
encountered that morning had done neither. It had been
lonely and wanted only to talk to him.

Or perhaps that’s part of the spell, to make me trust it, he

thought, chewing his underlip. If I tell Grandfather, he’ll
raise the cry and they’ll hunt it down or run it off into deeper
waters.

“What’s the matter with you, lad?” rumbled Antáno.
Daro blinked and, turning his head, focused on his

grandfather. “What’s that?”

“You’ve been staring off at the wall like a mooncalf.

What’s the matter with you, eh?”

He swallowed and mumbled that he was all right,

only tired. I should say something, but I don’t know. It didn’t
hurt me.

L.E. BRYCE

Antáno chuckled. “Wear you out with their chatter,

did they? I suppose you ought to go to bed then, eh?”

After a fitful night’s sleep, Daro downed another cup

of bergamot tea, donned the sealskin coat and leather
gloves, and went back to the quay. The hrill did not always
speak to him, only when they wanted to socialize or had
news, which was perhaps once a week, but a senu was
obliged to appear each day at the water’s edge to
demonstrate his willingness to listen.

The waters were quiet, a small blessing for which

Daro was thankful. He waited, occupying his time by
watching the fishing sloops head out into the bay. Though
brisk, it would be a clear day, good for fishing.

But there were no hrill. He shoved his hands into his

coat pockets and turned to go.

Fair one, I am glad to see to you again.
He froze at the echo of that voice in his mind.

Common sense told him to run, for surely the creature
must be a changeling come to do him harm, but he heard
only the soft voice—a male voice, he thought—and slowly
turned. “You’re not a hrill,” he said stiffly. “I shouldn’t be
talking to you.”

He sensed the being’s confusion and hurt. Nay, but you

knew that yesterday. Do you want me to leave? it asked.

“Are you a changeling, come to steal me away?”
A clicking sound indicated laughter. Changelings prefer

babes, I am told. Nay, I am no changeling. I am one of the Lady’s
servants, as you are.

The Lady of the Waters had many servants. There

were priests and diviners, shipwrights, senu’i and talevé,
beautiful young men whom She had taken as lovers. And
in the open waters beyond the harbor, the mariners said,
there were other creatures sacred to Her, and many
strange wonders besides.

Daro bit his lip apologetically. “I-I thought….”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Because you are only accustomed to seeing hrill and I do

not speak like one of those, you thought I meant to do you harm.
I am no sea creature, though in your eyes I wear the body of one.
I am a man like you.

“Not like me,” corrected Daro. “Maybe I can speak to

the hrill, but I can’t look like one.”

Another clicking sound. Aye, that is true.
Daro crouched down at the edge of the quay and

pressed his hands to the thick rail. “Where do you live?”

Nearby, but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not wish

to speak of myself. I do not come to bother you, and I will leave if
you wish it. It is only that I miss the sights and sounds of
ordinary life.

Daro felt his throat constrict at the despair the creature

exuded. “No, I…I don’t want you to leave. But my life is
nothing you’d be interested in. I live in a rickety cottage
with my grandfather and aunt, and I spend most of my
time here or on the docks, trading information with the
neighbors.”

Where are your mother and father? You did not speak of

them yesterday.

“They died of a fever long ago,” replied Daro.
I am sorry. I should have known better than to ask.
After a time, the creature left and Daro returned to the

cottage. His aunt, who sensed by his long absence that he
must have encountered some hrill, was waiting with a cup
of tea, but he politely refused it. The creature had not taxed
his strength as the hrill often did.

His grandfather returned in the early afternoon and

asked if he was well before taking him on a trip to the
market; the storm had blown loose pieces of the cottage’s
siding and Antáno had no nails with which to make
repairs. They spent the rest of the afternoon replacing the
siding.

“Did the hrill have anything useful to say this

morning, lad?” Antáno asked. “You’ve been quiet all day
and your aunt says you wanted none of her tea.”

L.E. BRYCE

Daro fumbled for a quick response. “It tastes awful.”
Antáno snorted. “Means it’s good for you, lad.”
In the middle of the night, Daro stirred from a sound

slumber with a start. “Ki’iri,” he whispered to himself. The
word surfaced from the very depths of his memory, a
thing he had heard of but had never given any thought to.

A ki’iri was a talevé in animal form.
Like most, he knew very little about the Lady’s mortal

lovers. They lived a life of luxury and seclusion in the Blue
House near the Lady’s own House of the Water. No one
save the priests of the Water ever saw them, except on holy
days when they emerged to take part in the ceremonies.
On those occasions, the public clamored to see them, with
their pale hair and rich clothes, but the crowds along the
shrine route were too thick for Daro’s grandfather to take
him, and Antáno hissed that it was a waste of time
wanting a glimpse of them anyway.

“What do you want to see those simpering ninnies for,

eh?” he asked. “Spoiled, they are, and that’s not a good
thing for a lad to learn. You just mind your prayers and be
a good boy and help your grandfather, eh?”

He tried to picture in his mind a beautiful young man

with pale hair, what he imagined a talevé must look like in
human flesh, but his imagination could not take him any
farther than the local tavern owner’s handsome yet
pretentious son, whom he despised. Squeezing his eyes
shut, he tried to erase the image from his mind. I shouldn’t
even be thinking about this. It’s forbidden to talk to a talevé.

And yet, the Lady’s lover had come to him, wanted

comfort in his solitude, and Daro wondered how such a
being could possibly be lonely. He has the Lady, he doesn’t
need me.

On his narrow cot, with the long night stretching

before him, his imagination refused to be still. Talevé were
so beautiful, people said, that one wept to look at them.
And that morning, he had not merely touched the hrill’s

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

snout as was customary, but stroked the creature’s pelt
around the eyes and throat, marveling at the sleekness of
its body, which did not have the layers of fat so typical of
hrill. It was built for speed, and there was a certain sensual
quality in the way it moved.

Then, he remembered how abashed he had been when

the other told him how pleasing his touch was and not to
stop, for when he recalled that he was caressing another
human he had abruptly pulled his hand away and began
to apologize.

I touched one of the Lady’s lovers, he thought, clutching

the sheets to him. His face burned with shame, and he was
grateful for the darkness. I didn’t know, he didn’t tell me.
Why didn’t he tell me that it was forbidden?

In his ignorance, he could be forgiven his lapse. When

morning came, he would go to the nearest shrine to make
an offering to the Lady and beseech Her pardon. I won’t
touch him again. I won’t even talk to him, if that’s Her will.

He breathed a whispered prayer that the ki’iri would

not come to him again, that he would not have to swallow
his shame and turn his back on it.

L.E. BRYCE

Chapter Three

“Are you a ki’iri?” Daro leaned over the railing,

blinking against the fine salt spray that misted his face.
“Tell me true, are you one of Her lovers?”

It was the eighth day since he first saw the creature,

and the third time it had come to visit him. He had lain
awake every night since he learned of its true nature,
wondering why such a being would want to spend time
with him and if he had been forgiven his trespass. Now his
stomach fluttered waiting for an answer.

He thought he heard what might have been a sigh. My

name is Arion.

Such a lovely name. Daro wanted to utter it aloud, savor

it on his tongue, and opened his mouth to repeat it. Half a
second later, he stopped himself. You can’t think such things
about him. You’re not even supposed to talk to him. And yet,
when the silvery-dark face had emerged from the foam
among those of the other hrill, he could not bring himself
to turn away. “I-I didn’t think you were allowed to…to
talk to me.”

The answer was indirect. A talevé has a ki’iri spirit

inside of him. Mine is a hrill, but a hrill cannot swim on dry
land. The priests must let me out sometimes, to feel the sea, or I
will die. Of course, they tell me I must not approach or speak to
anyone, but I do not always feel like obeying them.

Daro took no comfort in that. If the priests said so,

then it truly was forbidden to speak to the talevé. “Why did
you come to me, if they told you not to?”

Are you afraid of me?

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Six days ago, he had taken the requisite salt and water

to the Lady’s shrine and knelt to ask Her forgiveness; he
had begun to believe it had been granted. Yes, he was
afraid, for the Lady’s wrath was a terrible thing, but the
words stuck in his throat. He shook his head.

You are lying. You are afraid of me. Regret colored

Arion’s voice. I should not have told you that I was not a hrill.

“I can tell the difference,” said Daro.
There is nothing sacred about me, continued Arion. I eat, I

sleep, I relieve myself like any another man, and I feel the same
ache when I am shut away from the rest of the world.

Daro bit back the urge to ask what it was like to be a

talevé, to live in such luxury and lie with the Lady of the
Waters. Even to think on that last part was blasphemy.

Arion, however, seemed to read his curiosity even as

Daro had read his. I cannot tell you about Her. I cannot make
you understand, I do not have the words; I do not think even the
priests have the words. But there are many talevé in many cities
throughout the kingdom, and I am lost among them all. I love the
Lady as you do, but I would leave the Blue House if I could, if it
were allowed.

“Where would you go?”
I do not know. It does not matter anyway. I am not free to

leave and there is no place I could go where I would not be
recognized.

Such talk unsettled Daro, for the emotion that

emanated from Arion was something akin to that senu’i
sometimes sensed in hrill who were about to beach
themselves. He did not know what to say or how to
respond, save to pour his whole being into a silent plea
that Arion would not seek to make so bleak an end.

Oh, I do not want to die, laughed Arion. I am just lonely,

and bored.

Arion could not stay but an hour. Always he bobbed

nervously in the water, his head moving from side-to-side
as if watching for the omnipresent priests. They waited for
him on a beach farther along the coast, on the westernmost

L.E. BRYCE

side of the city where the temple quarter faced the sea, he
said, but he seemed wary of them nevertheless. They cannot
refuse to let me out or I will eventually die or go mad, he
explained.

He rose up in the bobbing waves, presenting his head

and part of his torso for Daro’s touch. Daro lingered over
the sleek pelt, his fingers mapping the ki’iri’s firm
musculature underneath, until Arion could no longer
sustain the position and sank back into the water,
launching himself away from the quay. Daro watched the
swift movement, the dark shape slicing through the green-
gray water, until it vanished from sight.

He moved to leave when an impatient clicking from

below roused him. A trio of hrill, who wanted to speak
with him. A storm was coming, they said, and they
complained for the better part of an hour about how the
choppy waves were driving away schools of their favorite
fish.

Going back to the cottage, Daro passed the news onto

his grandfather then spent the day on the cottage roof
clearing the rain gutters. He said little to Antáno or his
aunt, giving the impression that talking to the hrill made
his head ache. Senu’i were often known for being taciturn,
so they did not trouble him.

Arion was waiting for him the very next morning. As

Daro bent to touch the proffered snout and neck, he asked,
“How is it that you can come so often? I thought the
priests didn’t want to let you out.”

It is winter and the season of storms. The Lady’s

restlessness makes us all restless. I tell the priests that the hrill
in me must go out. It is not uncommon. There are several in the
Blue House who are even now walking about in their ki’iri
forms. Are you not pleased to see me?

Daro pulled his hand back to the railing as Arion slid

back into the water. “I don’t want you to get in trouble
with the priests.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

I do not care what they think.
“But they would shut you away and I wouldn’t see

you again.”

The emotion that accompanied the clicking laughter

was a lightness Daro had never experienced with hrill, a
certain flirtatiousness he sometimes found among the
neighborhood girls. So you enjoy my visits?

He blushed furiously. “I…well, I couldn’t help but

wonder what…what you’re like in the flesh. I-I mean,
what do you really look like?”

Ah, so you wish to see me, then, is that it, Daro?
It was the first time Arion had spoken his name, and

the sound had such a sensual quality to it that Daro was at
once embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask. But it’s
odd to talk to a creature you know is a man and not a
hrill.”

It is not possible. It takes so much of my strength to change

shape that I could not shed my ki’iri skin for you and then take it
up again for the priests. I would like to see you as well. A hrill’s
senses are not those of a man. Not less, but…different. But even
in a hrill’s flesh, I have the desires of a man.

Daro burned with those words, and heard them

echoing in his head for the rest of the day.

In the middle of the night, he lay awake, staring at the

shadowed rafters without seeing them. His mind replayed
all that had been said, all he had felt or sensed from the
ki’iri. And with a shiver, he understood something he had
not grasped before, that the ki’iri did not merely want his
company, he wanted him. Not in the way a changeling
wanted its victim, but in a way he would want a maid.

With a blush and a sudden tightness in his groin, he

realized he wanted the same, to see with his own eyes the
other’s impossible beauty. He wanted to see Arion as a
man, and then… He flushed and clutched the blanket in
his fist, wadding the wool in his frustration. Men don’t

L.E. BRYCE

think about other men that way, they don’t. Besides, he belongs
to the Lady.

His body paid no heed to what his mind told him, and

his heart saw no reason to stop his hand from crawling
under the blanket, down his chest to linger over his
nipples, then moving over his belly to his cock, already
stiff and hot against his thigh. Closing his eyes, he pictured
the sleek body moving through the waves, imagined the
feel of the glossy pelt under his hands and the sound of
Arion’s hrill voice saying his name. Even in a hrill’s flesh, I
have the desires of a man.

His hand was busy under the heavy wool, tracing the

tip and underside of his cock until he could no longer
stand the teasing and took himself firmly in hand. He was
already close, his hips moving, his groin tightening toward
release, and he bit down on his lip to stifle the moan rising
in his throat.

Antáno lay snoring not five feet away; he might wake

to the sound as he had on other occasions. Even lost in the
throes of his release, Daro had a ready lie, that there was a
certain maid he desired. His grandfather had always been
frank about such matters and simply would have chuckled
and gone back to sleep; there would have been no shame
save for the knowledge of the lie, that the thing that made
him touch himself and come so hard was shameful.

Afterward, he lay breathing hard, spent in both body

and spirit. He felt the stickiness of his seed on his belly and
hand, but made no effort to go fumbling in the dark for the
wash basin or a cloth. The satiation of his body left no
energy for movement, and all his being was now
concentrated on the tears that streamed down his face onto
the pillow, the emptiness that had taken the place of
desire.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Four

“Boy, you are neglecting the hrill.”
Startled, Daro looked up from his breakfast. “No, I do

my duty,” he protested. “Didn’t I bring you word of that
school of marlin?”

Antáno lowered his spoon and gave him such a glare

that it sent Daro’s aunt scurrying off. “Aye, you did that,”
he growled, “after I snapped my fingers in your face to get
your attention.”

“I-I was distracted, that’s all.”
“Aye, you certainly have been distracted, boy. I talk to

the hrill, too, in case you’d forgotten, and they tell me you
spend all morning ignoring them and talking to some
creature that looks like a hrill but most assuredly isn’t.”

Trembling, Daro looked away, at his lap, at the

porridge in his bowl. This was usually the time when he
came clean about whatever it was that angered his
grandfather, but now the words stuck in his throat. I can’t
tell him the truth, that it’s a ki’iri and that I want him.

He took a deep breath and put on the best shocked

face he could manage. “It’s not a hrill?” he sputtered. “But
it…it told me it was.”

His grandfather gave him a curious look, but did not

call him on the obvious lie. “It’s some changeling, no
doubt. I’ve seen such creatures in the harbor before, and
there’s no luck to be had from them.”

“I-I didn’t know. It looked like a hrill.”
Antáno made a harrumphing noise. “You just stay

away from it and keep to the hrill you know.”

L.E. BRYCE

Daro mumbled his agreement and bent his head to his

breakfast once more, though he could not manage more
than two bites with Antáno looking on the way he was.
Once a suitable interval passed, he excused himself, put on
his sealskin coat and went out into the chilly morning air.

Yes, he had been wrong to neglect the hrill as he had

been doing, and that alone was enough to shame him.
Taking a deep breath to clear the tremors, he walked
across the beach to the quay, telling himself that if the hrill
appeared this morning he would apologize to them.

The waters were empty, until a silvery-sable head

broke the surface and his heart plummeted. Before he
could stop himself, he leaned forward to stroke Arion’s
face and throat, speaking words of greeting in the hope of
hearing the ki’iri say his name.

Even as his fingers ran over the wet, glossy pelt, a

small voice in his head warned him that he should not be
doing this. Even if his grandfather did not catch him, the
hrill would most definitely notice and tell Antáno that his
grandson was still speaking to the strange creature.

But his heart was reluctant to obey that voice. How can

I tell him that he must go, that it’s forbidden and wrong, when I
don’t want to? How can I hurt him more than he’s already been?

What is wrong, Daro?
“Nothing,” he lied.
Do not lie to me. You are sad about something. Will you not

tell me what it is?

“I-I have been neglecting—”
Before he could get the words out, a shout rang out

behind him, to the accompaniment of booted feet thudding
furiously across the wooden quay. “Be gone, changeling!”

Daro turned in terror to see Antáno wielding a

crossbow. The bolt was drawn back and cocked, and the
old man was lifting it to fire even as he surged forward.

“No!” At the last moment, Daro flung himself onto his

grandfather, and the arrow went astray into the water. He
wanted to turn, to see if there was any red in the water, if

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Arion had been injured, but he could not. Antáno flung
aside the crossbow and seized him by the arms in a
bruising grip as he hauled him bodily off the quay and
onto the beach.

“You’re possessed by that thing, boy!” his grandfather

roared in his face. “That changeling’s got hold of you!”

“It’s not a changeling!” he shrieked back. He was

sobbing as he struggled, and none of his tears were from
the pain or the humiliation of being dragged like a
wayward child. “It’s one of the Lady’s servants!”

Antáno’s grip loosened slightly. “Eh? What do you

mean it’s not a changeling? Speak up, boy!” The first
tremors of fear made his voice quaver.

Daro wrenched himself free and shoved his

grandfather away. “It’s not a changeling!” he screamed.
“You tried to kill a ki’iri! He’s one of the Lady’s lovers!”

His grandfather’s face lost all color. Shaking his head

in disbelief, his mouth dropped open, and suddenly
Antáno’s legs could no longer support him. He slumped to
his knees, clawing at the pebbled sand and curling over
into a sob that wracked his entire body. His lips moved
soundlessly, agonizing over what he had just done.

Daro turned away from him, running back to the edge

of the quay. A smear of red clouded the water.

Oh, no…no… Gasping, gripping the rail, he started to

throw himself over after the sunken body, but at the last
moment he stopped, threw back his head and uttered an
ululating cry that drew scores of hrill from throughout the
harbor.

All at once, they clamored below him, whistling and

clicking in their native tongue, pressing against his mind
in bewilderment, and all he could do as they overwhelmed
him was focus on the image of a hrill corpse sinking in a
murky cloud of blood.

Fed by this image and its urgency, they ducked back

under the water as he clutched the edge of the quay. He

L.E. BRYCE

was still sobbing, gulping air into his aching lungs. He
could no longer stand, but let his knees fold under him
until he sagged against the planks like a dying man.

Lying with his cheek to the weathered wood, aware of

only the crashing surf, the distant mewling of gulls and his
own heartache, he barely heard when the hrill resurfaced
to tell him there was no sign of the creature.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Five

“Lad, when are you going to open your eyes and talk

to me, eh? You can’t lie there forever.”

The words came to him through a thick haze, floating

past him without his acknowledgement, as all other words
had. He knew his grandfather was speaking to him,
nudging him with hands that tried to be gentle, yet so
distant was he that Antáno might have been murmuring to
and stroking the shoulder of another.

His last clear memory, when he cared to revisit it, was

of his grandfather standing over him, prying him from the
railing and carrying him back to the cottage. There was a
dim, half-remembered image of his aunt bending over him
with a cool cloth and a cup of something hot that he
refused to drink, but beyond this all other words and
forms receded into the shadows and time lost its shape.

Antáno sat on a stool beside his bed, twisting his

leather cap in both hands. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t know,”
he mumbled. He waited a few moments for Daro to
answer, or to at least turn his face away from the wall, but
when he realized his grandson would not respond, he
continued, “I-I went up to the House of the Water today.
Not one of the shrines, but the Lady’s House proper, and
took some coin and a good seabird, the best I could get. I
told the priests what happened and I gave them the
offering.”

He was shaking so hard he could scarcely get the

words out. “They were…they were angry, but I paid the
fine and then…well, then one of them took me aside and

L.E. BRYCE

said the talevé wasn’t dead.”

Those words cut through Daro’s haze, enough that he

stirred and turned slightly on his side. “He’s not dead?” he
whispered. Speaking took more effort than he could
manage.

Antáno hung his head. “For all my foolish efforts, he’s

not. Just injured, the priest said, but he wouldn’t tell me
more. It wasn’t proper, he said, and sent me on my way.”

Closing his eyes, Daro sank back into welcome

lassitude. Arion was injured, yes, but he lived. His heart
should have rejoiced at the news, yet where his heart was
there was only an aching void. Dead or alive, it did not
matter anymore. He would never see Arion again.

A hand closed on his shoulder, a solid weight silently

urging him to turn around. When he did not, he heard the
creak of a chair, then felt the sagging of his mattress as his
grandfather sat next to him. “You fell in love with him,
didn’t you, and not even seeing him in the flesh?” There
was no condemnation in Antáno’s voice, or harshness in
the hand that brushed his tangled hair away from his face.
“Did you know his name?”

“Arion,” Daro whispered. Hearing the name spoken

aloud hurt more than he thought it would. He swallowed
hard, wishing he had lied and said he did not know.

Antáno patted his hand where it peeped out from

beneath the blanket. “I don’t blame you for that, lad,” he
said. “I…well, that is to say, it’s a shameful thing, aye, and
I’d be angry if it wasn’t a talevé, but I know what they can
do to a good man’s senses. I once did as you did. Fell in
love with one, I mean.”

Daro opened his eyes and looked up at his

grandfather. He was not certain what he had heard, or if
he had heard it at all.

Antáno took his grandson’s unfocused gaze for

interest and continued, nervously chewing his lip as he did
so. “Not one, really, but all of them, I’d say. And that’s a

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

hard thing to say, lad, knowing as how folks wouldn’t
approve. I saw them on one of the holy days, when the
priests bring them out to visit the shrines. I was maybe a
bit older than you, and newly married to your
grandmother, and I was as happy as a married man could
be.

“Now I’d never seen much of the parades and that

sort of thing—you know how I think they’re a waste of
time—but there I was in the crowd that day, just there
watching, and along come the priests in their robes with
their banners and behind them… I’d never seen anything
like those young men. Never seen anything that beautiful,
and before I knew it, well, I’d be embarrassed to tell except
to say I’d’ve taken any one of them if they’d offered.”

He gazed at the floor, wringing his leather cap in both

hands and breathing hard. “I went home and that night,
with your grandmother in my arms and us making love,
all I could think about was them. Of course, I loved your
grandmother, but I don’t know what came over me. I’d
heard whispers that it wasn’t unusual to want to…well, to
want a talevé in that way, even if you were a man. That’s
why they’re kept locked up in the Blue House, I suppose.”

Daro understood his grandfather was making amends

in the best way he knew how, and that he was wrong not
to respond, but he was too far removed from himself for
empathy.

“Lad,” Antáno said, “if I’d known what he was, I

never would’ve done what I did, and not just because it’s
forbidden to harm a ki’iri. I’d’ve let you be.”

But it would not have mattered in the end, save that

Arion had left him sooner rather than later. It was foolish
from the beginning. I shouldn’t have spoken to him at all, except
I couldn’t help it.

After a few moments, Antáno gave up waiting for a

response and patted his grandson’s hand before covering
it with the edge of the blanket. “When you’re feeling

L.E. BRYCE

better, lad, and I’ve enough coin saved, I’ll take you to The
Red Apple. There’s some nice girls there, clean and sweet as
you’d want them, and then maybe next year I’ll see about
finding you a wife. Maybe that’s what you need: a good,
pretty young wife to make you forget your troubles. Aye,
I’ll ask around and see what I can find you and you just
forget about this business. It’s for the best, lad, it is.”

Once his grandfather withdrew, he slept again, but

rest did not come as easily as it had before. No longer
could he escape the images of blood clouding the sea, only
now he was naked in the water with the misfired arrow
piercing his heart and he was drowning….

He woke damp and shivering, blinking at the watery

light that filled the window slats. Clutching at the sheets to
pull them up and shut out the morning glare, he realized
they were soaking wet. His hand dropped to the mattress,
feeling wetness all around him, in the straw, on his skin
and in his hair. He ached all over, and was too exhausted
to do more than ignore the chills that wracked him, though
he knew that he could not continue to lie amidst the wet
bedding.

Nausea gripped him and made him lurch sideways as

he tried to get up; he clutched at the bedpost for support.
He stumbled forward a few feet, reaching for the dry cloth
on the chair; he would have to put on dry clothes and
when his stomach settled enough and he had mustered
enough energy to move, take the wet bedding out to hang
by the hearth.

The scrape of house slippers on the wooden floor told

him his aunt had come in with his breakfast. He did not
think he could stomach the taste of food.

“Oh, lad, you’re—” Her cheery greeting suddenly

became the sound of shattering crockery. Daro looked up
just in time to see her clap a hand over her mouth and flee
the room.

He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

words never came. Another wave of nausea left him
speechless. Shivering, he slumped to the floor beside the
chair and dragged the cloth off the back to cover his
nakedness and warm himself.

The next thing he heard, above his own heartbeat and

ragged breathing, were footfalls by the door. Light
streamed in as the curtained partition was pulled aside
and his grandfather came storming in.

“Now stop your whimpering, woman, and tell me—

oh, merciful Lady!”

Daro, doubled over and shivering, read enough into

Antáno’s gasp to be frightened. “What’s…wrong, t-tell
me….”

“It’s surely some sign if ever I’ve seen one.” A heavy

blanket fell around his shoulders and he was being lifted,
not into his own bed but into his grandfather’s where it
was dry. Fingers combed through his damp tangles.
“Woman, bring me a mirror and be quick about it.”

“I-I don’t feel well,” Daro gasped. Out of the corner of

his eye, he saw his aunt fumbling about in a drawer.

“Hold on there, your aunt will get you something to

warm you.” Then Antáno was turning him, carefully
propping him up against his shoulder so he could see
himself in the little hand mirror.

Focused on the glass Antáno held up for him, he

started at the pale haired stranger whose red-rimmed eyes
stared back at him. With a shaking hand, he pulled
forward a strand of his hair, whimpering in terror and
disbelief when he saw that what had been dark brown had
somehow turned white.

“It’s all right, lad,” his grandfather was saying. “I’ll go

get one of the priests. I’ll—”

Daro did not hear him. Wrenching his eyes away from

the mirror, he looked toward his bed where his aunt had
begun stripping the soaked linens. White as the foam on the
Lady’s breast, and Hers forever. But if She had come to him,

L.E. BRYCE

he did not remember it, did not know anything but terror
and the hot ache that made him shiver until his teeth
rattled. He did not think a talevé was supposed to be this
sick.

And somewhere beyond the fever and chills was the

realization that he would have to leave, that the priests
would come and lock him away among strangers, and that
he would never again have the freedom to walk among
ordinary men.

He grasped at Arion’s name, seeking comfort from the

thought that he might at last be able to see the one he
loved, but in the same breath memories of Arion’s
loneliness came to him, and the fear of it crashed against
him in a surge of nausea.

“Easy, lad,” Antáno was saying. “Now let’s put you to

bed and get you some—”

Before he could finish, Daro pulled away from him,

leaned over and vomited.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Six

Daro was awake when the priest came to the house.

Leaving him in the care of his aunt, his grandfather made
haste to the House of the Water and two hours later
brought back a dour priest who peered once through the
curtain but was disinclined to hear anything Antáno had
to say. Daro lay shivering under the covers, wishing his
aunt would draw the curtain closed so he would not have
to listen to them arguing over him.

Antáno urged the priest to look in on his grandson;

the other man, his voice thick with scorn, refused. Daro’s
head ached too much for him to follow all that was said,
but it seemed the priest did not believe the Lady had
visited him during the night. He heard the word fraud,
then heard his grandfather roar his outrage. A door
slammed, a stool was flung hard across the room, and
Antáno bellowed for his daughter to bring him a drink.

After a while, after his temper subsided and he

remembered his sick grandson lying in the sleeping
cubicle, Antáno’s voice softened and he asked if Daro was
any better. A moment later, the curtain parted and he
entered, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Well, I suppose you heard that, lad. The old fart

doesn’t believe me, of course. Says I’m just stirring more
trouble, trying to get in their favor by having you pretend
all this, and he won’t even go to the trouble of looking at
you. Doesn’t want the plague, he says, or whatever else
you have that he doesn’t want to catch. Ah, well, piss on
him.” Antáno felt his forehead, then reached for the cool

L.E. BRYCE

rag Daro’s aunt had left at the bedside. “There’s no saying
that I’ve not made plenty of trouble. If I hadn’t been such a
fool they might have believed me. I’m sorry, lad, I am.”

Daro did not care what the priests said or thought. He

drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to keep down
more than a spoonful of broth at a time. Sometimes he
heard Antáno wondering aloud why he was so ill, and
urging his daughter to try some other remedy.

In his more lucid moments, Daro was frightened by

the change that had come over him. He did not want to see
his reflection in the little mirror, for it was no longer his
reflection, and he did not feel particularly relieved when
his aunt sat by him and murmured that he must have
pleased the Lady very greatly to be so honored.

From the common room, Antano overheard and

snorted. “Hmmph! Pleased the Lady, eh? Oh, pleased Her
so much, he did, that Her priests won’t even take him.
They won’t even look at him. Ah, but it’s all right, lad, you
don’t need those pissheads fawning all over you. You’ll
stay here with your own people and talk to the hrill like
you always do. They’re Her creatures, just as you are, and
maybe that’s what She wants for you, eh?”

Slowly, Daro began to mend, shakily rising from his

bed to attend to small duties about the house, but he was
reluctant to leave the cottage. People would look strangely
on him; even now, his aunt and grandfather did not look
at him as they once had. Although his grandfather had not
repeated his conversation with the priest to him, Daro
understood what the position of the House of the Water
was. They regarded him as one of the many fraudulent
talevé who approached the priests each year hoping to
dissemble their way into the comforts of the Blue House.
People had only to look at him and see that he was still
living in his grandfather’s household to know the priests
had rejected him; they would accuse him of fraud or worse
wherever he appeared.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

He asked his aunt if perhaps she had something with

which he could color his hair and eyebrows, but she only
looked at him and shook her head. She had no such dyes
and was horrified at the suggestion that he would want to
disguise the marks of the Lady’s favor.

For once, Antáno agreed with his daughter. “What’s

the matter with you, lad? You’ve not done anything
wrong, why should you hide yourself? It’s those idiot
priests that ought to be ashamed. You’ve been honored by
Her and you’re not going to hide it.”

Daro was beginning to weary of his grandfather’s

grumbling. He felt like shouting back that he did not want
to be so honored.

Instead of anger, apathy took him. His desire had been

foolish and he had been punished for it in the most terrible
fashion. Now he left the house only out of necessity,
visiting neighbors and going to the market when Antáno
demanded it, but never alone; he would only go in his
grandfather’s company, even though it meant listening to
Antáno publicly fume over the injustice done to his family
by the priests.

Daro had nothing to say in his own defense. He was

content to let his grandfather speak for him, though he
would have preferred that Antáno not say anything at all.
Shame made him hold his tongue; to have answered the
questions his neighbors flung at him would have been to
admit he did not remember the Lady’s touch, and that he
had fallen in love with one who, even though he was a
talevé, was still another male.

It was as he expected, and worse. Some did not

believe the priests would have turned away a genuine
talevé and still others wanted to touch him, to run their
fingers through his hair to see for themselves that it truly
was the marvel they called the Lady’s bridal veil. They had
never been so close to a talevé, they said, their honeyed

L.E. BRYCE

voices suggesting they wanted to do more than merely
satisfy their curiosity.

At such times, Daro wanted to snap at them that he

was not an object to be pawed and passed about, and that
the women in particular had no business putting their
hands on him when it was expressly forbidden. Instead, he
murmured some polite excuse and left.

He returned to his duties among the hrill out of

desperation, finding in the work a solace that he had not
known before. Hrill did not recognize a senu based on his
appearance and paid no attention to physical beauty or
defects; they knew only his scent and the touch of his
mind, which had, they said, changed subtly while he was
away. They understood he had been ill, but of deities and
priests and the petty lusts and suspicions of human beings,
they knew nothing.

His transformation brought mixed blessings. While he

took to hiding his white hair under one of his
grandfather’s leather caps, he reveled in the newfound
clarity with which he could hear and sense the hrill, to the
point where he was amazed that he had been able to
perform his job before; he felt like a man who, once deaf
and blind, had suddenly had his senses restored to him.

There was no more of the exhaustion or headaches his

work typically brought on. Because of this, he was able to
spend far more time with the hrill than a senu usually did,
which delighted them and eased his spirits.

Sometimes he caught himself looking out to sea, his

gaze crossing the bay to the heights where the House of
the Water with its gardens and attendant outbuildings
overlooked the sea, or out to deeper waters in the thin
hope that one of the dark bodies that swam toward him
was Arion. His thoughts drifted, recalling the ki’iri’s visits,
wishing there could have been more, until the hrill butted
against him or clicked in protest that he was ignoring
them.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Antáno watched him, sometimes opening his mouth

as if to ask why his grandson was so distant and forlorn
when he returned from the beach, but always bit back
whatever question was on his lips.

L.E. BRYCE

Chapter Seven

Winter began to turn toward spring. Antáno still

spoke sometimes of finding Daro a bride, but it was a dead
hope and they both knew it. Whether the priests
acknowledged him or not, whether the Lady wanted him
or not, a talevé belonged solely to Her. No mortal woman
would risk tempting Her wrath by lying with him now.

“It was all so simple,” Antáno said. “When your father

died, it was as simple as raising you as my own, and then
when you were old enough and showed the senu gift, well,
I knew I’d have somebody to pass the trade to. And I’d
been hoping you’d have a wife of your own and little ones,
and that one of them would have the gift, too. But now—”
He contemplated his ale with heavy eyes before drinking.
“Now I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Daro, who had no answer to give, remained silent by

the hearth. His world had narrowed, encompassing only
the cottage, beach and quay; he no longer went to the
market and he retreated to the back room whenever
visitors came for his grandfather. Sometimes he peered out
at them through the partition curtain, noting how their
eyes roamed the house in search of him.

Once, when Endine visited with his son, Seril’s

questing gaze caught him. The young man’s face changed,
his eyes hardening with lust. Catching his breath in terror,
Daro abruptly wrenched the curtain into place and
retreated; he heard Endine snap at his son to pay attention,
but in his mind’s eye Seril’s eyes were still following him.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

The next day, a pair of hands seized him unseen and

dragged him behind the woodshed. Daro struggled to see
who it was, but he was crushed close against another
body. Rough fingers tore away his leather cap and
entangled themselves in his hair to wrench his head up,
and a hard mouth pressed against his before he could cry
out.

The hand that was not grasping his hair fumbled at

his tunic, wrenching away the cord he used as a belt and
groping at his chest. Harsh fingers pinched his nipples.

“That’s it,” breathed a man’s voice. “You know you

like this.”

Seril! Before Daro could protest, a tongue thrust into

his mouth, wanting to taste him, and the pinching,
prodding fingers reached down to squeeze his buttocks
and, coming around to his front, seized his hand and
pressed it against the hard bulge that was digging into his
thigh.

At the feel of the other man’s erection, Daro stopped

caring about the pain in his scalp. He bit down on the
tongue in his mouth, tasting blood even as he kicked out
and felt his boot strike Seril’s shin. With a cry of pain, Seril
released him, shoving him back so hard that he stumbled.
He seized hold of a post before he could fall and steadied
himself in the same breath that he snatched a piece of
wood off the pile and brandished it before him as a
weapon.

Furious eyes met his. Gasping in pain, Seril shook his

head as though coming out of a trance, and spat out a
mouthful of blood. “You unnatural thing!” he growled. He
stared at the blood on his hands, then at the cord he still
held and Daro’s rumpled clothing; he let the cord drop.
“What have you done to me?”

Holding the wood out before him in warning, Daro

hissed, “Don’t touch me again.”

“They should lock you away or kill you,” said Seril.

L.E. BRYCE

Blood streamed down his chin, running down his neck to
saturate the collar of his tunic, and tears of pain stood out
in his eyes. Clutching a hand to his mouth, he turned and
stumbled away.

Daro stayed frozen in place long after he left, unable

to face his aunt or anyone else in his shame. And he did
not know that his attacker was truly gone. Seril could
return and seize him as he had done before, or bring others
to do to him what he had tried to do alone.

The thought of others forcing him drove Daro into a

panic that told him the only safety was behind a locked
door. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers from the piece of
wood in his hand and straightened his clothing. He took a
deep breath before cautiously edging his way out from
behind the woodshed, where no one was waiting to
ambush him, and went inside.

As he feared, his aunt all but pounced on him with a

cheery countenance. “You’re back so early! Now, you’ve
not been taxing yourself, have you? You know what your
grandfather said about that.”

Daro, fearing to say too much, shook his head and

told her that it was only a senu’s headache.

“I thought you didn’t get those anymore, dear. Do you

want some tea?”

He waved away the offer and moved past her toward

his cubicle, where he promptly drew the curtain and
curled up in a corner of the bed, drawing his knees up to
his chest as he used to do when he was a child.

With both hands, he covered his face and wondered

what terrible thing he had become that he could drive
another into such a frenzy of lust. And to think I wanted
Arion to touch me like that, to put his hands on me and… He
could no longer picture it without revulsion, could not get
Seril’s taste out of his mouth or the feel of those hands
pulling his hair, grasping between his legs and wanting
him to do the same.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Curling even more tightly into himself, he tried to

hold back his tears. He told himself he would not cry, that
he was too old to cry and had not done anything that
deserved tears, but still they came. Perhaps Seril’s right and I
am a changeling, or something else unnatural and terrible.
Perhaps I should be locked up or killed, just as he says.

His aunt, peeking in through the curtain, saw him

weeping. “Oh, now, lad, what’s the matter? Does your
head hurt that bad? You’re just like your grandfather, too
much of a man to say so.” He heard her come around to
his side of the bed and felt her weight as she sat down on
the edge of the mattress beside him. Gentle hands stroked
his hair as she had done when he was little, then froze as
they traced the throbbing patches of his scalp.

“Who did this to you?” she asked coldly. He shook his

head and refused to answer, but she persisted. “Who
attacked you, lad? Daro, if you won’t tell me, then when
your grandfather comes home you—”

“Leave me alone,” he groaned, shaking off her

probing hands. “Please, you’re not even supposed to touch
me.

She withdrew her hand but did not leave. “Daro, did

they try to—?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper, as if
fearing to say the word aloud. A finger hovered near his
mouth, not quite touching him. “There’s blood on your
mouth. Did they—?”

“It’s not mine,” he said. “Please, leave me alone.” He

struggled to hold his emotions in check, but if she did not
stop hovering over him he knew he would burst.

Reluctantly, she withdrew and closed the curtain, yet

he felt her constant presence nearby, worrying at him. An
hour passed, then Antáno came home, and Daro knew it
was he even before his familiar footfalls crossed the
threshold from the way his aunt flew to the door and
opened it. Snatches of her frantic conversation reached his
ears, including the word he dreaded. Someone had raped

L.E. BRYCE

him, she said. Daro put his face in his hands and groaned.
No, that’s not true! he wanted to shout.

His grandfather had a ready answer. “Yes, I already

know what happened. It was Endine’s brat, and no, Seril
didn’t force him. Tried to, is more like it. The fool boy’s
tongue is nearly bitten in two, and he won’t say as to how
it got that way except to mutter on about some unnatural
creature. I don’t need to hear the rest of it.”

Antano drew back the curtain and quietly sat down

beside him. Fingers probed his scalp, pulling back when
Daro winced. “He pulled some of it out, the bastard, but
it’ll heal.”

“He…he didn’t,” Daro croaked.
“No, I know he didn’t. That’s just your worrisome

aunt talking,” said Antáno. “You gave better than you got.
He’ll think twice about laying a hand on you again, but I’d
be lying if I said I didn’t worry. People have been
muttering, you know they have, and now this happens. He
can’t hide what he tried to do, but already he’s going
around telling anybody who’ll listen that you drove him to
it, that you’re a changeling who drives men mad with
unnatural lust. It’s not your fault, lad, it’s not, but some of
them are going to pay heed to that fool.”

Paralyzed by fear and shame, Daro could do no more

than listen. Whatever his fate was, it would be terrible, and
death was the least of it. Had there been anything in his
stomach, he would have retched at the thought of Seril
laying hands on him again.

Antano saw him bite his lip. “I’m not going to sit here

and do nothing while that boy gathers a mob. There’re
other Blue Houses in other cities, and other priests. If the
idiots here don’t have the sense to take you, I’ll find
somebody who will.”

Daro did not tell him that he did not want to go to

another city, or be parted from the sea. He did not want to
be locked away with no hope of ever seeing Arion again;

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

until now, there had always been that thin hope. I asked
Her to forgive me. I didn’t mean to want one of Her lovers, to
think of him like that, but… For a time, he had thought he
was forgiven, yet understood now that what seemed like a
gift could just as easily become a curse when no one else
acknowledged it.

I would rather die than be driven away, he thought, but

did not have the heart to tell his grandfather. Antáno had
no other hope for him; he could not inflict upon him the
pain of watching others slaughter him for a changeling.

Numbly, he nodded his agreement.
“Good lad,” said Antáno, stroking his hair. “I’ll start

asking first thing tomorrow. Until then, you don’t go out
except to see the hrill, and if it gets ugly then you don’t go
out at all.”

Drawing a blanket over him, his grandfather got up

and pulled the curtain closed behind him. Daro lay quietly
for a time, silent tears running down his face as he
watched the shadows grow close in the room.

Afternoon had turned toward sunset when he got up

again. His aunt saw him emerge from the cubicle and
smiled, offering him tea, which he refused. Antáno was
nowhere in sight, but outside he heard the knock of an axe
against wood and knew his grandfather was splitting
kindling for the hearth.

“Well, lad,” his aunt said, “if you don’t want tea,

would you like a bit of something to eat? You’ve not been
eating enough.”

He shook his head as he went to sit on the bench by

the window. It was slightly open, carrying the sharp chill
of spring into the house. Reaching up, he moved to close
the pane and fasten the latch, pausing when the breeze
suddenly carried to him the sound and scent of hrill.

“You want to go out, lad?” He had not seen his

grandfather enter the house under an armload of kindling.

L.E. BRYCE

“I sense hrill out there, but you be careful. High tide will
come soon and you don’t know what else is lurking.”

Daro stepped outside. Already the sun was low on the

horizon, gilding the waters of the bay. Pebbles scraped
against his shoes as he took the familiar path down to the
quay and then stopped. The breeze stirred his hair and
stung a face stiff with dried tears. A terrible sadness seized
him, overflowing and shattering the bonds of his apathy.
He had known love, and then it had turned back on him
and cursed him nine fold. If he lived, if anyone ever looked
at him with desire again, it would be with the kind of lust
that cared nothing about his spirit.

The hrill were calling to him, and somewhere past

their clicks and squeals he sensed the music of the depths
that cradled both life and death. Men drew their livelihood
from the sea and were offered up to it when they died.

Throwing back his head, he returned the call of the sea

with a shriek that was not the cry with which he called the
hrill but a formless utterance of anguish. And then, driven
by some madness, by a mindless need he did not
understand, he was sprinting forward, tearing at his
clothing, flinging the shreds behind him.

Below, the hrill whistled in distress. He gave the dark

shapes bobbing in the water only a cursory glance as he
clambered over the railing and flung himself into the cold,
pungent embrace of the sea.

He did not see his grandfather racing to the edge of

the quay, breathlessly clutching the torn clothes to him as
he looked out to sea for a body that did not surface.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Eight

Muffled in cloaks and blankets, carried between

several people, Daro found land again in the form of a
rough mattress. He felt the straw ticking jab his skin, then
callused fingers prying open his jaw to pour liquid down
his throat. He choked and retched on the burning, bitter
spirits, deaf to the consoling noises above him as he lost
consciousness once more.

Opening his eyes to weak candlelight, he saw strange

faces shrouded in blue hovering over him. Someone was
examining him, prodding him and turning him this way
and that until he moaned. Murmuring greeted the sound
and the hands withdrew.

One blue figure, a beardless middle-aged man, bent to

his ear and asked his name. He did not remember giving
it. His hands fumbled weakly at the mattress, but instead
of rough straw or sea grass a cloud of silk and air
supported his body. Bewilderment was swiftly smothered
by apathy; he was exhausted and empty, not caring where
he lay even as he mumbled for his grandfather and was
told he would not be permitted to see anyone except
priests, servants or other talevé.

Apathy did not recognize titles, or wonder at the

strangely androgynous servants who wiped his brow with
a cool cloth.

A pair of white-haired figures hovered in the doorway

like ghosts, until a gesture and a word dispersed them.

“You have been ill a long time,” said a voice. Opening

his eyes, Daro realized with some amazement that he did

L.E. BRYCE

not recognize the room in which he lay, and that it was
more richly appointed than anyplace he had ever been.

Slowly turning his head to the side, he saw the

beardless man again. His lips were moving; it took Daro a
moment to realize that sound and movement were
connected and that the priest sitting beside him was
talking to him, picking up the thread of speech as if Daro
had been listening the entire time, “This is not uncommon
when talevé manifest their ki’iri gift for the first time.”

Daro heard the words but did not comprehend them.

Seeing this, the priest bent forward and lifted a finger
before Daro’s eyes, moving it slightly back and forth to
measure how Daro’s eyes followed it. He seemed pleased.
“You are awake and somewhat attentive,” he said. “That is
a good sign for one who has been neglected for so long.
You were not at all trained in the use of your gift. The
results could have been disastrous, but we will not speak
of that now.”

Daro blinked to show his alertness, yet did not speak.

His throat felt dry from disuse.

“My name is Aglarin,” said the priest. “I am the ki’iri

master, the one who trains the talevé in the use of their gift.
You will be seeing much more of me in the weeks and
months to come.”

At last, Daro found his voice. “What did I do?”
Aglarin lifted a questioning eyebrow. “You do not

remember? You transformed yourself into a hrill, and
somehow managed to get yourself out of that form as well.
Beyond that, I cannot say what you did.”

The priest gave him a moment to absorb this

information before speaking again. “I have heard
something about you, young man. You are the one whose
grandfather has kept insisting is a genuine talevé. It is now
quite obvious that you are.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

“You did not believe my grandfather before,” Daro

said. Despite his weakness, his voice managed to convey
some of his bitterness. “Why do you believe him now?”

“Because five witnesses saw a hrill beach itself and

turn into a man before their eyes. One of them was a senu.”

“My grandfather is a senu.”
Aglarin had the decency to look apologetic. “Yes, I

know. All I can say is that if I had answered the summons
in place of Elhan, perhaps this would not have happened.
But no matter now, you are here and you are safe, and I
will educate you in the further use of your gifts.”

A tall, white-haired young man came in with a tray of

food that he set down on the table beside the bed. His gaze
lingered on Daro for a moment before he gave a little
smile, bowed and left the room.

Daro gave a little start. “Who was that? I’ve never

seen a talevé so close.”

“That was Olveru. He assists the healers sometimes,

so you will see him again shortly,” answered Aglarin.
“There are sixteen talevé residing here in the Blue House,
but you will not meet the others until you are well enough.
For now, you are to stay here and rest.”

Once the priest left, gently closing the door behind

him, Daro was content to remain bundled under the soft
bedcovers and let his gaze drift about the room. It was
easily five times the size of his cubicle in his grandfather’s
cottage. The walls were freshly whitewashed and hung
with tapestries, while his bed was hung with heavy velvet
curtains. A fireplace poured warmth into the room, and
carpets insulated the floor. By the window, cushions were
strewn atop a long chest intended to hold clothing and
linens.

His window faced west, and he marveled at the

luxury of real glass as he watched the sunset turn the
diamond-cut panes to molten red and gold. As the
growing twilight cast long shadows across the room, he

L.E. BRYCE

heard from below the subtle evening noises of the Blue
House.

His gaze passed over the tray of food Olveru had left

for him; he was not hungry enough to see what the
covered dishes contained. Instead, he closed his eyes and
let himself drift off into slumber once more.

Dreams came to him, tempting him with the shadow-

dark depths of the sea where other bodies like his own
came swimming toward him; they regarded him with
recognition and bewilderment, for the shape he wore was
not the one they had known, yet they swam with him for a
time, showing him the best places to find food. He darted
with them into a school of fish, opening his mouth to let
the teeming bodies pour down his throat, listening to the
clicks of delight all around him. And then, exhaustion
pulled him toward land, through the crashing surf onto
the wet sand where he lay too boneless even to cover his
own nakedness.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Nine

Arion is here, he must be. Daro turned the thought over

in his mind, wondering at his lack of excitement. What he
had wanted for so long was near, perhaps as close as the
next room, and yet he was dead to anticipation. There was
still the matter of Arion’s near-fatal encounter with
Antáno’s crossbow. That Arion had not come to see him
suggested to Daro that he might not want anything more
to do with the young senu who had nearly been the cause
of his death.

Such thoughts poisoned Daro’s mood. If he turns me

away, what will I do then? I can’t live the rest of my life with
him hating me.

Aglarin misconstrued his sadness as longing for the

family and life he had left behind. “Your homesickness
will pass,” he said consolingly. “I will send word to your
grandfather that you are well. From what you have told
me, no doubt he has been worried about you.”

At twilight, after the evening meal, the priest returned

to him. A troubled look creased his brow. “You did not tell
us how others treated you in your time outside the Blue
House,” he said sternly. “You certainly did not tell us you
had been attacked.”

Daro caught his breath at the reference to Seril, whom

he had nearly forgotten. The humiliation that came with
recollection made him bite his lip. “It is nothing,” he
croaked.

“To lay violent hands upon a talevé is death, to rape

him or attempt to do so is death. That is the law,” said

L.E. BRYCE

Aglarin. “The young man was seized by guards of the
temple this afternoon and is now in custody.”

Blasphemers who actively defiled the property or

images of the gods could be put to death, usually in a
manner befitting the god they had insulted. Those who
offended Min were thrown from a cliff, while those who
committed crimes against the Lady of the Waters were
weighted, taken onto the open sea and drowned, but Daro
had never considered Seril’s actions an act of blasphemy.
The thought had not even occurred to him until this
moment.

“We know what he did,” continued Aglarin. “Your

grandfather has told us as much and the young man has
admitted it, though he seems to have little recollection of
the incident. Why did you not say anything? You have the
right to bring charges against him.”

Trembling slightly, Daro turned his gaze out the

window, which afforded him a view of the House of the
Water’s rooftop, the blue haze of the sea and the white
cliffs curving into the distance. “It wasn’t his fault,” he
said. “I hate what he did, but it wasn’t his fault. He’s not
the kind who…who likes males that way. He didn’t know
what he was doing. He said I must be a changeling to do
that to him. After all, if you wouldn’t take me, then I must
have been a changeling. How was he to know any better?”

As much as Aglarin sympathized with him, he

informed Daro that the law of the temple must be obeyed.
He ended by telling Daro that once he was well enough, he
would be taught his letters and educated in the laws and
customs of the temple. He would learn the etiquette and
other refinements expected of a talevé, which included
dropping all contractions and all other colloquial forms
from his speech.

“The other priests will tell you that talevé do not speak

like commoners, even if they were born as such.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

“I’m not ashamed of the way I speak,” Daro said

stiffly.

“You do this to please the Lady.”
“If I didn’t already please the Lady, I wouldn’t be

here.”

Aglarin paused then conceded the point with a smile.

“Yes, that is true. Still, talevé are considered nobility, and as
such they must behave accordingly. Some become priests,
and priests are not allowed to speak like peasants.”

“I already know how to read and write,” said Daro,

though he did not add that his abilities were rather
limited. He knew how to write his name and read such
documents as one might find on the waterfront; he had
never had need for more.

One look from Aglarin told him the priest saw

through his answer. “I have nothing to do with tutoring
you in that art; you will have to debate the issue with those
who do. However, in the matter of your ki’iri training, you
did not tell me you were also a senu. This would explain
why you were able to take hrill form so easily; you had
studied them a very long time and knew their ways
intimately.”

“When will I be able to see them again?”
“Do you have a need to go out? It is rather soon for

the hrill spirit to call to you again.”

Daro shook his head. “No, I don’t need to change. It’s

just that I’m used to getting up everyday and going to talk
to the hrill. It feels strange not to.”

Aglarin nodded and stroked his chin. “A talevé who is

also a senu is a very rare thing; that you are also a hrill is
considered a threefold blessing. Now normally a talevé is
not permitted to continue the trade he practiced before
coming here, but a senu is also one of the Lady’s servants. I
will look into the possibility of your continuing that work,
but you must be obedient and attend to your lessons,” he

L.E. BRYCE

said. He winked, then added, “Even those you do not
believe you require.”

A day later, Daro was able to get up and leave his

room for the first time. Olveru showed him the bathing
room and lavatory down the corridor, and helped him to
dress in the clothing the servants brought. Of fine wool
and linen, the tunic, leggings and light robe were of better
make than even his holy day clothes, although the shoes
were borrowed and did not quite fit.

“These clothes are too good for me,” Daro protested.
Olveru assured him that what he wore was everyday

attire in the Blue House. As for ceremonial clothing,
someone would come to take his measurements for robes.
A cobbler and a jeweler would also be summoned.

A servant brought in two basins of water; one was set

on the washstand, the other on a table by the window.
Daro’s eyes followed the man, but waited until he was
gone to comment. “They’re very strange, the servants.”

“They are eunuchs,” Olveru explained, “brought here

from the slave markets of Tajhaan in the east. Of course,
we do not keep them as slaves. They are honored members
of our household.”

Daro did not know what a eunuch was until Olveru

told him. The answer horrified him, even when the other
talevé clarified the matter. “We do not do that to them; they
come to us already castrated. Women are forbidden to
serve in the Blue House. Those who prepare our food and
launder our clothing are men, but even they find it difficult
to bear our presence sometimes. Eunuchs are the only kind
of men who could serve us without being affected. They
are gentle creatures. You will soon get used to them.”

As Daro dressed, two other talevé peered through the

doorway, wanting to be introduced; neither of them was
Arion. Daro bit his lip in the presence of these beautiful,
inquisitive creatures who fussed over him and asked more
questions than he wished to answer. He wanted to ask

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

about Arion, yet fell silent before he could pluck up his
courage.

He doesn’t want to see me. That could be the only

explanation for Arion’s continued absence.

The healers judged he was not yet strong enough to go

downstairs to take his meals in the communal dining hall
or to join in the daily exercises, so Daro was confined to
the upper floor. This left him with little to do, for most of
the activity of the House took place on the lower level.

Some of the eunuchs went from room to room,

bundling dirty linens and clothing for laundering. Daro
offered to help them, but at once they backed away from
him with short, nervous bows and would not continue
until he left.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of

profound boredom that was slightly relieved by the arrival
of a cobbler. Measurements were taken for soft leather
house slippers as well as sturdier shoes for outdoor wear;
the former would be ready and delivered to him within
two days.

That evening, as he took supper by the open window,

the sounds of a row broke the twilight stillness. An angry
male voice drifted toward him from somewhere within the
House.

You idiot! I am fully aware of the charges brought against

that man. He could have been raped or killed. What do you think
you were doing?

Daro froze over his next mouthful of soup. Whoever it

was, he realized, they were arguing over him. He could
not hear the reply, but the first voice answered in the same
venomous tone as before. The man’s rage echoed across
the rooftops.

And when he learns the law, he can bring charges against

you for your stupidity. Get out of my sight, Elhan! If I ever lay
eyes on you again, I will…

A door slammed, followed a moment or two later by a

second.

L.E. BRYCE

Late the next morning, Aglarin and another priest

came to him and informed him that the House of the
Water had declared its verdict. Even as they spoke, Seril
was being taken in chains aboard the ship that would bear
him to his execution.

The blood drained from Daro’s limbs into the pit of

his stomach. He felt like vomiting. “They decided so
soon?”

Aglarin came to stand beside him at the window.

“There was little to debate. It should have been quite
obvious to the young man that you were not a changeling.
You clearly bore the marks of Her favor. Therefore he had
no right to touch you.”

“Marks you ignored!”
“Elhan has been punished for his role in this. Already

he has been banished from this House, but I think you and
many others heard that row, so I do not need to tell you
about it.”

Daro’s curiosity over who had so publicly evicted

Elhan last night was smothered by the desperation of the
moment. “Seril’s his father’s only son. You can’t do this.”

“The law is the law,” said the other priest, who stood

by the door. Daro marveled that the two of them could be
so nonchalant at such a moment.

Rather than argue, Daro looked out the window.

Somewhere on the water, slowly making its way beyond
the cliffs that formed Sirilon’s natural harbor, was a little
boat carrying a condemned man.

“It is too late now, even if we might act,” Aglarin told

him.

“Then why did you come here to tell me?” Daro flung

at him. “Did you think I’d be happy to hear the news?”

“No, of course not,” Aglarin replied, “but it was our

duty to inform you.”

Both priests bowed to him before leaving and closing

the door. Trembling with rage, Daro waited a space, then

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

snatched a cushion off the clothes chest and flung it hard
at the door. A second cushion followed. He seized a
candlestick off a table, but then stopped.

Still shaking, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Neither rage nor tears were of any use now; a hollow grief
took their place. He hated what Seril had done to him, but
did not hate him or Endine enough to want Seril’s death.

There was a knock on the door. Olveru waited a

moment, carefully edging the door open and peering in
when there was no answer. He noted the two cushions on
the floor. “You are troubled,” he said. “Perhaps you would
like to go down and visit the Lady’s shrine? It is a good
place to sit and think.”

Too numb to argue, Daro let Olveru lead him

downstairs, across a short colonnade and through an
enclosed garden whose flower beds and trees were tended
by talevé who paused to look up as the newcomer passed.
Olveru stopped to introduce them, cutting the
conversation short only when he realized Daro was in no
mood to socialize.

At the end of the garden, they came to a pair of doors

set with panels of greened copper; the symbol of the Lady
upon them marked this as Her shrine.

“There was some unease from within recently,” said

Olveru, “but that is not unusual when She stirs. It has been
calm now for many days.” He placed his hand upon the
latch and lifted it, swinging one of the doors inward.

The circular shrine was open to the sky, and the air

within was cooler and moister than that outside. A copper
statue of the Lady occupied a niche at the far end, but the
centerpiece of the shrine was a shallow pond called a
yanati pool. In a low voice, Olveru explained that this was
Her home within the Blue House.

“I will be in one of the back rooms distilling herbs,” he

said, “but Alanáro is outside and will know where to find
me if you need anything.”

L.E. BRYCE

A narrow stone bench stood against one wall. Daro sat

down and contemplated the faint steam rising off the pool.
Perhaps if he said a prayer to the Lady, if there was time
enough, She might yet spare Seril’s life.

“Lady,” he whispered, “don’t let them kill Seril. He

didn’t mean to do it. Endine’s a good man; he can’t lose his
only son. Please, they didn’t ask me if I wanted him
punished. If he has to suffer, let him be whipped or kept in
the prison for a little while, but don’t let them drown him.
He didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t mean to do
it. He doesn’t even like men…well, doesn’t like them that
way.”

In this contained space, even a whisper became an

echo. Daro heard his prayer magnified against the walls,
but from the pool there was no answer. Like the priests,
the Lady had turned a deaf ear to him. After a moment, he
slumped where he sat, hopeless.

With a soft creak, one of the doors opened and a

young man entered. It was not Olveru, for this man was
taller and broader in the shoulder, with full lips and hair
that fell past his waist. Daro wondered if Alanáro had
come looking for him until the other talevé sat down beside
him, very close, and lifted a hand to touch his face. In the
coolness of the shrine, Daro felt the warmth radiating from
him and was entranced.

A thumb gently traced his lips, lingering. This was no

innocent touch, and he knew it and did not care. He did
not note the exact moment when the fingers were replaced
by soft lips; he shed all thought of time and place and
opened himself to that first, tentative kiss.

“Arion?” he murmured. It could not possibly be

anyone else.

His would-be lover pulled away long enough to

breathe in his ear that it was he.

Daro drew back to look at him, his hand coming up to

touch the other’s smooth cheek. Arion was even more

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

radiant than he had imagined, more beautiful than any
man had a right to be.

“I thought you were dead. The priests said you

weren’t, but that day when I saw the blood in the water, I
thought you were dead.” Abashed, Daro buried his face in
the silky wool of Arion’s robe, clutching the other’s body
to him. “Why did you wait so long to see me?”

A hand stroked his hair. “Because the healers told me

you were not well enough for company,” said Arion.
“Hush, do not worry now. The arrow grazed my side, but
it did not pierce me. I was not badly injured.”

“I’m sorry,” Daro said. “My grandfather is sorry, he

didn’t know. I should’ve told him. I’m sorry.”

Arms wound around him, pulling him closer, and he

responded in kind, running his hands along the smooth
fabric of Arion’s tunic, up his arms, feeling the play of
muscles there, and up across his back. He felt a hand reach
down to cup his buttocks and another slide up to stroke
his neck; he let his head fall back, welcoming the lips that
pressed against his pulsing artery, the tongue that slid
hotly into his ear.

“Come with me.” Arion’s invitation was a hot breath

across his cheek. “The Lady would not mind if we stayed
here, but there are better places.”

Placing his hand in Arion’s, Daro rose and followed

him out of the shrine. The talevé in the garden marked their
passing with furtive smiles that indicated their approval.
Earlier in the week, from one of the upper story windows,
Daro had seen two of them sitting under an eave of the
garden, their arms wrapped around each other as they
kissed passionately.

Unable to tear his eyes away and aroused more than

was proper, Daro had watched until Olveru surprised him.
He blushed and tried to divert attention away from his
voyeurism, but Olveru merely nodded and explained that
his reaction was quite natural. Although talevé were denied

L.E. BRYCE

the love of mortal women, they were not expected to
remain celibate. The law of the House of the Water
allowed them to love each other; Daro was stunned to
learn the priests actually encouraged this, for in the world
outside such activity would have been condemned as a
perversion of nature.

Arion led him up the stairs to the upper level where

the talevé had their living quarters. Only once did Daro
hesitate, and only because he did not know what he would
do once they reached their destination. His body wanted
the pleasure he knew was coming, though his nerves told
him he did not know how to reciprocate. He had never
given pleasure to a male, and did not know if his touches
would please his lover or leave him frustrated.

By one of the corner tables, Arion paused to light a

candle from one of the sconces, then they moved into
Daro’s room. The door softly shut behind him and the
candlestick was carefully set down on a nearby table.

Feeling Arion’s presence behind him, Daro started to

turn, when he felt a warm, firm body press up against his
back. Arms came around to embrace him, one hand sliding
up his chest while the other gently pulled his hair away
from the nape of his neck. Lips traced the line of his throat,
moving up to his jaw, and when Daro turned slightly, the
lips fastened on his, drinking in the soft moan that escaped
him as Arion’s other hand brushed a nipple through the
fabric of his tunic.

“I’ve never… Please, I-I don’t know how to do this.”
The caressing hands stopped. “If you do not want to

do this, I will not force you. I know another tried, but I will
not force you.”

Daro turned in his arms. “No, I-I want to, but I don’t

know how.”

Arion smiled into the kiss. “Have you ever been with

a woman?”

“A few times, yes, but—”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

“It is not much different than that.” Arion gently

grasped one of his hands and slid it between their bodies,
brushing it across the hard bulge in his groin. “Touch me
the way you would want me to touch you.”

Seril had done that with him, placed his hand there

and wanted him to stroke his hardness, but then the mere
thought of touching another man in this way had sickened
him. Daro kissed Arion back, letting the other’s tongue
into his mouth, and stroked where the other wanted him
to stroke, reveling in the way Arion moaned into the kiss.

When a hand slid between his legs, mimicking his

own caresses, Daro thought he would come through his
leggings. It had been so long since anyone had done that
for him. Then, just as suddenly, the stroking hand stopped
and began to unfasten the buttons of his tunic. A teasing
tongue outlined his collarbone, then slid lower, circling
and flicking one of his nipples.

Daro felt his knees turn to water when Arion’s lips

captured the tiny nub and began to suckle gently. “Oh,
Lady…”

Pausing, Arion slid back up his body to whisper in his

ear, “Be careful. She is listening.” His gaze indicated the
basin of water by the window, the mysterious second
basin the servants had brought and instructed him not to
touch.

Arion undid the remaining buttons, but when he tried

to push the tunic off Daro’s shoulders, Daro stopped him
with nervous hands. “Please, I don’t—”

“I want to see you,” Arion said huskily. His fingers

were already unbuttoning his own tunic, sliding the
watery fabric off firm shoulders. Daro did not have to see
the rest of his body to know he was perfect.

“But the healers say I’m too thin. I—”
Arion silenced him with a kiss. “Then we will simply

make you eat more. Here, take this off. I want to touch
you.”

L.E. BRYCE

The feel of a naked torso against his own was

intoxicating, and Daro did not protest when those same
insistent fingers began unlacing his trousers. All he cared
about now was finding release. When Arion did not seem
to undo the lacings quickly enough, Daro impatiently
reached down to help, his fingers tangling with his lover’s
until he batted them away and pulled down his leggings,
frantically kicking off his shoes when they got in the way.

“I cannot wait for you either,” said Arion, chuckling.

He was already settling onto the bed, holding out his arms
for Daro to join him. The candlelight played off his
sculpted contours. His long hair just brushed his buttocks,
pale silk teasing firm flesh. The sight of his naked body
made Daro pause and gape, and he was suddenly
reminded how inadequate he was.

Seeing his hesitation, Arion reached over, took him by

the hand and tugged him down. “If you think I am
impressive,” he whispered in Daro’s ear, “then you have
not seen Enedhil. He has a cock that would put a horse to
shame.”

Embarrassment dissolved into laughter. Daro slid his

hands up his lover’s flanks, conscious of the erect cock
brushing against his own. Whispering words of
encouragement in his ear, Arion kissed his neck. “It will
take time for your body to change,” he said. “After you
received the marks of Her favor, you were ill, yes?”

Daro, too busy exploring his lover’s back, mumbled

yes.

“That was your body beginning to change—” A

tongue slid into his ear “—to become more fluid, so you
can—” Teeth gently grazed his earlobe “—change your
shape when She wills it. You are still mortal, but—” Arion
began kissing his way down Daro’s neck, his fingers
teasing the nipple he had suckled earlier. “Mortal,
but…hmm, not quite now.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Warm lips closed over the nipple, while Arion’s

fingers wandered across Daro’s chest in search of its twin.
Daro moaned, forgetting the question he had been about to
ask, then forgot to breathe altogether when Arion
abandoned the tiny nubs to run his lips farther down his
torso.

Is he going to—? His answer came in the form of a

tongue that firmly traced the underside of his cock before
circling the crown and delving into the slit at the top. Daro
gasped and was reduced to incoherent moaning as the
teasing tongue was replaced by a warm mouth that drew
him in and out with increasing speed and suction. The
sensation was beyond belief. He had heard that men liked
having their cocks stimulated like this, but neither of the
women he had been with previously had ever done it for
him.

“I…oh…I’m going to…” He could not get out the rest

of it, could not do more than tangle his fingers in his
lover’s hair; Arion had an arm firmly braced against his
hips to keep him from bucking. All at once, he wanted to
thrust into Arion’s mouth, yet he also wanted to pull out
before he came.

Release took him harder than it had ever taken him

before. Arching his back, he emptied himself in an intense
spasm that gripped his body and would not stop. The line
between pleasure and pain blurred, leaving him breathless
and trembling.

“Did you like that?” a voice murmured in his ear.

Before he could recover his breath to answer, Arion was
kissing him again. This time, however, the kiss tasted salty
and slightly bitter, and with some embarrassment Daro
realized why.

“You…I…in your mouth?” he gasped. “I didn’t mean

to.”

Arion nuzzled his neck. “Oh, but I wanted you to,” he

said, “and I enjoyed it very much.”

L.E. BRYCE

A hand clasped his, guiding him to the erection that

prodded his thigh. Still trying to catch his breath, Daro
began to stroke up and down, the way he liked to stroke
himself. He bent to kiss Arion’s collarbone and the hollow
of his throat, while Arion caressed his back and murmured
encouragements into his hair.

He felt Arion shift slightly under him and lean

forward to whisper in his ear, “Try it in your mouth.”

Daro hesitated. “I’ve never done that before.”
“You might enjoy it. Do not worry about swallowing;

I will let you know before I come.”

Still stroking Arion’s erection, trying to remember

everything his lover had done, he tentatively worked his
way down Arion’s body until he brushed his lips across
the tip. It felt hot and dry. Moistening his mouth, he ran
his tongue down the length then back up, exploring the
head with small circular motions that elicited a moan from
Arion. A hand cupped the back of his head, guiding him.

He could not get very much into his mouth, and when

he tried to work the shaft in and out between his lips, his
efforts earned him a soft hiss of pain.

“Teeth—” Arion gasped. “Cover them…with your

lips.”

Daro tried again, doing his best to apply the suction

he had enjoyed so much. His jaw began to ache from the
unfamiliar position, and it did not help that his lover
decided to run a hand over and between his proffered
buttocks, stroking a thumb over his opening. The
stimulation was not enough to make him hard again, but it
felt good enough to distract him.

Then Arion was pulling him up and kissing him hard.

“Stroke me,” he growled, and when Daro slid his hand
over the wet cock he felt Arion’s hand join his. Stroking in
tandem, it took them less than a moment to bring Arion to
release. Moaning, thrusting his tongue into Daro’s mouth,

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

he came between their bodies and then fell back against
the pillow, panting for breath.

Daro lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It

was some time before he realized his fingers were sticky
with seed. He sat up, looking for someplace to wipe his
hand clean. The candle had burned low. In the late
afternoon shadows, it was difficult to make out the
washbasin and towel from across the room, and he really
did not feel like leaving the bed to clean himself.

Behind him, Arion also sat up and laid a hand over his

back. “I will show you something.” He wiped his hand
over his belly, collecting the seed there, and went over to
the Lady’s basin. Kneeling before it, he dipped his hand
into the water. As Daro watched, the surface of the water
began to ripple and a soft, tinkling sound of delight sighed
through the room.

“The water is here that She may come to us whenever

She wishes,” said Arion. “It does not displease Her that we
make love, as long as this water is left uncovered and we
make some offering. Sometimes it is salt, sometimes it is
our own seed.”

Daro climbed out of the bed and knelt beside him,

wrapping his arms around the other’s waist. “Then She
approves?”

Turning, Arion kissed his forehead. “My love, if She

did not approve, you would not be here.”

“My grandfather tried to kill you.” Running his hands

down his lover’s side, Daro’s fingers encountered a small
scar he had not noticed in the heat of his arousal. Arion
winced at the touch and he pulled his hand away. “I’m
sorry,” he whispered. “How could She forgive me when I
almost got you killed?”

Gentle fingers tilted his chin up and then Arion’s

mouth was on his, smothering his protests. “I wanted
you,” Arion breathed between kisses, “and this pleased
Her also, to favor you and give me joy.”

L.E. BRYCE

“How long have you been here?” asked Daro.
“Two years, long enough to learn what solitude is.”

Arion smiled. “The others, they are beautiful enough and
willing, but a night’s pleasure with them is not the same as
love.”

Love seemed so potent a word, Daro had not expected

to hear it quite so soon. “We’ve only just met.”

“We have known each other a long time,” said Arion.

“True, you had never seen me before today, but you knew
me when I sat down beside you and kissed you. I do not
think you would have let a stranger go that far.”

Daro nodded, for once pleased to be wrong.
Their mouths met again, and as they kissed they

remained oblivious to the soundless rippling in the basin
beside them.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Ten

Summer came to the city and, with the passing of the

storm season, calm descended upon the Blue House. The
restlessness that had plagued the talevé in the season of
Her passion subsided, enabling them to return to an easier
rhythm of life.

One morning, as he went out into the garden with his

tools, Daro was surprised to find himself face to face with
an immense, tawny-colored feline lolling in the sun. He
froze on the path, his heart leaping to his throat as he
waited for the cat to pounce, but it had merely yawned at
him and gone back to sleep on the grass.

Aglarin came over to him with someone’s discarded

robe draped over one arm. “That is Alanáro,” he said. “He
could not hold back any longer. If it pleases him, you may
stroke him; under the chin or behind the ears is best. You
will never see a moorcat so close without danger.”

Apparently, Alanáro was in a self-indulgent mood,

and allowed the contact. Daro, ignoring the warm muzzle
digging into his thigh, rubbed his ears until Aglarin told
him he could stop.

“He is spoiled enough as a human. You should not

encourage him.”

Arion appeared a half-hour later. Grinning, tugging at

Daro’s hand, he drew him up from his work and pulled
him against his body, kissing him soundly. A hand cupped
his buttocks, while in front Daro felt an already prominent
erection rub up against his groin.

L.E. BRYCE

Daro flushed a little at his lover’s public ardor; Arion

could never seem to get enough of him.

“Aglarin is wa—” His protests were quickly

swallowed by the tongue that sought entrance into his
mouth, and he did not struggle very hard before giving in.
It would not have been the first time the ki’iri master had
seen them kiss.

“Hmm, you have been busy today,” said Arion. “First

in the library, Talit says, then when I do not find you there
I—ah, such lovely manners, ‘Náro. Must you be so free
with your furry carcass while I am ravishing my lover?”

Alanáro chuffed at them from the bench he was spray-

marking.

“Let us be gone from here,” Arion murmured into

Daro’s ear, nibbling on the lobe for emphasis, “before he
decides to mark you for himself.”

Daro knew exactly what he intended, for by this time

he wanted it just as badly. “I’m hot and dirty from
gardening, you know.”

Insistent lips grazed his neck. “Hot, I do not mind, but

if you want a bath I will join you.”

“Only if you behave yourself,” said Daro.
Arion laughed. “Behave myself is the last thing I

intend to do.”

“You’ll have to, whether you like it or not.” Daro

pulled away long enough to begin gathering up his tools.
“There’re likely to be others in the pool at this hour.”

In the presence of the three other talevé who were also

bathing, they were able to keep their hands off each other
long enough for a quick soak, but once out of the pool they
gathered up their clothes and all but ran back to Arion’s
room, kissing and teasing as they went. Once the door was
closed and locked behind them, they dumped their
bundles, shrugged off their loose robes and pressed their
naked, still-damp bodies together, devouring each other

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

with their mouths as Arion maneuvered them toward the
bed.

“One of these days,” said Arion, running his tongue

around the hollow of Daro’s navel, “I shall get you alone
in the bath, and then…”

Daro could scarcely keep from squirming as his

lover’s tongue quested lower. “But you…have me
alone…now.”

“Hmm, yes, and no one wanting you for lessons or

work until later. Such a rare treat.” Arion emphasized the
last word with a long, firm lick up the side of his lover’s
shaft. Nimble fingers slid between Daro’s thighs, teasing
his opening as Arion’s lips and tongue continued to slide
up and down his flesh. Daro tensed with his approaching
climax, then pounded his fist into the mattress and
sputtered a long string of expletives as Arion abruptly
stopped and sat up.

“That is hardly a polite thing to say to someone who

has just had you in his mouth as I have,” said Arion.

“And not finished the job properly!”
Arion batted aside the pillow aimed at his head and

flung himself on top of Daro, playfully wrestling him to
the mattress until the friction of their bodies sliding
together turned exasperated grunts into impassioned
groans.

“Who says—” Arion nibbled at the throbbing artery in

Daro’s neck “—that I was finished with you?” He rolled
his hips, pressing his erection more firmly against his
lover’s. “If you would but turn over and show me that
delectable ass of yours, there are other parts of you I want
to savor.”

Daro growled and swatted Arion’s arm with the towel

the other gave him to spread under his belly. “Why didn’t
you just say so?”

Grabbing his hips, Arion roughly flipped him over,

parted his thighs and held them apart as his tongue slid

L.E. BRYCE

down the cleft between Daro’s buttocks. Daro squirmed at
the first teasing swipe across his opening, then seized a
pillow and quietly moaned into it as the tongue began to
delve deeper, circling and licking. An oiled finger probed
his entrance and then pushed inside.

He whimpered and bit the pillow when the finger

grazed his prostate. In and out it went like a miniature
cock, soon to be joined by two fingers while Arion’s thumb
caressed the cleft above his opening. An arm braced his
hips firmly against the mattress to keep him from
thrusting and spending too soon; he groaned in frustration
at being denied orgasm, then groaned again, louder, when
the fingers withdrew.

Hands tugged at his hips, urging him to his hands and

knees. As he complied, the tip of something warm and
firm brushed up against his entrance. He willed himself to
relax, forcing the air out of his lungs as Arion’s oil-slicked
cock breached the ring of muscle and slid inside. Arion
gave him a moment to accept the intrusion, then began to
thrust slowly, adjusting his angle to stimulate his lover’s
prostate.

In the beginning, Daro had been squeamish about this

form of lovemaking, finding it unnatural and painful.
Arion had been patient with him, even having Daro take
him so he might see for himself how pleasurable it could
be for the bottom. Slowly, with much encouragement,
Daro had learned to relax and enjoy the sensation of being
filled, and since then he and Arion had made love in every
conceivable position, on every piece of furniture in both
their rooms.

Now he was undulating his hips, pushing back to

meet Arion’s thrusts. Bracing himself on one hand, he
reached down and began to stroke himself with the other.
It did not take long for him to reach his peak. He gave a
strangled cry as his seed spurted onto his hands and the
cloth under him. His passage contracted with the spasms;

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Arion groaned and quickened his pace in response. Daro
hoped he would hurry up, as he was too spent, too
boneless to support himself for very much longer.

Whenever he neared orgasm, Arion’s sensual pillow

talk was reduced to a series of incoherent moans and
grunts. Growling, hissing between his teeth, he tightened
his grip on Daro’s flanks and thrust in once, twice more
before emptying himself. Once his spasms subsided, he
carefully pulled out, leaving Daro free to slump against the
mattress.

They lay still, a tangle of splayed limbs across the bed,

waiting for their breath to return, until Daro began to
protest at the weight across his back. Arion gave a tired
laugh, but shifted to the side. They stirred only long
enough to clean up, and returned to the bed to lie close in
the drowsy heat of the afternoon.

“How is it I found you in the garden?” asked Arion. “I

did not think you liked such work.”

“No, and I’m not very good at it.” Daro spoke with his

eyes closed, wishing his lover would save his questions for
later. “But there’s nothing else to do. Aglarin’s tried to get
permission for me to talk to the hrill, but the other priests
don’t want me doing a senu’s work.”

Arion’s laughter was hardly above a whisper. “You

must have patience, love.” He ran his fingertips lightly
along Daro’s flanks, kissing his shoulders. “You have only
been here a few months. After a few years, you might be
eligible for the priesthood. You could ask then.”

Daro, opening his eyes, rolled over to face him. “You

don’t understand. I need to speak to the hrill.”

There were no more words. They lay in bed the rest of

the afternoon, drifting between casual touches and light
slumber, until a bell stirred them from their lethargy and
called them down to the evening meal. Even then, they
were too drowsy to answer until Daro’s stomach betrayed
him with an embarrassing rumble.

L.E. BRYCE

Arion smiled and sat up. “No matter, we shall eat and

then come back here where I shall have dessert.” He bent
over and lightly nibbled on Daro’s collarbone to
emphasize exactly what manner of confection he had
planned.

Dressing in light clothing, they went downstairs to the

communal dining room. Most of the priests had already
left the Blue House for the day, but Aglarin and two others
remained on hand to dine with the talevé.

The ki’iri master regarded the pair sitting across from

him, reminding Daro with a frown that he had missed the
afternoon’s lesson. “Clearly you have forgotten your
duty,” Aglarin said, spearing a vegetable on his fork and
glaring at Arion in warning as Arion’s hand began to creep
under the table to slide up Daro’s thigh.

Arion’s hand stopped at once.
Aglarin cleared his throat and continued, “As I was

about to say, Daro, tomorrow you will report to me after
the morning meal. I will rearrange your schedule to
accommodate the additional lesson.”

After the meal, Daro and Arion lingered in the atrium

with some of the other talevé before going up to bed. Their
lovemaking this time was slow and leisurely, and it was
late before they fell asleep.

Dawn was yet an hour away when Daro awoke, his

body already arching in a painful spasm. Not wanting to
alarm Arion, he bit his lip to stifle his outcry, but when he
saw his lover’s face anxiously hovering over him, he
gasped and moaned aloud.

A hand felt his brow, his cheeks, and finally his pulse.

“What is wrong?”

“I-I don’t know,” Daro groaned. “I feel my skin

crawling, it hurts so much.”

“Do you feel like you are about to burst?”
Unable to speak, Daro nodded weakly.
Arion grasped his hand and stroked it. “It is all right,”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

he said. “You are not ill and not dying. It is simply the ki’iri
spirit wanting release. If you were not a hrill, you could do
it here, but you need to go out. It is too early for the priests
to arrive. I will wake one of the servants.”

Daro did not remember being left alone; he drifted in

and out of consciousness, tortured by the sensation that his
limbs were somehow stretching or bending. The next thing
he knew, Aglarin was standing over him, pulling back his
eyelids to peer into his eyes.

“It is beginning,” the ki’iri master said to Arion, who

stood by his shoulder. “We must get him into the ocean. I
will send for a litter.”

Voices came from the corridor; Daro heard Aglarin

giving instructions to someone, then rapidly receding
footfalls as the servant departed. When Aglarin came back
into the room, he ordered Arion to dress Daro in a robe
and prepare to carry him downstairs.

Daro felt Arion lift him into a sitting position and

wrap his woolen robe about his shoulders; it felt too hot,
too dry, and he tried to shove it off. He needed to feel the
coolness of foam and water against his skin.

“No, you must wear this for now,” said Arion. “I

cannot carry you out of here naked.”

He lapsed into senselessness, stirring in the midst of a

burgeoning argument between Arion and Aglarin.

“Talevé are not permitted to go out together,” said

Aglarin. “You know this.”

“What do you fear?” asked Arion. “Do you think that

we will swim away together to some distant shore? We do
not have the stamina to swim so far, and why should we
want to leave the comforts of the Blue House for the
outside? Daro knows well enough what life outside is like
for a talevé; he would not want to return to it. I will swim
with him and tell him what to do in the water.”

“He has done it once already without aid.”
“You cannot refuse me the request.”

L.E. BRYCE

“I have no wish to refuse you,” answered Aglarin,

“but the other priests are not likely to agree.”

“I am not interested in what they think.”
Daro did not hear the rest of it. When he came to

himself, he lay in someone’s arms on a narrow bed that
rocked back and forth. Heavy silk curtains shut out most
of the light, but through them he could smell the sea and
thought he could hear the crashing of waves. Struggling,
he tried to sit up, but the arms held him fast, soothing and
stroking him though all he wanted to do was tear free of
them and rush headlong into the ocean.

Arion’s voice murmured in his ear, gently hushing

him. “The road we are taking leads down the cliff just
behind the House of the Water; if you leap out now, you
will fall over the edge.”

“How much farther?” whispered Daro.
“The path turns on itself three times; there is a small

beach at the bottom. We are nearly there. The priests will
tell us when it is safe for us to come out.”

Daro tried to be patient, but the smell of salt and sand

grew stronger, more intoxicating. He did not need to feel
when the litter-bearers stepped from the gravel path onto
the beach to know the water was close; he could hear the
crashing and hissing of the surf. Arion’s hold on him
tightened, even when a hand pulled back the curtain and
light flooded into the litter.

Aglarin’s head filled the opening. “Help him out,

Arion,” he said. “Daro, be patient a few moments longer. I
know you are very uncomfortable, but the other priests
will want to give you instructions. Listen to them, nod
your head and then you may go.”

With Arion behind him to support him, Daro leaned

out of the litter; when his feet touched cool, moist sand, he
realized he was barefoot, dressed only in a light robe.
Arion helped him wobble over to the two priests who
waited with Aglarin at the water’s edge.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

They wanted him to pray to the Lady. Trembling,

impatient with need and hating the redundancy of having
to invoke a goddess who had already summoned him,
Daro stumbled over the words as best he could.

Aglarin whispered something to the priests; with

disapproving looks they also addressed Arion, who
quickly repeated both prayer and oath back to them. Daro
knew this was important, that something unusual was
happening, but his mind was already in the deep with the
hrill, swimming among them. He could feel their presence
just offshore.

Lifting an arm, he saw his flesh begin to mottle before

his eyes. The transformation was happening, whether he
wanted it or not, whether the priests decided to hold him
back or not. Aglarin saw, and gestured to Arion to help
him into the surf.

Trembling ankle-deep in the surf, Daro felt Arion’s

fingers tug at the ties of his robe. As the wool slid from his
shoulders, as he felt the first droplets of sea spray on his
skin, he turned in the other’s arms, suddenly uncertain of
the ocean rolling and retreating before him. Never before
had he felt such apprehension in the presence of the sea,
yet now it called to him with a voice he had known only
once, in a moment of fear and overwhelming despair.

“It will be all right, love.” The arms that held him

were clad only in a wisp of silk that was quickly cast aside.
Arion stood naked in his arms and he suddenly
understood.

“Are you coming with me?”
Arion’s lips lightly grazed his cheek, his hands

caressing the dark patches of hrill flesh blossoming along
Daro’s flanks. “This once, yes,” he said. “Come, you
cannot wait any longer.”

The water was cold, hissing around their ankles as the

surf frothed around them, but Daro’s body suddenly felt
too heavy to endure land. Panting for breath, he clambered

L.E. BRYCE

through the waves toward deeper water, craving the
buoyancy only the sea could give him. With the first
plunge into the sea, he felt his arms fuse against his sides,
his legs lock together and his toes splay out into a tail.
Flippers sprouted from his elbows. Another being might
have felt trapped in such an alien form, but he had known
the hrill since he was old enough to walk, and experienced
only the exhilaration and power of being released into its
body.

A joyous clicking told him that Arion was next to him,

and somewhere, out in the near deep, a pod of hrill
answered their calls. Propelled by curiosity about the
newcomers, the hrill were swimming toward them.

The males came first, whistling in recognition of Arion

and touching noses with him, assuring themselves that he
was no threat to their females or calves. Daro knew these
hrill, had swum with him before, but it was beyond their
understanding that he was merely a human who had
changed his shape. They sensed a difference about him,
but also remembered him from before, so they invited both
hrill to swim with them.

Arion at once had a warning for him. Take care. There

are predators in the deeper waters.

You worry too much, replied Daro. Come with me.
You gave your word to the priests.
Daro did not remind Arion that he had also given his

word, and had broken it many times to visit him on the
quay. Turning his head toward shore, he noted the tiny
figures of the priests and litter bearers waiting on the
beach, and he whistled in derision. He did not need those
puny two-legged figures who would only imprison him
once more behind walls too far from the sea. He was a hrill
and could swim far away from them.

Arion read his thoughts and lightly butted him with

his nose to get his attention. When you get tired, you will
begin to return to your human form. We could not swim away

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

from here even if I would let you. We will keep to the shallower
waters of the harbor and that is all.

They swam out into the harbor, plumbing the depths

near old shipwrecks, but when the hrill invited the pair to
feed with them, Arion cautioned against it, explaining that
when Daro returned to human form, his stomach would
not be able to hold the raw fish he might eat as a hrill.

I have not eaten anything since last night, Daro protested.
That is why you should not venture too far out. You will

not have the strength to swim back.

Sullenly, he obeyed Arion, keeping to shallow waters

until he heard the unmistakable call of a senu. When the
pod turned, whistling happily at the prospect of human
contact, he turned with them. Briefly, he registered Arion’s
apprehension, but he knew that senu’s voice and, ignoring
Arion’s warning whistle, raced on ahead with the pod.

Through the watery glass of foam and seawater, he

saw a graying figure stooped over the railing of a wooden
quay. A human voice greeted the hrill, welcoming their
chatter about schools of fish and deep-water currents as he
gazed out over the dark bodies that bobbed up and down
in the gray-green water. As his gaze roved, he paused over
the pair of hrill-like beings that surfaced with the pod,
beings whose thoughts were too human to belong to the
sea.

His face darkened. Making the sign of the Lady with

frantic gestures, he took half a step back from the railing.

Grandfather! cried Daro.
Antáno stopped, his eyes widening at the sound of a

familiar voice in his head, then he leaned back over the
railing. “Daro, lad!” he cried. “Is that you?”

Daro slapped his flipper against the water and clicked.

I had to go out this morning and I heard you calling the hrill. I
knew it was you.

L.E. BRYCE

A hand reached down to touch his nose. Daro leaned

into the touch, irritably butting aside the hrill who tried to
monopolize his grandfather’s attention.

“Ah, lad,” said Antáno. “I had such a scare when you

jumped into the sea like that. The hrill went searching for
you, but they found no sign and I thought for certain
you’d drowned. Your poor aunt, she was in tears all that
night and the better part of the next day, even when the
priests came and told us they’d found you and taken you
to the Blue House.”

Arion chose that moment to surface beside Daro. The

movement drew Antáno’s attention, and he turned
questioning eyes on his grandson. “Who is this you’ve
brought with you, lad?”

His apprehension grew when Daro introduced his

companion. Once again, Antáno drew back and made the
sign of the Lady. “Oh, you’re the one I tried to—”

The soft whistling sounds Arion made reassured him

somewhat, and he spoke gently to the senu, but Antáno
did not relax until Arion, giving up the effort, ducked back
under the water to sport with a pair of frolicsome juvenile
hrill.

Antáno waited until the dark head vanished under the

waves to speak again. “Daro, lad, tell me,” he said, his
voice dropping to little more than a whisper, “you’d told
me that you loved him. I know it’s none of my affair
asking, but is he…well, that is to ask, do you love him as
well in the flesh?”

Oh, yes. He is—I couldn’t tell you how much he—I mean—

Daro’s flipper slapped the water in frustration. Some
things he simply could not articulate.

“Things have been different since you’ve been gone,

lad,” admitted Antáno. “It’s not the same around the
cottage, but it’s for the best you’re where you are. After
you left, the temple guards came and took Endine’s son
away and…well, I shouldn’t say anything more about that

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

matter.”

Grandfather, I didn’t want them to punish him the way

they did, but the priests didn’t tell me he was going to die until it
was too late. I’m sorry, it wasn’t his fault. Tell Endine I’m sorry
for everything.

Antáno shook his head. “Endine knows it wasn’t your

fault, and it isn’t. If that priest hadn’t been so thickheaded,
none of this would’ve happened.”

The only consolation Daro could give him was to tell

him that the priest in question had been evicted from the
Blue House.

“He loves you, lad. That’s plain to see,” said Antáno.

He swallowed hard, quickly wiping something he
pretended was sea spray from his face. “I’d hoped one day
you’d find a good woman to warm your bed, but if you’re
happy I’ve no business complaining about your lot. It’s
only that, well, I sometimes wish things were as before.”

Daro thought it wiser not to admit that if he had to

choose, he would not return to that time, not if it meant
leaving Arion to wither in solitude. In the months since his
arrival, several talevé and a few priests had taken him aside
to tell him that they had never seen Arion so exuberant.

“I shouldn’t say such things,” said Antáno. He opened

his mouth to add something, but when his head came up
he seemed to be concentrating on something faraway.
“Lad, I sense that he’s worried about you.”

It distressed Daro somewhat that his grandfather had

heard Arion’s call before he had. We’re not supposed to come
out this far, and it’s my first time out since…that time. He’s
afraid I won’t have the strength to swim back.

“If that’s true then you’ve got to go.” Antáno leaned

out over the railing as far as his balance would permit and
reached down to stroke his grandson’s nose. “Go, lad, and
may the Lady’s grace be upon you and the Lord Min’s
breath fill your sails.”

Daro ducked under the water to find Arion already at

L.E. BRYCE

his side, nudging him with an insistent nose. Leaving the
pod and quay behind, they began the swim back, the
stronger Arion urging an increasingly weary Daro
onward.

Already, Daro felt the ki’iri spirit draining from his

body and they were not yet near the shore. Through the
spray, he could see the cliffs looming above a thin ribbon
of beach, but he was still too far away to discern the three
priests who would be waiting for him. Fear that he would
not make it out of the water before transforming clenched
his heart, for while he could swim as a man, his human
body had none of the power or speed of a hrill’s.

The flippers that propelled him were beginning to

shrink in upon themselves, and his tail was shortening, the
bulk of it splitting into legs that could not kick up enough
momentum to drive him forward. Frantically, he sought
out Arion, but his whistle was choked away by human
sputtering as seawater flooded his open mouth. He
reached out to his lover with a senu’s voice as his every
instinct urged him to fight to keep his head above the
water.

The waves tossed him between foamy troughs,

sweeping him under their folds. When he could no longer
fight the sea, arms suddenly went around his middle,
dragging him up and out of the water. He felt wet sand
scrape against his thighs, then found himself lying on his
back in the surf, gulping down air.

The salt stung his eyes. He heard footfalls through the

sand, coming toward him. A breeze stirred his damp hair
and, to his shame, he realized he was naked. He wanted to
get up, to roll over in the sand and cover himself, yet his
limbs felt too leaden for movement.

An incoming wave teased his thighs. Arms wrapped

around his torso, sliding up his back, then a mouth came
down on his, breathing warmth and life into him. Blindly,
he reached for Arion, opening his mouth to twine his

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

tongue with his lover’s, and forgot about the priests who
were now standing over them.

“Hmm, love,” Arion whispered in his ear, “do you not

think we should return to the Blue House to do this? Half
the harbor will see, and it is bad enough for them when we
are fully clothed.”

Blushing at his momentary lack of discretion, Daro

allowed Arion to cover him with his robe and help him to
his feet; it was only when they were both standing that he
felt how hard Arion was trembling. “What is wrong?” he
whispered.

Arion bent his head so his lips were touching Daro’s

earlobe, but a moment passed before he could speak. “I
was afraid I had lost you.” Tightening his arms, he let his
embrace and the caress of his lips say what emotion
threatened to choke away.

Daro did not have the words to tell him how, in the

rough play of the sea, he had known the same terror of
being parted. “You will not lose me,” he said. Exhaustion
was quickly overtaking him. He needed to get to the litter
before he collapsed, but all he could do now was cling to
the arms that held him and find solace in Arion’s solid
warmth. “I only wanted to say good-bye to my
grandfather. I never said it before I left that first time.”

Forgiving hands stroked his damp hair. “Come with

me,” Arion replied, letting his lips graze Daro’s cheek. “Let
us go home, love.”

L.E. BRYCE

Becoming

What we are to be, we are now becoming

-Carl Rogers

A slightly abridged version of “Becoming” was first published by
Forbidden Fruit Magazine in January, 2005.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter One

The sloop turned toward the deeper water of the harbor, where

the sea began to roughen. Unused to boats, the young man
grimaced as nausea threatened to overcome him. He managed to
hold his stomach. The fisherman and his crew noted his pallor with
disdain, but his coin was good and, as long as he stayed out of their
way, they would not bother him.

Waves frothed in the wake of the boat as the wind caught the

sails, and it picked up speed. Among the whitecaps he saw the
sleek, darting bodies that could only be hrill. On the port side, the
fishermen paused over their nets to call out to them, to the dolphins
frolicking among the seal-like creatures to compete for attention,
and the fish heads the men would eventually toss back into the
waves.

Swaying with the movement of the boat and his own

unsteadiness, the young man stepped up to the stern, ostensibly to
get a better look at the hrill. His breath caught at the dark heads that
emerged from the waves to regard him; all his life he had heard of
these sacred, intelligent creatures but had never seen one. The
waterfront neighborhoods were too rough for well-bred youths,
said his father, and his mother complained that such places always
smelled unpleasant. From his bedchamber window the young man
could see the ocean, and drink in the salty tang of the air that blew
inland to cool warm summer afternoons. Until now, that was all he
ever knew of the sea.

“You are very beautiful,” he murmured to the hrill. With

trembling hands, he gripped the rail to lean out and watch them.
Time pressed down upon him. Urgency and fear made his heart
race. If he was to do it, now was the time. There would not be a
second chance.

“What are you doing?”

L.E. BRYCE

The boy’s voice cut through the breeze, an arrow of annoyance

that made him start. Forcing a smile, the young man turned to see
about getting rid of the child. “Can you read?”

Curious gray eyes met his. “Just a little, sir, but my da can read

better.”

From his pocket, he took a sealed letter and pressed it into the

boy’s hand. He had meant to leave it on deck, but this was better. Its
discovery would not be left to chance. “When the boat comes to
shore, give your father this. Remember, when you dock and not
before, and you are to tell no one you have it until then.” He
emphasized his point with a silver coin and bade the child to be off.

Toward the prow, he heard the fishermen calling out to each

other. Rough nets were cast overboard, well away from the hrill
who veered to avoid them. Now was the time, he decided, when
their eyes were turned and they had no mind for him.

He pulled himself over the wooden rail, balancing there while

he swung his other leg over. Splinters dug into his palms. Sea spray
flew up into his face; he licked salt droplets from his lips. Behind
him, he heard a shout and knew it was for him. He did not turn to
see who had called out or bother to note what the man said. When
the rail slid from his grasp, gravity sped him into the water. The sea
weighted his clothing, surging into his mouth. Through the stinging
spray he saw the boat making a sharp turn. Voices called out advice
to tread water and remain calm. No one knew he could not swim.

Pale sky and blurred faces vanished under a smothering

blanket of foam. Water swirled into his lungs and, whether he
wanted it or not, the body’s fight for survival began.

* * * *

Taraz, the eunuch who attended the healers, carried the gossip

back to the Blue House like the prize it was. “They’ve brought
someone into the gatehouse,” he said.

The three young men seated on the bench under the apple tree

ignored the formal little bow the eunuch bestowed upon them. “Is it
a new arrival, or some stuffy priest visiting from another city?”
asked Alanáro. “If it is the latter, you can save your breath.”

“A new arrival, sir,” said Taraz. “They carried this one in

senseless, so I did not get to speak with him. Olveru and Haeran

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

shoved me out as quickly as I could bring warm clothing and
water.”

“That makes two newcomers in as many months,” said

Enedhil. “Is this one a child as well?”

Taraz shook his head. Shoved to the back of the small

bedchamber, he had seen less than he would have liked. “He is the
usual age, I think. Haeran says he was found half-drowned on the
beach. He already has the sickness, so no one can get anything
sensible out of him.”

“Is he pretty?” asked Alanáro, the salacious curve of his lips

voicing his thoughts.

Olenwë glared at him. “Have you ever seen anybody drown?

There’s nothing pretty about them when they wash up, even when
they don’t die.” As someone who had grown up in a fishing village,
he could have told his companions tales to curdle their stomachs
and banish any burgeoning thoughts of seduction. Instead, he asked
how long the young man had been in the sea.

Taraz could not answer him. Very little useful information was

forthcoming from the eunuch, and in the end the three young men
were left with more speculation than fact. By the time Olveru
returned for supper and the evening devotions, the news had gone
throughout the house, and nearly everyone in the communal dining
hall clamored for news.

“Now tell us,” said Enedhil, “is he just sick in the normal way

or did he really drown?”

The glower Olveru gave his brothers indicated he wanted peace

in which to eat. Still, he answered their queries. “He was alive when
found, though barely. The fisher folk think the hrill brought him to
shore.”

“Is he handsome?” asked Alanáro.
Enedhil swatted him. “When was the last time you saw an ugly

talevé?”

Olveru said only that they would have to wait and see what the

change wrought. A new talevé’s confinement usually lasted fifteen
days, during which time he weathered the transition as his body
adjusted. Once he recovered and was informed of the rules and
responsibilities of his new status, he would proceed into the Blue
House to live out his life as one of the Lady’s sacred Water-lovers.

L.E. BRYCE

A room must be prepared and all other comforts made ready.

From the beginning, it was clear that the young man had no
belongings to be moved in. Olveru, whose task it was to welcome
newcomers, went into the storeroom to select suitable clothing and
toiletries. Before he left, however, he turned and gave a stern
warning to others in the room.

“We do not even know his name,” he said. “I can tell you that

he is not a halfwit and can speak, but he says nothing when we ask
him who he is and why he was in the water. It may be the changing
sickness or the shock of being in the ocean. Madril is adamant that
you leave off your usual games when he arrives.” As he spoke,
Olveru glared at Alanáro. “He will probably remind you himself
when the time comes.”

No more news came even as the fortnight passed. Entry to the

gatehouse was strictly controlled, so all most could do was gaze
across the courtyard at the tall hedgerows and slate roof of the
structure and wonder. As a physician, Olveru was the only talevé
who had access to the newcomer, yet he was as uninspired as the
priests when it came to gossip.

From the House of the Water came strict orders from the chief

priest Madril that the new talevé was not to be disturbed when he
first entered the Blue House. However, anyone who could devise an
excuse to be in the atrium or garden on that day did so.

Madril came to the house with three other priests. Olveru and

the physician Haeran led the young man in through the atrium and
out into the garden. He was slightly built, dressed in clothing that
did not quite fit, and he leaned on Olveru’s arm as if it was the only
thing keeping him upright. He appeared dazed and frightened,
trembling slightly as he moved, His timidity made it seem a
deliberate gesture.

“I wish he would move his hair out of the way so we can get a

better look at him,” muttered Alanáro.

“Be quiet,” hissed Olenwë. His eyes were fixed on the face

shadowed under the curtain of hair. That the young man was
shaking did not alarm him, as almost every new talevé who came
into the Blue House was weak and disoriented from the change, and
there were always a few anxious moments when the introductions
were made.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Even more puzzling was the way the young man fumbled

through the ritual welcome. Surely someone had explained the rite,
where he did not have to respond except to nod, but this one looked
ready to bolt.

Olenwë did not realize he had taken a step forward until

Enedhil seized his arm. “You heard what Madril said. Leave him
alone.”

With his eyes still on the youth, Olenwë shook off his

companion’s hold. Enedhil had followed the others downstairs in
order to ensure that no mischief was done. Olenwë could not speak
for Alanáro or anyone else. “I’m not going to seduce him. I just
want to talk to him.”

* * * *

After the quiet of the gatehouse, the priests and the house into

which they led him were a frightening blur. Through an elaborate,
marble-floored atrium he went, past fading murals of dolphins and
hrill into a garden abundant with fruit trees and the sound of
splashing water. Amidst the greenery stood several white-haired
men engaged in conversation. They turned at his approach and fell
quiet. He did not look at them.

Several days ago he had seen his own hair, all the color bled out

of it, and did not know what to think beyond his shock, even when
the healer Olveru gently explained to him that the Lady of the
Waters had chosen him to become one of Her sacred lovers.

Olveru was the only talevé he saw in his confinement, though

he was assured that others were nearby whom he would meet once
he was well enough. The prospect filled him with apprehension. In
his blue-gray priestly robes, Olveru exuded such an air of sacred
mystery that the young man feared what the others were like. No
matter what the mirror told him, he did not believe could not
possibly belong among them.

It is all a mistake. I am not supposed to be here. At every

opportunity, he tried to tell Olveru and the priests who came to visit
him, yet when they asked him why he could not say. There were no
words for his terror and shame that muddled his thoughts, and he
could not think past the chills that racked his body to find them.
And when they asked his name, his tongue froze.

L.E. BRYCE

At last, Olveru said that if he could not remember they would

find another name for him. Whatever name he had, he decided, it
must not be worth keeping if he could not remember it.

They let him sleep in a large, soft bed in a quiet room, bringing

him tea and cool compresses when his fever rose. A chamber pot
was kept close, for if he did not have to vomit, he had to urinate,
and was miserable even when Olveru explained that his body was
purging itself as it changed to the Water element. He slept fitfully,
his dreams tormented with images of sea creatures swarming
around him in dark, cold waters that closed over his head and
would not let him go.

When the priests came, they told him that he had been in the

sea. Some fishermen who dwelt near the shore had found him lying
in the surf with the driftwood they had come to collect and had
called for the priests, who brought him to the House of the Water.
“You must have fallen off a boat on the open sea and washed
ashore,” said Olveru. “The priests have made inquiries on the
waterfront, but none of the fisher folk here in Sirilon have reported
anyone missing.”

His fever lessened and his body grew strong enough that he

was able to take exercise in the small garden attached to the
gatehouse. When a priest came to tell him that new lodgings were
being prepared for him, his fear returned. At first he thought he was
to be taken out into the city, but the priest drew his attention over to
a nearby building with a blue slate roof. From his upper story
window he was able to see more of the building and another, larger
complex looming behind it.

When the priest explained that the Blue House was where the

talevé traditionally dwelt, all the young man understood was that he
was going to be taken from his quiet room and pretty garden and
immured behind temple walls. It did not feel like the honor the
priest claimed it was.

Clothing was brought for him. More formal than the robe and

shift he had worn in the gatehouse, it did not quite fit. More priests
came to instruct him in the rules of the Blue House and his
responsibilities in it, at which he told them that a mistake had been
made and stopped listening.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

The following morning when they came to escort him to his

new lodgings, he struggled between them, calming only when
Olveru appeared. “The Blue House is just like the gatehouse, only
larger,” said the healer. “You will have your own room and a
beautiful garden to walk in, and everyone is eager to meet you. No
one will hurt you. There is nothing to fear.”

Although his manner was grave, Olveru had a soft, persuasive

voice. At length, the young man took the healer’s outstretched hand
and let Olveru guide him across a broad courtyard and into the
walled compound.

Eighteen talevé dwelled in the Blue House, plus the servants,

who were eunuchs from a foreign land. Only castrated males were
considered reliable enough to wait on the Lady’s sacred lovers.

“You will be with others who are just like you. I understand

you are nervous, but you will soon find there is nothing to fear.”
Olveru patted the young man’s hand, drawing him through the
gate. No matter how low his station at birth, every talevé was
entitled to respect. He was provided with the best of everything,
including an education if he was unlettered, and aside from certain
religious obligations his life was one of comfort and leisure.

He allowed Olveru’s soothing words to take him past the

murals whose sea creatures too closely echoed his nightmares and
onto a colonnade that looked out on a broad, green garden.

Madril, a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair, led the

priests who met him on the shaded path. All four bowed deeply to
him. “Welcome to the Blue House, most favored one. Here you will
dwell in the Lady’s sight, according to Her wish.”

Beyond a nod of acknowledgement, the young man was not

required to make a ritual response. For this small blessing alone he
was grateful.

Out of the corner of his eye, one of the talevé began to approach

him. No one had warned him about having to interact so soon with
the others, and the man’s physical presence so intimidated him that
he quickly ducked his head. Even the other man’s voice was
powerful, deep with a strange accent, as he asked if he could give
assistance.

“Olenwë, the ritual is well in hand. I do not think now is the

time,” said Madril.

L.E. BRYCE

“The ritual’s over,” answered the talevé, whose name the young

man did not quite get; it sounded foreign. “I was going to ask if you
needed help getting him upstairs.”

“We have people for that,” said one of the other priests. “This is

no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest.”

The voice that answered him dropped to a dangerous timbre.

“You might be a priest, Kyrin, but I haven’t forgotten how to punch
a man who insults me.”

“That is enough from both of you!” Madril’s voice scythed

through the tension, separating the two. “Olenwë, I thought I had
given orders to clear the garden and atrium. You and your friends
should not be here.”

“I don’t know about them, but I was minding my own

business,” said Olenwë. “Those bushes over there, they need
pruning.”

“And you have not touched a pair of pruning shears in the two

years you have been here.”

“No, but I used to haul fishnets out of the sea for a living. I’m

strong enough to carry a man when he can’t walk, and this one’s
shaking so hard I don’t see how he’s going to make it up the stairs
on his own. I don’t suppose you’re going to carry him. Here, let me
take him, Olveru. You just tell somebody to show me where his
room is.”

Powerful arms went around the young man’s waist, sliding

behind his knees and lifting him off the ground even as his body
stiffened in protest. He did not want Olveru to leave him with this
stranger. Dizziness took him, forcing him to close his eyes and bury
his face in the other man’s chest. Olenwë’s strength was reassuring,
but the words of his argument with the priest made the young man
afraid. This is no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest.
Though he did not quite understand what that warning meant, it
implied something sinister.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Two

The bedchamber was more spacious than the room he had

occupied in the gatehouse. Beeswax polish pervaded the air, and a
soft blue coverlet draped a bed piled with cushions. As soon as he
felt the mattress under him, the young man sat up, blinking his eyes
to dispel his vertigo. Once the dizziness passed, he reached to undo
the cords that held back the curtains.

A large hand circled his wrist to stop him. “Why do you want

to hide?” asked Olenwë. “You should pull your hair out of your
eyes and stop being so shy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

All he could do was shake his head. While reassuring at first,

Olenwë’s solicitousness was not altogether proper, and the young
man could not help but notice that neither Olveru nor the priests
had followed them into the room.

“All right,” said Olenwë, “if you aren’t going to show yourself,

and since Olveru says you don’t have a name, I’m going to call you
Ninion. It means hidden one in Danasi. There are statues of their
gods everywhere on the island where I was born. They all have
blank faces, because it’s forbidden to look at the divine. We call
them ninoni.”

The Danasi dwelled in the islands and coastal highlands west

of Sirilon. They were secretive and rough, worshipping their own
pantheon of nameless gods. “You are not a Shivarian?” the young
man asked. Chancing only the slightest look at Olenwë’s face, he
saw someone tall and broad-shouldered, with a firm jaw. Aside
from the accent, Olenwë did not seem like a foreigner. “I thought
only Shivarians could become talevé.”

“I’m mixed blood,” said Olenwë. “Most of the people of the

Seaward Islands are, but we worship the Lady of the Waters as well
as anybody. Here, I’ll show you.” He quickly rolled up his sleeve to
reveal a firmly muscled bicep bearing the triple wave of the Water

L.E. BRYCE

rune. “I got my tat at fifteen. All islanders honor the Lady like this,
and the men on the ship that brought me here had them as well.”

The tattoo rippled as Olenwë flexed his arm; the young man

could not stop looking at it. “So do you like the name? Shivarian
names don’t mean anything, but Danasi ones do.”

“Ninion,” he murmured, trying the name on his lips. It

sounded all right. He nodded.

Olveru appeared with a few loose leaves of paper and writing

implements. He set them down on the wooden sideboard before
ushering Olenwë out of the room. “You may see him later, once he
is situated.” He politely but firmly closed the door after the man. “I
will leave you to rest for a while, but first we must see about a name
for you. The priests must make a record of your arrival.”

“He said you could call me Ninion.”
“Olenwë gave you a name? It must be a Danasi one, like his.

But if you like it, that is what we will call you. Should you
remember your own name or anything about your former life, I
brought paper for you to jot things down as they come to you.”

Olveru went over to the window, where a long chest covered

by cushions doubled as a seat. “You will find toiletries and clothing,
which can be altered if it does not fit you. On special occasions, you
will wear robes; I will help you choose something suitable from our
stores. Tonight you may eat here but tomorrow you will take your
meals with everyone else in the communal hall. The bathing room
and privy are down the hall. We typically bathe together, though
you may decide whether you prefer to go in the morning or
evening.”

A eunuch arrived bearing a tray of food. The young man

picked at the oatmeal and sliced apple before curling up on the
carpet against the chest with the paper and pencil. During his illness
his mind had turned to wool, unable to recall even the names of the
people who tended him. Now fragments had begun to return,
surprising him with their intensity. Olveru wanted him to write, to
remember, but words would not come to him, and what little he
knew he did not want to share.

Ninion. No other name came to him, however hard he tried to

remember. Ninion it would be, then.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Letting his thoughts meander with the shifting light of the

room, he idly moved the pencil across the page, and had halfway
sketched the elaborate feet of the brazier before he realized what he
was doing and crumpled up the paper.

* * * *

The movements were an intricate dance of balance and

strength, but the implement belonged to the Seaward Islands and
half a dozen other fishing towns and villages along the Shivarian
coast; only the net hook had been removed. Olenwë moved in
tandem with Elentur and Daro, each one easily twirling the weight
of the staff. In the islands it was as good a weapon as a sword, while
in the Blue House the purpose of the exercise was physical fitness,
not combat.

“Oh, look there,” said Elentur, snickering loudly enough to be

heard halfway across the garden. “He must be looking for his doll.”

The young talevé who was the butt of his joke stiffened and

quickly scurried down the colonnade into the Blue House’s library.

Olenwë waited to see what Daro would say, but the other man

simply stopped his exercise and leaned on the staff in a pensive
manner. A fourteen-year-old talevé was really nothing to joke about.
The priests told them outright that they did not have any business
questioning the Lady’s choice, but that did not stop the speculation.
What had gotten into Her to even look twice at Dyas made them all
wonder. Perhaps in a few years he would be attractive; now he was
simply scrawny and childish.

“Maybe the doll is a better bedmate,” Daro finally said.
Elentur snorted. “Yeah, but it doesn’t suck cock the way I do.”
“Leave him alone!”
Olenwë was stunned to hear the voice of the young man

huddled on the bench at the edge of the exercise yard. In the five
weeks he had been in the Blue House, Ninion had hardly said ten
words to anyone. It was easy to forget he was even there.

“Hey, we’re just having a bit of fun,” Elentur called back. “You

want to join us?”

Ninion’s eyes were blazing. “You are all disgusting!”
When he turned and stormed back toward the house, it had not

been in Olenwë to follow. The young man’s tantrum was hardly
worth the effort, yet before he knew it Olenwë was snatching up his

L.E. BRYCE

tunic and running across the gravel, then onto the garden path to
catch up with him.

“Slow down there. Now tell me, why am I so disgusting? I

haven’t got anything on the bottom of my shoe and I took a bath
before, so I shouldn’t smell too bad.”

Ninion stopped under the colonnade, well out of sight of the

others. “You make fun of him.”

“And he lets us,” said Olenwë. “Maybe you didn’t notice,

seeing as how you never let your hair out of your eyes, but Dyas
always rises to the bait.”

“You should know better.”
If there was one thing Olenwë understood about Ninion, it was

that under his inexplicable shyness was an arrogance that could
only belong to the highborn, whether he remembered his birth or
not. Moreover, he did not like other men getting too close to him; he
even wore his underclothes into the bathing pool, averting his gaze
from those who bared their bodies. Olenwë could not see what was
so wrong about young men being naked together. Everybody had
the same parts, and it was all very proper.

“Is there anything else that disgusts you?” asked Olenwë.
“Yes, your vulgar language.”
“That’s a big word, isn’t it? Yes, I talk like a fisherman, and so

does Elentur, because we both are fishermen, and yes, I say don’t
instead of do not. No, it’s not proper for a talevé, but the priests know
if they don’t like it they can kiss my—”

Ninion growled. “You are impossible!” Quickly sidestepping

Olenwë, he scurried away. Again, against his better judgment,
Olenwë hurried to catch up with him.

* * * *

Ninion wished the other man would leave him alone. Olenwë’s

presence was intimidating, never mind that he was stripped to the
waist for exercise with hands that could snap a wooden post in two.
His mingled odors of leather, sweat, and male musk were a
combination that unnerved Ninion. He started to slam the door, but
Olenwë thrust his hand into the jamb and pushed it open again.

“What do you want?”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Olenwë walked into the room, noting with a raised eyebrow

the way Ninion put the bed between them. “I just want to talk to
you.”

“If you are going to swear at me, you can just turn around and

go away.” The priests who instructed the talevé in the behavior
appropriate for their station all agreed that the speech of some of
the Blue House’s residents was lamentably crude. A talevé was not
supposed to use contractions, just as he was not supposed to scratch
himself, wipe his nose on his sleeve or make rude jokes in public.

Everyone behaved when the priests were about, but when their

backs were turned and once they left the Blue House for the night
the talevé did as they pleased.

Ninion climbed onto the bed, crossed his legs, and tried to

ignore Olenwë by doing the meditations prescribed for him by
Aglarin. The priest had explained to both him and Dyas that they
each had an animal spirit called a ki’iri inside them. Only through
meditation and study would they learn what their ki’iri spirit was
and how to release it.

Olenwë made no effort to leave. “Oh, I see. Do you know what

your animal is yet?”

Take a hint and go away, Ninion thought.
The mattress dipped at one end. When Ninion slitted his eyes

to look, he was horrified to see Olenwë sitting on the edge of the
bed. “I’m a hrill. There are twelve sacred animals, but that’s the best
one you can have. There are a few other hrill here, too, and Daro’s a
senu on top of that.”

“What is a senu?” asked Ninion.
“What cellar did you grow up in that you don’t know what a

senu is?” he sputtered. “It’s somebody who can talk to the hrill.”

“I did not grow up in a cellar. I was born here in Sirilon, but I

never got to go down to the docks. I never left the upper city and I
never saw a hrill until—” The memory of dark shapes in the water
suddenly washed over him. Hrill were gentle creatures, servants of
the Lady who were known to rescue men drowning at sea. They
should not inspire fear, yet it was all Ninion could do to force them
from his thoughts.

L.E. BRYCE

At the edge of the bed, Olenwë watched him intently. When he

spoke, his voice was soft yet earnest. “The upper city,” he
murmured. “You remember where you come from?”

Ninion quickly shook his head. “I was born here, I know that,

and I lived in a house with many servants, but that is all. I
remember nothing of my name or family.”

“So why were you in the water?” asked Olenwë.
It was not the first time someone had asked, but Ninion had

always been able to evade giving an answer. What am I to say, that I
do not remember? Now Olenwë loomed too close to him, an
insurmountable obstacle, the need in his eyes burning so hotly it
compelled Ninion to draw back. “Go away,” he whispered. “Please,
just go away.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

Chapter Three

The lesson had technically ended for the day, or would have

had Dyas stopped questioning the ki’iri master. “Can I become a
bird?”

“No, Dyas,” said Aglarin. “Birds have hollow bones to aid their

flight, but you do not. You cannot change your basic nature to
include flight, or gills with which to breathe underwater.”

“But Arion can do a hrill, he’s told me so.”
Aglarin swiftly corrected him. “He has told you. And a hrill is

not a fish. It is warm-blooded and breathes air, as you do.”

Ninion had begun to feel the ki’iri master’s impatience. At this

rate, they would never be dismissed.

Dyas was pleasant enough when he was not being baited. More

than anything, he wanted to go home to his two little sisters and his
dog, and sulked when the priests told him he could not keep a pet.
Seeing his loneliness, Ninion sympathized with him, but like
everyone else he wondered what had possessed the Lady of the
Waters to select so young and immature a lover.

Out of boredom, two other talevé had come to listen to the

lecture. Ninion suspected they had come to torment Dyas. Aglarin,
in fact, glared at them with eyes that warned them to hold their
tongues, which they did not do; they sat in the back and whispered
to each other throughout.

Ninion drew his lips tight in anger. Did they think the boy

could not hear them? Mindful of Olenwë’s words, that the boy
encouraged his tormentors, he urged Dyas to ignore the teasing.
However, the baiting did not stop and the boy could not
concentrate. Ninion was strongly tempted to ask Aglarin to put the
others out, but he had been taught from a very young age that it
was the highest disrespect to interrupt an elder.

L.E. BRYCE

Aglarin pulled his bushy eyebrows together into the beginnings

of a frown. While he had vast reserves of patience, even the portly
ki’iri master must eventually reach his limit. Once again, he gave the
two young men a warning glare while trying to stay focused on
Dyas’ digressions. “There are twelve sacred animals and only
twelve,” he answered. “And they must be warm-blooded and close
to your own body size and weight.”

“What about a dog?” pressed Dyas. “Dogs are nice. I used to

have one called Arcus.”

“What about a nice little baby ducky?” Elentur chortled under

his breath.

Finally, Ninion turned around and snapped at him. “Be quiet! I

am trying to listen.”

In a calm yet tight voice, Aglarin ordered Elentur out of the

room. Minias, who had been sitting beside him, made his excuses
and left before he could be similarly evicted.

“Why do they have to be so mean?” Dyas asked once they left.
“I do not know,” murmured Ninion, “but you did well in

ignoring them.”

“At least Olenwë wasn’t with them. He teases you, too,

Ninion.”

“Yes, he does.”
“Does that mean he likes you? My mother said that when

somebody teases you like that, it means they like you.” Dyas
frowned, puzzling over what he had just said. “Although I think
she meant it about girls.”

“No,” said Ninion, “it means that he is a pest.”
“I guess they’re all pests, then.”
Aglarin cleared his throat to get their attention. “Any talevé

who wishes has the right to attend a lecture, but I will speak to them
and see if I can discourage them from attending your lessons.”

Dyas shrugged. “Don’t bother. I’m never going to get it.”
“The ki’iri gift will come to you, just as proper speech will.”

Aglarin winked at the boy. “But you must practice both.”

Ninion gently touched the boy’s shoulder. “The gift has not

come to me, either.”

“It will not come to either one of you if you dwell on it too

much,” said Aglarin.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

They were released to the afternoon meal, after which they had

an hour of exercise before the day’s second round of lessons. Some
of the talevé who entered the Blue House were unlettered or did not
quite meet the standard. These were sent to the schoolroom to take
lessons in diction, reading, and writing in addition to the practical
and devotional instruction which they all received. And then some
must endure further lessons with the priests, who tried to instill in
them that such things as scratching, belching, and slouching were
not considered proper social graces.

Upon his arrival, Ninion had been examined in all these areas,

and the priests had determined that he was properly educated; that
he could not recall his formal schooling or anything beyond the
ability to read, write, and do figures did not trouble the priests.
“You need only be literate, well-mannered, and able to memorize
the correct prayers,” he was told.

Where he would have spent his afternoon in the schoolroom,

Ninion obtained permission to go to the House of the Water where
the priests gave him a job cataloguing manuscripts. If he performed
well, he might at a later time be allowed to work in the scriptorium.
He particularly enjoyed studying the sacred texts with their gilded
pages and jewel-like illuminations, though he was careful not to be
seen idling.

In the evening after dinner, the talevé enjoyed a few hours of

leisure before bed. Usually they gathered in the communal sitting
room to talk, read, or play games. Sometimes the eunuchs emerged
from their quarters to join them and share stories about Tajhaan, the
distant desert land where they had been born. A few talevé, looking
to alleviate their boredom, even took lessons in the Tajhaani
language.

Dyas showed Ninion how to play staves, a game which he did

not know. “I wish I didn’t have to have those stupid speaking and
writing lessons,” he complained. “The others all make fun of me.”

Ninion gave the culprits a sidelong glance. “They are jealous

because they are all older than you and are not doing as well.”

“Where did you learn to speak so well? Are you rich? Enedhil

says all rich people know how to speak right.”

“No one is rich or poor in the Blue House.”
“No,” said Dyas. “I meant before.”

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100

“I do not recall, but I must have had a good teacher. Here, you

are neglecting your staves and it was you who wanted to play. You
have the blue ones, remember?”

* * * *

Ninion had made a practice of coolly ignoring him. His attitude

was a typical piece of highborn arrogance that would have been
sufficient for Olenwë to leave him alone, yet in unguarded moments
Olenwë saw another side of him that renewed his determination to
gain the young man’s trust.

When he was not at his lessons, Ninion could often be found

curled up in an inconspicuous corner with a scrap of paper and a
drawing pencil. Whatever he drew he never showed anyone,
shoving it under a book whenever someone expressed curiosity.
Olenwë did not know why, but in those moments of peace, Ninion
was strikingly beautiful, and Olenwë sensed that seeing him in this
state was a rare privilege.

The summer air was too warm for afternoon exercises. Olenwë

went out into the garden, hoping perhaps for a game of dice or
staves with Elentur; the man had trounced him last time and he
wanted his coppers back.

He paused when he glimpsed Ninion sitting in the partial

shade of a lime tree with Dyas. Both were drawing. Now there was
an interesting sight. Olenwë stealthily ventured close enough to see
the boy’s childish scrawling, but Ninion immediately sensed he was
being watched and clutched the paper to his breast.

There was no sense in hiding his presence any longer. “Why

don’t you let me see what you’re doing?”

“‘Cause you’ll make fun of him,” said Dyas.
Olenwë took a long breath. “Listen, boy, I didn’t ask for your

opinion, and if you get snippy with me I’m going box your ears.”

“You can’t do that,” answered Dyas. “I’m a talevé.”
“So am I.” Olenwë made a shooing gesture. “Now go scurry off

somewhere so I can have a word with Ninion.”

Gathering his things, Dyas stalked off with a murderous glare.

“I’ll see you later, Ninion, once he goes away. Just don’t let him kiss
you. My mother says if you kiss somebody and you’re not related
that means you’re lovers.”

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101

Before Olenwë could answer the boy with an obscene gesture,

Ninion rounded on him. “Why is it so difficult for you to be nice to
him?”

“I was being nice, otherwise I would’ve boxed his ears as I

said,” answered Olenwë. “He hadn’t any business saying I was
going to make fun of you. I just wanted to see what you were doing.
You spend a lot of time with pencil and paper.”

If anything, Ninion pressed the drawing pad even more firmly

against him. “It is nothing, just scribbling.”

“Then why don’t you let me see?” Putting his hand on the edge

of the drawing pad, taking care not to be too rough or appear too
eager, Olenwë managed to coax it away from Ninion.

Unable to draw and not knowing anyone who could, he

anticipated the type of childish scrawls Dyas had produced. True
art was the furthest thing from his expectations. A graphite image of
Aglarin met his gaze; the clean-shaven ki’iri master was poised in
mid-lecture, as lifelike as if he was standing before them. “This isn’t
scribbling at all,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful. Do you have
anymore?”

Ninion bit his lip. “Can I have it back now?”
Instead, Olenwë flipped through the pad. Every inch of paper

was covered with drawings, images of trees, statues, and people.
Olenwë found himself gazing upon priests, eunuchs, Olveru, Dyas,
Arion with his abundantly long hair and….himself? Not just any
image, but stripped to the waist in the bath, luxuriating in the warm
water; the image was far more sensual than he would have given
the artist credit for. “You drew me?”

“Please, give them back.”
Olenwë was alarmed by his pleading tone. There was no reason

in the world for him to be so distraught over a compliment. “I was
going to ask you if I could keep this one, but it’s all right. You can
have it back.” He put the drawings back into Ninion’s hands.
“Really, it’s all right.”

The speed with which the young man gathered up his things

and fled was doubly alarming. Olenwë could only wonder what he
had done or said to put him off so. “All I did was compliment him,”
he murmured.

“You were mean to him. I told him you would be.”

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102

A familiar and thoroughly unwelcome voice told him that Dyas

had been spying on them. Had the boy been standing close enough,
Olenwë would have cuffed him. “Oh, shut up.”

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

103

Chapter Four

Night beaded the windowsill with dew, and a bright moon

dappled the curtains of his bed. Within, all was darkness, a cocoon
of solitude and dreams. Down the ephemeral paths of sleep he
went, peering first in one corner then another until he came to a
place that beckoned him to stay.

Amid the softly rustling leaves he saw it, a gentle creature,

skittish at his approach, browsing through the grass of a sun-
dappled clearing in a forest where no other beast stirred. A majestic
head lifted, liquid eyes caught his and held his gaze.

The next morning after breakfast, Ninion told Aglarin about the

dream. Nodding, the ki’iri master waited until he was finished to
give his answer. “It was a stag you saw. It is sacred to both the
Earth Mother and the Lady of the Waters.”

Ninion had known what he was seeing; to have it confirmed

brought him no relief. “But people hunt stags.”

Aglarin gave him a curious look. “Only noblemen are

permitted to hunt deer. Have you ever done so?”

“No, I have just seen them.” Whatever memories he had

mislaid, Ninion was certain he had never been hunting. He had,
however, heard the cautionary fables of talevé who abandoned the
Blue House while in the throes of their ki’iri gift only to be killed by
hunters or frightened villagers while still in spirit form. “When I
change, someone will shoot at me. They will not know any better.”

“You have heard too many stories. When you transform, it will

be strictly within the Blue House. Hrill and dolphins are the only
ki’iri permitted to go out.”

Following protocol, Ninion did not formally announce his

vision to the other talevé. This would not occur until after his first
successful transformation, but everyone knew by the preparations
being undertaken what he would become. Those who shared his

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104

ki’iri gift offered encouragement though little practical advice. As
the experience was different for all, he was discouraged from
forming any preconceived notions about what would take place.

A ki’iri spirit took its cue from a talevé’s own disposition, so the

revelation rarely came as a surprise. All agreed that Ninion had a
deer’s liquid brown eyes, yet were puzzled when Olveru pointed
out that a stag could be fierce under certain circumstances.

Aglarin arranged for him to visit the private menagerie of

Sirilon’s ruling prince, where the handlers let him touch a stag and
watch it in its pen so he could study the animal he was to become.

His dreams intensified, always taking him to that same place:

the silent, sun-dappled clearing where his hands and nostrils were
filled with the living pulse and musk of the animal in whose pelt he
now slept. In the darkness of the night, he woke feeling strangely
detached. The deerskin ended up on the floor and he went to the
wash basin to vigorously scrub the dead animal’s scent from his
hands and face. Sleep did not return so easily; he filled the small
hours with sketches of things half-remembered from his dreams.

One morning he woke to a sudden ache in his limbs. By the

time he stumbled out of bed in search of Olveru, he could barely
walk. In the corridor, he found a passing eunuch and asked him to
bring the healer, as he did not think he could make it downstairs.
Another eunuch helped put him back to bed, and Olveru arrived
within a few minutes to see what was wrong.

The healer did not seem alarmed. He simply took Ninion’s

pulse and sent for Aglarin.

“What is it?” asked Ninion. Every pore in his body radiated

pain. Surely he must be dying.

“It is your ki’iri spirit trying to emerge. Do not fight it,” said

Olveru. “Aglarin will be here as swiftly as he can and he will help
you release it.”

Whatever Olveru meant by swiftly, it seemed to be taking

forever. There was no space for fear or thought, only the urgency of
pain. At that moment, Ninion would have done anything to stop it.

Aglarin was still brushing bits of pastry off the front of his robe

as he came in. Gently nudging Olveru aside, he sat down on the bed
beside Ninion and took his wrist to measure his pulse. “The time is

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

105

now,” he said. “The spirit is already halfway out of you. Relax and
release it.”

Ninion groaned. “It hurts.”
“That is because you are trying to suppress it by fighting the

pain. It is a natural response, but the exact opposite of what you
should be doing. Relax your limbs and let the pain take you. You
will not lose consciousness and you will not die.”

Slowly, he unwound his body where he had doubled over

himself and tried to breathe in and out as Aglarin urged him to do.
At once, the pain hit him with renewed vigor, and he cried out, but
even as he did so he could feel his limbs stretching and reshaping
themselves. Olveru quickly moved in to pull his clothing off him; as
he reached up to help, thrashing his arms and legs to be rid of the
linen nightshirt, he saw the pelt beginning to erupt over his skin.

His cry of alarm dissolved, and the sounds of human speech

blurred into incomprehensible background noise. Smells deepened
even as many of the colors in the room muted to gray, though the
crimson embroidery on the cushions by the window remained
vivid.

Both men helped roll him off the bed onto the floor, where he

wobbled on four legs that seemed too flimsy to bear his weight. His
head drooped under the unwieldy antlers that had sprouted from
his forehead; he tried to shake them loose until he discovered the
trick of keeping his head and neck balanced. Aglarin spoke to him,
gesturing that he should follow.

Others came out into the corridor to look at him and murmur in

their strange tongue. The stairs were difficult to negotiate at first,
but he quickly managed the trick of placing his legs and was soon
following the man across the atrium and into the garden.

Morning dew still clung to the grass, which beckoned to him

with its crisp, green fragrance. His last meal had been the night
before. He started to browse and nibble, ducking away when the
man, making negative sounds, gestured for him to stop.

Another man approached him. He recognized the scent, only

now it was stronger, a blend of soft wool and male musk. The smell
should have aroused his competitive instinct, but there were no
females about for the challenge of butting antlers. It aroused
something else in him instead, and it seemed odd to him that it was

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106

musk and not estrus that drew him. Although he did not
understand the murmuring sounds the man made, he submitted to
his caresses, relishing the way his hands roamed his head and
flanks.

Exhaustion suddenly crept over him. No longer could he

support the weight of his antlers. His head sagged and, wobbling
into the grass, he sank down on trembling legs. A stag’s instincts
told him to keep his eyes open, that it was not safe to be so
vulnerable with other males nearby, but he was too far gone to care.
Closing his eyes, he dreamt, stirring only at the first slight touch of
cool air on his body.

Arms went around him, lifting him out of the nest of grass he

had made for himself. The scent was still there, wool and musk, and
his human mind supplied a name. Weariness obscured his shame;
he vaguely knew he was naked, but did not care.

Once safely cocooned in the warm softness of his bed, Ninion

slipped away again. It was evening before nausea woke him.
Fumbling in the darkness for the chamber pot, he threw up
something that, once he managed to strike a light, looked like bits of
grass. Ki’iri and human memories did not quite merge; he tried to
remember if he had eaten while in his other body but could not.
Aglarin had warned him against it.

He slept the rest of the night, stirring only when one of the

servants drew back the curtains to admit a blinding panel of
morning light. “You cannot stay in bed all day, honored one,” said
the eunuch. “There is going to be a ceremony today, because you
performed your magic. They are going to say special prayers.”

Olveru presently brought food and clean water for his wash

basin. “Aglarin will come later this morning with Madril to lead
you in a prayer of thanks to the Lady.” He peered into the chamber
pot. “You ate while in your ki’iri body.”

“I do not remember.”
Ninion managed to keep down half a biscuit and some juice

before pushing the rest aside. His limbs felt too slack and drowsy
for movement, yet he could not go back to sleep. He curled up
among the pillows with his drawing pad and pencil. It had taken
two months for him to work up enough courage to ask for good

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

107

quality paper and graphite, and to his astonishment the priests had
been more than happy to accommodate him.

Most of the talevé left him alone for the time being, a few

peering in to see if he was awake, but the tall figure who came to
stand by his bed had the air of one who had come to stay.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Olenwë.
Letting his hair fall in front of his face, Ninion nodded.
“You should be getting dressed soon, didn’t they tell you?”

Olenwë was dressed more formally than usual, in dark blue silk
with a silver brooch at his shoulder. “It’s a nice ceremony they have,
and they give you a pin that has your animal to say you’re a full
talevé. I daresay Aglarin’s had it ready for weeks.” He paused before
adding, “You were a lovely stag.”

“You saw me?”
“I was the one who carried you back here, don’t you

remember? Some don’t recall their transformations afterward, but
those of us who are hrill usually do. I think it’s because hrill are
smarter to begin with. They’re almost like people, in a way.”

Ninion realized with a sudden flush of embarrassment that he

had been naked when his transformation ended. Ducking his head,
he hugged the drawing pad to him.

Olenwë dropped his eyes to the paper and graphite. “What are

you drawing?”

“It is nothing.”
“Show me. I like everything you draw. The Lady knows I can’t

draw anything, not even a proper eye for the prow of a ship.”

“Why does a ship need an eye?”
“It’s a Danasi custom,” explained Olenwë. “The eye guards the

vessel from evil spirits in the deep. Now come, show me what
you’re drawing.”

Ninion reluctantly relinquished the page. “It is not very good.”

The composition was very fluid, not at all like the portraits or still-
life sketches he was accustomed to doing.

Olenwë’s brow furrowed slightly as he puzzled over it, and

Ninion’s heart sank. I knew it was not at all good. “Is this what you
saw when you were a stag?”

“It is what little I remember.”

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He gave the drawing back. “Why are you so shy about your

drawings? If I could draw like that, everybody would know about
it.”

Ninion covered the drawing with a blank sheet and stuffed it

under his pillow. “I do not like others looking at my work. It is
nothing to look at anyway, truly. Perhaps I should not waste my
time with it.”

* * * *

The ceremony was an elegantly simple affair, with all the talevé,

eunuchs, and tutors present. Ninion had assumed it would take
place in the atrium where the morning and evening devotions were
held. Instead, the priests led them across the garden to a shrine
whose doors opened to reveal a marble rotunda. A pool of water
reflected the sea-greened copper image of the Lady that stood in a
niche at the opposite end.

In full regalia, Madril officiated, presenting Ninion to the Lady

as Her fully invested servant.

In Your sight, in both bodies,
the one he brings and one that
is Your gift,
here is Your servant, Ninion.

What everyone was really to see was Aglarin’s gift: a silver

brooch in the shape of a leaping stag. When he pinned it on
Ninion’s shoulder, it was the signal to applaud and come forward
to offer congratulations.

A small meal was laid out in the communal dining room.

Ninion’s stomach was still queasy from the grass and he could not
eat, but he did his best to smile at the others. Socializing was not
something that came easily to him. As soon as possible, he retreated
to a corner with Dyas, who, like him, had no one else to talk to.

Olenwë promptly came over with a pastry and the watered

wine talevé were sometimes allowed. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I am not hungry.”
“Here, take this.” He set the plate down in front of Ninion. “If

you want to get big and strong you need to eat more.”

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109

Someone once told him that the people of the Seaward Islands

were typically taller and more vigorous than their mainland
cousins, so Ninion very much doubted he would ever fill out the
way Olenwë had. But he sensed that the other man would not leave
him alone until he ate something, so he took the proffered plate and
fork and choked down a few bites of pastry to please him.

As he took a sip of the wine, Olenwë fumbled in his pocket.

“I’d like to give you something. It’s not as fancy as that pin, but it’ll
give you better luck.” He held in his hand a bit of shell and rock
crystal strung on a leather thong. It was not particularly attractive.
“We wear these in the islands to be safe at sea. Before I came here, I
wore it all the time.”

Ninion looked at the worn talisman, wondering what he was

supposed to do with it. “Should you not keep it?”

“The only time I ever go into the water now is for the hrill, and I

can’t wear it there. Here, turn around and let me put it on you.”

The talisman hung heavy and strange around his neck, and

worse, Olenwë apparently expected him to wear it. Ninion
murmured his thanks, though by this time he was blushing
furiously and wanted nothing more than to tear the thing off. Still,
the rules of common courtesy were clear. He should give a gift in
return. Telling Olenwë to wait, he went upstairs and got his
drawing pad.

When he returned several minutes later, Olenwë was still

sitting at the table with the plate of half-eaten pastry. His bemused
expression became one of earnest as Ninion opened the pad and
began to leaf through the pages. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Toward the back, shoved behind images on better-quality

paper, Ninion found the image of Olenwë in the bath. “Here,” he
said, timidly offering the drawing. “You can have this.”

Olenwë accepted the parchment, smoothing out the edges

while careful not to blur the graphite. “You didn’t have to give me
anything,” he said, “but it’s beautiful, like you are.” He lifted a
hand to brush back the strands of hair that had fallen across
Ninion’s face. “You shouldn’t hide yourself like that.”

Ninion flinched at the touch of those fingertips running

through his hair, grazing his cheek. “Please do not touch me.”

“Why not?”

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“Because men should not do that.”
Olenwë smiled at him. He still had not moved his hand.

“Outside, maybe they shouldn’t, but here it’s very different. I’m
sure you know that.”

No one had said anything outright, and Ninion had

experienced a very abrupt awakening when he saw two talevé
kissing in a corner. The act so shocked him that he felt ill. He was
even more horrified that no one stopped the two men, who did not
seem the least bit concerned about being discovered. Later, when he
summoned the nerve to ask, Olveru told him that talevé had love
affairs with each other all the time.

As a child he had been taught to revere talevé as pure vessels

utterly devoted to the Lady, when in reality it seemed they were
nothing more than whores going from one bed to another. Upon
returning to his room, he had knelt in front of his shrine and prayed
for the Lady’s guidance. It was inconceivable that She did not know
what Her lovers were doing, and that She would not punish them.

“You are supposed to love the Lady, not each other. It is

unnatural and disgusting.”

Olenwë narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time the Lady

came to you?”

The question cut more deeply than he had perhaps intended.

Because the priests were so vague about this aspect of a talevé’s
calling, Ninion had not given it much thought. Only now did he
consider that something might be lacking. “Never,” he admitted.
“Perhaps She does not like me.”

“That’s not true. She came to you once,” said Olenwë. “That’s

why you changed. But you have to understand, we’re not with Her
all the time. There are other Water-lovers in other cities, and then
Her consort must have His due. Each of us gets to be with Her
maybe once a year, which leaves us with nothing to do in the
meantime.”

“You don’t have to do those other things. You’re supposed to

be pure vessels for the Lady.”

“Sleeping with another talevé makes me dirty? There’s nothing

that says we shouldn’t have sex, and the priests don’t mind.”

That was the unlikeliest excuse Ninion had ever heard to justify

what everyone knew was an unnatural practice, and he said so.

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“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” said Olenwë, “but a good many

talevé happen to like men. I’m not ashamed to admit that I do. I
always have.”

“Then why did anyone not punish you? A good beating would

have cured you of it.”

Olenwë took this statement of fact with infuriatingly good

humor. “Do you really think so? I wasn’t punished because I didn’t
let anybody know. You’re right, my father would’ve taken the skin
off my back if he knew, but I don’t think it would’ve done any
good. Of course nobody wants to be unnatural, but there are some
things men can’t change. The Lady only knows how I tried. I did it
with girls hoping I’d get interested, but it was their brothers I really
wanted.”

Disgust and fascination warred within Ninion. “What about

here?”

“Here I don’t have to hide what I am, because there are so

many others like me,” said Olenwë. “I’ve learned not to be ashamed
of it. Liking other men doesn’t make me weak or any less of a man.
Give me some idiot who says I’m unnatural and I’ll put his head
through a wall if you don’t believe me. And the way I see it, not
liking girls means I’ll be faithful to the Lady. If She didn’t like it, She
would say something.”

“But She is also a woman,” protested Ninion.
“No, the Lady is a goddess, and it’s very different when you lie

with Her. I’m not particularly good with words, and it’s not
something we’re supposed to talk about even with each other, but
She doesn’t take the flesh to make love.”

* * * *

It took all his self-control not to lean in and kiss Ninion and

crush that slender body against his own. Had he been an islander,
the young man would have understood immediately what the gift
of the talisman meant. Lovers in the Seaward Islands exchanged
tokens all the time, and Olenwë still had the bit of spiral shell his
first lover had given him.

Ninion could say what he liked about male love, but Olenwë

sensed uncertainty even when he voiced his objections.

Now the young man was wearing his token, but more

importantly, he had given a gift in turn, something that was less

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112

than chaste. An islander knew that when the gift of a token was
reciprocated, it meant that a lover’s suit had been accepted. Whether
you know it or not, whether you like it or not, thought Olenwë, you just
told me you loved me.

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Chapter Five

Crowds lined the streets from the House of the Water,

extending east along the heights of Sirilon, to the House of the Air
on its high promontory. For the Lord Min’s feast-day, His banners
hung from every pole and balcony, stirring in the crisp autumn air,
and all businesses were closed. The citizens burned incense to the
Lady’s consort and gathered to catch a glimpse of the talevé, who
went in solemn procession to do reverence to the Lord of the Winds.

It was ritual humiliation. Once a year the talevé were required

to acknowledge Min’s right of precedence with the Lady of the
Waters. Not to do so was to invite misfortune; those mariners,
merchants and fishermen who relied on good winds in their sails
for their livelihood could not afford the storms that ensued when
Min grew agitated, or the calm seas that came when He withheld
His favor.

Ninion felt the crowd measuring him. In his finery of pale blue

brocade, he felt stiff and half-dressed. For the occasion he had been
forced to comb his hair out of his eyes, but he kept his gaze to the
ground even as his companions held their heads high. It did not
matter that the citizens along the route were respectful, even
adoring as some of them called out and threw flowers. Large
numbers of people frightened him.

Olenwë, in his dark blue silk, was his partner as they walked in

double file down the Street of the Princes. Ninion had not asked the
other man to accompany him; he had simply taken the honor as if it
was his right. Olenwë remained by his side throughout, lending his
silent presence, and Ninion felt safe with him.

The route was lined with temple guards from the House of the

Water, and by the archers of Min, the god’s elite corps who were
also trained in the city’s defense. Dressed in the god’s white and
gray, they formed an impassive barrier between the crowd and the

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procession, which included priests of both Houses as well as the
talevé and a parade of the city’s elite that stretched the entire two
mile distance between the temples.

Unlike Prince Carancil and his courtiers with their richly

caparisoned mounts, the talevé were compelled to walk. The priests
had cautioned them to wear comfortable shoes under their robes,
but even the hardiest of them were footsore by the time they
reached the courtyard of the House of the Air.

Up a broad flight of steps they climbed, still in double file, and

entered the god’s white marble domain, a forest of wide columns
banded in silver. Every door had been thrown open to welcome the
Lord of the Winds; despite the bodies crowding the hall, the air was
chill, stirring the chimes dangling high above.

At the high altar, where Min’s visage glared down at the

worshippers, the priests of the Air stepped down to greet the talevé.
Although they spoke words of welcome, their courtesy was as stern
as the occasion demanded.

The attendant priests of the Water fell away, as was proper in

the house of another god. They had brought the supplicants as
tradition demanded, but would not participate in the offerings.

In the weeks before the equinox, the talevé had been taught the

ritual genuflection and prayer. Those who had learned it in
previous years were made to revisit their lessons until they could
execute the movements perfectly. Now all nineteen of them lined up
before the altar, went down to their knees in a single fluid gesture
before the image of Min, and bowed their heads while performing
the ritual invocation.

Nineteen voices formed a synchronous echo in the deep,

vaulted space; the murmur had barely subsided when the priests
came forward with trays bearing small silver cups containing
incense.

When his turn came, Ninion gagged at the cloying scent of the

dozen offerings before his. His hands trembled as they poured the
contents of the cup upon the ritual fire. The sacrifice was the
culmination of an ordeal that had nothing to do with the god. He
was not used to being on display, and it was all he could do to keep
his composure long enough to utter the prayer.

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Aglarin had told him that at one time, on this one day, the

worshippers of Min had been permitted to pelt the Lady’s lovers
with refuse. In some backwater cities, the ritual humiliation was still
carried to such extremes, but in the ancient center of the Lady’s
worship, such practices had been replaced by a beautiful ceremony
designed to show the god what worthy lovers His consort had
chosen.

As he poured the incense and made his obeisance, Ninion felt

multitudinous eyes on him, stripping him bare. Shame made him
tremble; the crowd might as well have been throwing excrement at
him.

Olenwë stayed beside him. Through the voluminous folds of

their robes, he sought Ninion’s hand and squeezed it tightly as the
last few talevé performed the rite. His head was held high, his eyes
looking straight ahead, over the heads of the crowd. “If they want to
look, let them,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth, so only
Ninion could hear him. “They can’t touch us.”

His hair stirred and fanned out behind him in the breeze

drifting in through the open doorway; he merely lifted his chin and
met the scrutiny of Min straight on.

On the way back, their part in the ritual done, the talevé were

permitted the luxury of a covered wagon to bear them back to the
Blue House. Once out of public view, some groaned and began
loosening the collars of their sweltering finery, but most were quiet.
In all its forms, humiliation was a potent silencer.

* * * *

Ninion sat at the table beside Dyas, who was frowning over the

day’s lesson and munching on dried apricots. It was too cold and
windy to sit outside; through the library window they saw one of
their brothers taking exercise by sweeping dried leaves off the
garden path.

“Do you want some, Ninion?” Dyas proffered the plate of

apricots. “They’re good.”

He was not hungry but took one to please the boy. “See if you

can close the book and repeat the verse back to me.”

Dyas closed the book and pushed it aside. “I don’t know why I

have to do any of this stuff,” he grumbled. “I’m not any good at it.”

“It takes practice,” Ninion said softly.

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“I know I’m not supposed to be here. Almost everybody laughs

at me, but not you. You’re all right.” He fidgeted with the book,
opening it and fanning the pages. “I’ve been wondering why there
aren’t any old talevé. I tried to ask Kyrin, but he won’t let me have
questions anymore. He says I ask too many of them.”

Ninion had also noticed the lack of older talevé. “Olveru says

they die around age forty. It is part of the price a talevé pays for
becoming part of the Water element. He assured me that it is a very
gentle, painless death, a gift from the Lady.”

Dyas seemed unperturbed by this. “Forty’s old. Still, I don’t

know why I’m here. I don’t even like girls.”

Fourteen was old enough for a youth to begin developing an

interest in the opposite sex, though it did not always happen that
way. Even now, at eighteen, Ninion felt only slight stirrings that left
him more puzzled than aroused. Perhaps there was something
wrong with him.

“The Lady is not a girl, but a goddess,” he said. “She does not

take the flesh to make love.”

“You mean to have sex? The priests say that I did it with Her

once, but I don’t remember.”

“None of us do, I think.” Had Olenwë not intimated that

making love with Her was to merge with the Water element, Ninion
would have sworn that, given their reticence to discuss the matter,
the talevé were left with no memory of any encounter with Her.
Now it was clear that it was only the first time that he could not
recall.

“Maybe I don’t remember because I’m not supposed to be

here,” said Dyas. “I still want to go home. I could dye my hair. It
would be all right, nobody would know.”

Dyas would not have been the first talevé to express

dissatisfaction with life in the Blue House. Though he came from a
family of seafront warehouse clerks who often worked long,
difficult hours, the prospects of leisure and luxury held little appeal
for him. “My father promised he would take me to the warehouse
and let me learn what he does. It was very important, because I was
the only son, and now I can’t help out.”

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“Madril says that if it is necessary the temple will provide a

small yearly sum to a talevé’s family,” said Ninion. “They will not
starve, and I am sure they understand why you are not with them.”

The door opened and Olenwë came in. This time, he did not

ask Dyas to leave or even move, but instead pulled a third chair up
to the table. It was clear he was trying to be civil, yet the moment he
opened his mouth to greet them the boy gathered up his books and
excused himself entirely.

“Why did you chase him away?” asked Ninion. “I like talking

to him.”

Olenwë made a face. “Did you hear me tell him he had to go? I

can call him back if you like, but I like talking to you, too, and I’d
rather not have to deal with him whining about how much he
misses his dog and helping his father out. It’s obvious he’s never
done any really hard work or he’d be down on his knees thanking
the Lady he didn’t have to anymore.”

“You are insufferable.”
“No, I just remember what it’s like getting into a fishing boat

before dawn and being out there for hours in the cold and wet. By
the time I was Dyas’ age, I was already doing a man’s work.”

Ninion knotted his fingers in his lap. “What is it like where you

come from?”

Olenwë started to answer, but stopped the moment he opened

his mouth. “Do you want to walk in the garden?” he asked. “You’ve
been indoors all day; you need a bit more color in your face. We can
exercise and I’ll tell you.”

Leaving the library, they went outside. Yellowing trees stirred

in the wind, dropping their leaves into the flower beds and pond.
Aside from the talevé who was tirelessly trying to keep the path
clean, everyone else preferred to stay indoors.

It was difficult to keep pace with Olenwë’s longer stride, which

he gradually slowed when he saw that Ninion was falling behind.
“Well, what should I say about the Seaward Islands? There are
more than sixty of them, a whole chain going from north to south. I
lived on Ikun, which is more to the north, but the biggest island is
Lachant where everybody goes to trade. From my village it’s a two
day sail with a good wind.

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“From Ikun to Sirilon it’s ten days. We don’t have a Blue House

in the Seaward Islands, so I had to come here. By the time a ship
was found that could take me, I’d already had the changing
sickness.”

Once past the clipped hedges, they sat down on a bench under

an apple tree. Some weeks earlier, the talevé had made an afternoon
of harvesting the garden’s three apple trees, and what they had not
eaten outright they took down to the cellar to dry for the winter.
“The first people to settle the islands were Danasi. Most of us are
mixed blood, and we speak that language as well as Shivarian. My
name is the Danasi word for strong.”

Ninion was only half-listening. Although he had broached the

subject, it was not what he truly wanted to know. “Olenwë,” he
asked softly, “when did you first know you were different?”

Olenwë stopped his running monologue and considered both

speaker and question. “You mean, when I first realized I liked other
men? When I was old enough to want sex,” he answered. “My
friends were all going with girls, talking about them, but I wasn’t
interested. I thought maybe something was wrong with me, but
then our families went to a gathering on the isle of Pelisso and I saw
this beautiful young man. I couldn’t get him out of my head. That’s
when I knew I didn’t want girls at all.”

The frank admission made Ninion’s face burn. He let his eyes

fall to his lap. “Did you have sex with him?”

“No, I did everything I could to forget about him. When we got

back to Ikun I went with a few girls like my friends and tried to be
normal, but I didn’t enjoy it the way they did.”

“So when did you first do it? With a man, I mean.” Ninion

could not believe he was having this conversation. Fascination kept
him from ending it and walking away.

If the question was inappropriate, Olenwë did not seem to

mind. “I was sixteen and a friend of my brother asked if I could go
on his boat and help him. He lived alone and we had a big family,
so he told my father that he’d share part of the catch if he could get
my help. So we fished and swam and went to rest on a little beach,
and that’s when he touched me.”

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119

“And you did not mind?” Olenwë did not look like the type of

person who could be made to do anything against his will, but
things might have been different when he was younger.

Olenwë shrugged. “I was terrified at first only because I’d been

told it was so shameful, but then he kissed me and told me it was all
right. I couldn’t believe my good luck,” he said. “He had me that
afternoon and after that we met whenever we could get away.”

The choice of verb was baffling. “He had you?”
Olenwë leaned back on the bench and frowned. “Ninion, do

you know anything at all about sex?”

“Of course I do.” The truth was that Ninion knew only what

had been considered proper for him to know, that women had
breasts to nurse babies and a place between their legs where he was
supposed to put his member in order to make those babies, and that
the act of doing so supposedly felt good. What men did together he
had no idea. “I mean, I know a little,” he added defensively.

“And you’re how old?”
“I will be nineteen in the spring.”
Still puzzling over this, Olenwë seemed to have an idea.

“There’s a book in Madril’s office. I think it must be the worst kept
secret in the Blue House, but the pictures are worth it.”

“What book?”
“It’s full of pictures of men making love,” said Olenwë. “It’s a

sex book. Do you want to see it? I think I could steal it for a day if
you want.”

His face burning, Ninion vehemently shook his head no. “Why

would Madril keep such a filthy thing?”

“Why do you think?”
Ninion truly did not know, and a second later wished he had

not inquired when Olenwë bluntly asked if he had ever touched
himself. He swallowed, biting his tongue to keep from telling the
other man that it was none of his business. “Why would you ask
about such a shameful thing?”

If anything, Olenwë’s nonchalance was infuriating. Ninion was

tempted to flee and nurse his injured pride, yet part of him also
wanted to hear the answer.

Olenwë just laughed at him. “Stop pretending that you don’t,”

he said. “All men do it, even the priests. Why do you think there

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aren’t any young priests who come to the Blue House? It’s just the
eunuchs and the old men. That’s part of the Lady’s gift, you know,
to be so beautiful that men and women forget themselves when
they see us. That’s why we’re locked up here, so they won’t be
tempted.”

Now Ninion had images of lascivious priests following him

about. As quickly and gracefully as he could, he changed the
subject. “Did you love that man, the one who was your brother’s
friend?”

“I liked him,” said Olenwë, “but I didn’t love him. It didn’t take

me long to see how selfish he was. He always wanted it the same
way and always took more than he gave. After a while I began to
feel used, but there wasn’t anybody else, so I stayed. The last time I
was with him was the day I changed.”

“What did he say about your becoming a talevé?” asked Ninion.
“He was terrified and ashamed, and it killed him.” Olenwë

sighed, and by the way he hunched his shoulders Ninion knew he
had finally asked a question that was difficult for him to answer.
“One day after hauling in the nets I tied my boat up by the place
where we always met. It’s a little cave with a freshwater spring;
there’s sand and it’s very cool on a hot day. I’d been working since
before dawn, so I took a nap while I waited for him. When I woke
up I felt damp all over, but I didn’t think anything of it because the
air around the spring is very misty.”

“Did the Lady come to you?”
“I didn’t know that until later,” said Olenwë. “I had light hair

already, and in the summer the sun bleached it almost white. In the
shade of that place you couldn’t really tell anything was different.
So he came in and we did it, but it wasn’t until we went outside to
get the boats that he saw I’d changed. He took one look at me and
screamed. Then he ran. I had to take both boats back to the village.
By the time I got there it was dark, I was already feeling sick and I
still didn’t know what was wrong. The village priest had to explain
it to me.”

“What happened after that?”
Olenwë stared down at his hands. “Pelhan was so upset by

what he’d seen that he confessed he’d been with me. Once they saw

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121

me, the village elders dragged him out of his house and stoned him
right there for raping a talevé. They didn’t even bother with a trial.”

“And you let him die?”
“Weren’t you listening? I didn’t know what was going on. I

was lying in the village priest’s house with a fever and throwing up
everything he tried to give me. They took Pelhan faraway from the
village to kill him,” answered Olenwë. “Everybody just assumed
he’d been overcome with lust at the sight of a talevé and acted on it.
He didn’t do or say anything in his own defense; he didn’t even tell
them that we’d been having sex for three years already, and nobody
ever asked me. If they had, I think I would’ve been too scared to tell
anybody the truth. You’re not the only one to ever believe making
love with a man is shameful or to be terrified by the change.”

* * * *

Olenwë did not know what to make of Ninion’s questions, and

revisiting his affair with Pelhan was not the way he wanted to
spend an afternoon he had intended to devote to relaxed courtship.
It was tempting to think that Ninion was beginning to overcome his
revulsion, but there was no telling if he was simply curious about
sex or if he really wanted to make love with another man. Not all
talevé did. Olveru had been celibate for as long as anyone could
remember, and most of the older talevé renounced sex altogether.

Celibacy would be such a waste. Olenwë knew that if ever

there was a beautiful young man who needed and craved affection,
even unwittingly, it was Ninion.

From the garden, he went upstairs and took out the drawing

Ninion had given him. For such a sexual innocent, the young man’s
artwork was enticingly erotic. Olenwë’s lower body remained
underwater, but the depth of detail in the expression, in the play of
muscles and even in the beads of water that clung to hardened
nipples, meant the artist had been looking. Olenwë could only
wonder what Ninion had been thinking when he rendered the
image.

He needed to confide in someone. Enedhil, older than he by

several years, was by far the most sensible of his friends as well as
an excellent listener. Once Olenwë explained the matter, Enedhil
wasted no time in assessing the situation. “The first thing you need
to do is ask yourself what you really want from Ninion,” he said. “If

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you are just trying to seduce him for the sake of having been the
first talevé to take him to bed, I think you are making a mistake.”

“I can get sex anytime I want,” answered Olenwë. “This time I

want something more than that.”

“There are others who would be more willing to entertain a

serious relationship with you,” said Enedhil. “Alanáro has
expressed his interest on several occasions.”

Olenwë shook his head. “Just because I’ve slept with him more

often than anyone else doesn’t mean I’m in love with him. He
knows that. We’re friends, nothing more.”

“Do you think Ninion is interested in you?” asked Enedhil. “I

might not know him well, but even I can tell he is a virgin.”

Olenwë showed him the drawing. “Tell me now that he isn’t

interested.”

Enedhil took the drawing over to the window where he could

study it in better light. “I do not know what to say,” he admitted.
“He is clearly aware of you as an erotic being, but from everything
you have told me he believes sex with another man is wrong.”

“So did all of us before we came here.” Olenwë carefully took

back the drawing, smoothing away imaginary creases. No one had
ever given him anything so beautiful. “Look, I’m not looking to
throw him down and take him. All I want is for him not to turn
away from me.”

“And then what?” asked Enedhil. “You talk about love, but I

have never seen you take your relationships seriously.”

Olenwë tightened his jaw. “Are you telling me I’m not capable

of love?”

“Do not put words in my mouth that are not there,” Enedhil

said sharply. “Would love be enough for you? Let us assume that
Ninion somehow accepts your suit. It may be a long time before you
can bed him, and if you commit to him you would have to give up
your other partners. Would someone with a sexual appetite like
yours be satisfied with waiting?”

They both knew the answer. Once he had arrived in the Blue

House and his inhibitions were allayed by the permissive attitude of
the priests, Olenwë satisfied his passion for intimate physical
contact as Pelhan had never been able to do. But while his love for
sex remained undiminished, he had renounced his usual trysts ever

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since Ninion’s arrival. “He can learn to enjoy making love with me,”
he said. “I won’t hurt him.”

“It is not that simple, I think. Have you stopped to consider the

differences between you? I am not talking about birth or
upbringing, but just your appearance alone.” Enedhil gestured
toward the mirror that hung beside his clothes chest. “Look at
yourself, Olenwë. You have to look down to talk to him, and those
hands of yours could snap his neck. Assuming he knows anything
about the sex act and how men do it, I doubt he is eager to have you
be the first one inside him.”

Olenwë was not about to point out that not everything about

him was big. “He can be on top for all I care. I don’t even think he
knows how men and women do it, much less men.”

“My point,” said Enedhil, “is that you intimidate him, and he is

already uncertain enough.”

“I’ll admit that he’s frightened of something, but I don’t think

it’s me.” Olenwë looked down at the drawing again. Whatever
inspired Ninion’s apprehensiveness, it could not possibly be a fear
of him, not when he did everything in his power to be gentle and
soft-spoken whenever Ninion was near. “You and I were both there
when Olveru and the priests brought him in. We both saw how
terrified he was. He never says anything about his life before, and
he’s never told anyone why he was in the water.”

“You are assuming he remembers,” said Enedhil.
“I think he remembers a lot more than he’s told anyone.”

* * * *

In that limbo place where time blurred to accommodate his

craft, Ninion found himself sketching again. The figure on the page
was stripped to the waist to accentuate broad, muscular shoulders.
His lower body was encased in tight leggings, his hair blown back
as he brought up the staff in a clean, shallow movement.

The drawing was nearly finished before he realized the face

belonged to Olenwë. All at once, his artistic euphoria fell away from
him and he stared at the page in horror. His original intention had
been to sketch Minias raking leaves in the garden.

Flipping through previous drawings, Ninion was aghast to find

Olenwë’s face doodled in a dozen places. He set down his pad and
graphite and went to kneel in front of the little shrine that was part

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of the furniture in every talevé’s room. For one who had grown up
praying to the Earth Mother, the daily devotions to the Lady did not
come easily. No one had told him how he was supposed to
approach a goddess who was not a welcoming maternal figure but
an amorous seducer.

In the end, he offered his thoughts to the empty air: What does it

mean that I keep drawing him? I cannot love him. He bent double,
touching his face to the carpet as he wrapped both arms around his
middle. A sob welled up in his throat. It is forbidden. It is wrong.

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Chapter Six

The moment Olveru came in and shed his outer cloak, the three

talevé in the sitting room knew something was wrong.

“What is it?” asked Daro.
Olveru came over to the fire to warm himself. Rain had fallen

during the night, and a thin fog still hung over the grounds at
midday. “I am not certain,” he said. “I was in Madril’s office this
morning when a rather curious matter came to his attention. A
nobleman came in to see him. He had with him a letter he wanted
Madril to read.”

At this point, Olenwë’s interest began to wane. He had been

discussing hrill with the other two, who both shared his ki’iri gift,
but anything having to do with books or anything similarly dry did
not warrant his attention.

“What was in the letter?” asked Arion.
Olveru rubbed his hands together over the grate before politely

evicting Daro from the chair nearest the fire. “It was a letter written
by his dead son. As it was not a matter requiring my attention, I
was surprised that Madril did not ask me to leave right away.”

“And what does this have to do with anything?” asked Olenwë.
His impatience warranted a glare from the other three. Olveru

did not like being interrupted, and Daro and Arion both wanted to
hear the fresh news he brought.

“The young man was a suicide who threw himself from a

fishing boat last spring,” said Olveru. “The body never washed up.
His father showed the letter to Madril and wanted to speak to him
about it. I am not sure why he waited so long to bring the matter to
the attention of the House of the Water or why he brought the letter.
Madril asked me to leave. They talked alone for some time. I do not
know what was said, but Madril looked quite troubled when I saw
him again. He would not tell me what was wrong.”

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While Olveru disappeared into the kitchen for some warm tea,

the three talevé resumed their conversation; letter and corpse were
quickly forgotten. It was only when Madril appeared in the
doorway with a grim face that they realized something was amiss.

Madril’s gaze passed over the room and its occupants. “Is

Ninion here?” he asked.

“I believe he is helping Dyas with his lessons,” said Arion.
“And where is Olveru? I see his cloak hanging on the peg.”
Olenwë noticed the folded paper in his hand. “He’s getting

something to eat.”

“Daro, go and tell him to bring Ninion in here.”
While they waited, the priest would answer no questions, but

stood by the fire and stared into the grate with a look of intense
concentration.

Ninion came in, Olveru guiding him with a hand on his arm;

whatever the healer had told him left him anxious and uncertain.
Madril wasted no breath on courtesies; he held out the paper and
asked if Ninion had written the letter before throwing himself into
the sea.

Dark eyes grew large in a face that slowly lost its color. Ninion

stared at the folded paper in horror, but would not speak. With each
repeated query, his refusal grew more emphatic. Olenwë, alarmed
as well as increasingly irritated, started to go to him; a warning
glare from Madril kept him in his seat.

At last, pursing his lips together in a thin line, the priest made a

dismissive gesture. Ninion immediately went for the door. As he
reached the threshold, Madril suddenly called out after him.
“Sanadhil!”

Ninion visibly flinched. He turned, enough that the others

could see the terror in his eyes, and then bolted from the room.
Olenwë rose, only to have Madril seize his arm. “Let him go.”

“Why did you do that to him?” Olenwë pulled free, but stayed

where he was. “Why did you call him that?”

“Because that is his name: Sanadhil né Kirrion. The man who

came to the House of the Water today was his father. He took part
in the autumn procession and was close enough to recognize his son
among you. These last several weeks he has been making inquiries.”

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127

Arion explained to the other talevé that the Kirrion family was

very wealthy and influential. “They serve as advisors to Prince
Carancil,” he said. “Madril, what is going to happen to Ninion?”

“Beyond answering a few questions, nothing will happen,”

answered Madril. “He is a talevé and cannot be removed from the
Blue House, no matter what his father may wish. Lord Kirrion
desires to see him, but given the nature of the letter, I told him that
it was not permitted.” He handed the parchment to Olveru.
“However, I do not think this matter is settled with him.”

Olveru looked over the letter. Folding it again, he started to

give it back to Madril. “I do not know that anyone else should see
this.”

His reluctance made the letter irresistible; the others promptly

crowded around him for a glimpse.

“Whatever is seen or said here,” said Madril, “must not leave

this room.”

“Why not?” asked Olenwë. “What does it say?”
With a last look at Madril, who did not protest, Olveru

reluctantly opened the parchment; the others hovered over his
shoulder, anxious for him to begin. “It begins here with a greeting
to his parents.”

“‘To my honored—’“ began Arion.
Giving him a little look of annoyance, Olveru cleared his throat.

“Thank you very much but I will read it.”

“Then hurry up,” said Olenwë. Whatever was contained in

Ninion’s letter, he needed to know.

“‘To my honored father and mother, may the gods keep you. I am

sorry that you have received this. I know that I am not the son you desired.
I know that I have shamed you in all that I have done; in this I hope to
redeem myself. My consolation is that you still have Faellan to bring you
honor. Whoever brings you this letter, hold him blameless in this; no one
knew my intent until it was too late. I am—’“ Olveru suddenly placed
the letter facedown on his lap. “If you want to read the rest, then
you may do so by yourselves. I do not need to see more.”

Olenwë looked toward the door through which Ninion had

fled. Nearly a half-hour had passed, enough time for a young man
who had attempted his life once already to do so again now that his
secret was out.

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“Where are you going?” Madril asked sharply.
The urge that seized him was so sudden that he did not bother

taking formal leave. “We’ve left him alone,” he said. All he knew
was a need to run, to fly up the stairs and throw Ninion’s door
open. He did not even want to entertain the possibility it was too
late.

* * * *

Ninion huddled in the window seat, his face buried in his

hands. Olenwë took a step forward, his heavy footfalls prompting
Ninion to lift his head. When he saw who was there, Ninion
stumbled from the cushioned chest, edging back against the far
wall. Through a curtain of disheveled hair, his red-rimmed eyes
were wild with terror, but Olenwë saw no weapon in his hand or
any other sign that he had tried to injure himself.

Olenwë held a hand out to him. “It’s all right,” he said softly,

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

As he circled the bed, carefully advancing, Ninion lifted his

arms as if to ward off a blow. “Please, do not let them take me.”

“Let who take you?” When Ninion lunged forward in an

attempt to dart past, Olenwë seized him around the waist and
pulled him tight against him. “You’re not going anywhere. Stop
struggling! Nobody’s coming to take you anywhere!”

A voice ragged from weeping fired back at him. “My father saw

me! He went to the priests and now Madril—”

“Madril only wanted to know if you’d written the letter. He’s

not going to let your father take you away; he’s already said so.
You’re a talevé, do you understand?” He did not want to have to
strike Ninion to make him calm down enough to see reason. “This is
where you belong!”

Sobbing, Ninion began to struggle again, subsiding only when

exhaustion forced him to yield to Olenwë’s greater strength.
Olenwë felt wetness through his tunic where Ninion had buried his
face and was now hiccupping into his chest. All he could do for the
young man was hold him fast with one arm and try to soothe him
with the other. “Why did you jump into the sea? Why did you do
that to yourself?”

“No, I cannot—”

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129

“Tell me!” His voice was much more forceful than he intended,

and he felt Ninion—Sanadhil? What am I going to call you—flinch in
his arms. Olenwë held onto him, stroking his hair. “Please tell me.”

“I-I—at the banquet, I was supposed to dance with her.”
“With who? A girl?”
Ninion nodded dumbly. Sniffling, he dragged his sleeve across

his face before continuing, “Father wanted me to marry. He said it
was time and I was old enough, so he made me go to a party at the
house of one of his friends. I had never been before. I had a dance. I
tried, but I did not like it. I thought maybe it was because I had
never been with a girl before and I did not know her. I-I went to sit
in the corner and her brother came to sit with me. We talked and
then…. We had not even done anything yet, just touched hands, but
Father, he saw and….”

Olenwë forgot to be surprised in learning it was a man Ninion

had wanted after all. His only thought was how hard Ninion was
shaking and how much hurt was in his voice. “What did he do?”

“He waited until we were home, then he slapped me across the

face and shouted so everyone could hear how horrible and
unnatural I was. And then he, he….”

“Go on, tell me.”
“He took all of my drawings, everything, and burned them. He

said I was too soft, that I was going to forget such foolish things and
I-I wanted to—I could not— That was when I wanted to die. He
knew how much it meant to me, and still he—”

Unable to say more, Ninion’s voice dissolved into sobs that

shook his entire body. It was all Olenwë could do to get him to sit
down and hold him as he poured out his anguish.

Once Ninion was quiet again, Olenwë spoke. “When did you

remember all of this?” he asked.

“It was only a little at a time,” murmured Ninion. “The

drawings I remembered almost right away, when Olveru gave me
the paper, not what my father did but that it was wrong to be doing
it.”

“And what about your name?” asked Olenwë.
Ninion hiccupped against his shoulder. “I kept trying to

remember. It was only after the ki’iri transformation that I did. I
hated the sound of it so I never told anybody.”

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“I like Ninion better, but Sanadhil is a beautiful name, too.”
“Not when my father says it,” said Ninion. “I did not want

anyone to know about it. I was afraid.”

“You have nothing to fear,” Olenwë murmured into his hair.

“Not while I’m with you.”

* * * *

Dyas poked his head through the door. “You know what? I

have my animal, or I will once I do it for the first time.”

Ninion looked up from the book he was reading. He had not

been able to concentrate and welcomed the distraction. “What is it?”

“It’s a wolf.” A wide grin suffused Dyas’ face. “Maybe I can

bite Elentur for being so mean.”

“I would not do that,” said Ninion. “He is a wolf also.”
“I gather you’ll be just a cub,” said Olenwë, who sat on the bed

across from Ninion with the drawing pad across his lap. “I wonder
what fourteen is in wolf years.”

“I’m fifteen now,” Dyas said stiffly. “I had a birthday.”
Olenwë raised an eyebrow. “Oh, did you now? Then I suppose

you won’t want a doll this year.”

Scowling, the boy huffed off. “You are being mean to him

again,” said Ninion. “I wish you would not do that.”

“He doesn’t know how to take teasing. My brothers and

cousins used to do the same, and there was never any harm in it.”
Olenwë turned the page to a drawing of two talevé harvesting an
apple tree and showed it to Ninion. “Who taught you how to
draw?”

“No one taught me,” said Ninion. “When I was younger, my

parents would not let me go out and ride with my brother because I
was too frail. They kept me indoors with books and tutors, and then
there were long hours when I had nothing to do. My father did not
mind my drawing when I was a boy, but he always said that artists
were commoners who had to work for their bread.”

“There’s nothing wrong with working for one’s bread.” Olenwë

carefully studied the next drawing, a portrait of Arion in his festival
attire, his long hair flowing. He did not fail to notice the sketches of
him on several of the pages; his only comment was a smile.

That morning, a bundle of items arrived for Ninion, personal

belongings that his family had not given away at his supposed

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death. A note had come with them, but Madril promptly
confiscated it and read the contents before tossing it on the brazier.
“You are beyond his reproach, Sanadhil,” he said, “and you do not
owe him an answer.”

Olenwë had not left his side since yesterday. He stayed well

into the night, holding Ninion until sleep came and dozing on the
floor at the foot of the bed with his quarterstaff to reassure him that
his father would not come with armed guards to snatch him away.

Such fierce loyalty embarrassed Ninion. Ordinarily the thought

of sharing his room with the intimidating young man who had been
trying to court him for months would have been too much to bear.
Now he was afraid to send Olenwë away.

Even after careful consideration, Ninion decided not to use his

birth-name in the Blue House except on official documents; he
wished Madril would not address him so, but did not have the
nerve to correct him. As Olenwë continued to pore over his
drawings, he put down the book and went through the box of
clothing and jewelry with disinterest. The only thing he would have
wanted to bring with him had been reduced to ashes.

Being discovered by his father in a tentative embrace with

another young man and the anger that followed was something he
could have borne, for he knew enough about what was considered
proper to show remorse, but no words could convey what it was to
have his one passion torn away from him. His art was his very soul,
its destruction a knife through his heart. He had not lied when he
told Olenwë how badly he had wanted to die.

He started to close the box when Olenwë spoke. “Wait, let me

look.”

“There is nothing in here worth keeping.”
Olenwë got up from the mattress and took a seat beside him.

His broad hands shuffled through piles of good linen and wool
until they found a silver hairclip set with mother-of-pearl. “You’re
going to keep this, aren’t you?” Resting a tentative hand on
Ninion’s shoulder, he drew back the strands of hair that obscured
Ninion’s face and secured them with the clip. “There, that’s much
better.”

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At once, Ninion put up his hands to remove the clip. Olenwë

seized them between his larger ones. “You shouldn’t hide your
face,” he said.

Their faces were close, within the sphere that demanded

greater intimacy. Ninion became aware of an uncomfortable heat
that suddenly suffused his body. Olenwë’s breath warmed his
cheek, and he could have sworn that he could feel the other’s
heartbeat. He wished Olenwë would let him go, yet at the same
time did not fight to break free even though he knew he could easily
have done so.

Something soft touched his lips, pressing against them with

delicious heat. In that moment, his senses returned. Warmth turned
to panic, and he found the strength to pull away. “What are you
doing?”

Olenwë remained undaunted. “I am kissing you, the way you

should be kissed.”

As he leaned forward again, Ninion turned his head so the kiss

fell on the corner of his mouth. “It is wrong!” he whispered.

“That’s your father talking,” said Olenwë. “If that were true

then the Lady would say something about it.” His eyes widened,
reflecting a moment’s inspiration. Getting to his feet, he urged
Ninion up with him. “We should put it to the test.”

Ninion hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see,” said Olenwë. “Here, put on your cloak. It’s all

right, we’re just going to the Lady’s garden shrine. You’ve been
there before.”

Once beyond the downstairs atrium and into the garden,

Ninion began to regret trusting Olenwë. The day was cold,
pregnant with threatening rain, and the night’s sea mist still clung
in patches to the ground. He was tempted to stop, pull his hand
away and turn around, but some impulse that had nothing to do
with logic kept him going.

At the far end of the garden, Olenwë pulled open one of the

doors and ushered him into the shrine. Dim in the gray light that
filtered in from above, the pool steamed softly in the cool air. The
sea-green image of the Lady watched from its niche beyond the
pool.

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133

“This is the most sacred place in Shivar,” murmured Olenwë.

“She can hear everything we say, and if I kiss you now She will see
it.”

Ninion felt Olenwë hold him fast as he tried to pull away. “And

if it is a sin, She will strike us dead!”

“Why would She punish us for doing something that feels so

good?” Fingers slid along the curve of his jaw, gently tilting his
head up.

The lips that descended on his felt warm and soft, and the

powerful arms that slid around him held him upright when the heat
turned his limbs to sand. All his resistance fled, for all he knew now
were the lips and tongue moving against his, and hands that
roamed every part of him. Forbidden it might be, yet he yielded
because in this place his shame no longer mattered and he found he
did not want it to end.

A need for oxygen forced them apart. Ninion was reeling; he

could scarcely think. What have I done? “My father—” Some half-
remembered objection made him blush and duck his head away. At
any moment, he expected his father to come storming around the
corner and drag him away in a humiliating scene. But in the
shadows there was only the soft ripple of water and the sound of
their breathing.

Olenwë dropped kisses on his eyelids, as feather-light as the

others had been hard and passionate. “It’s only the Lady who
matters.”

It was increasingly difficult to think. “But the gods made men

and women to be together. They….” His body wanted only to yield,
but his mind could not reconcile what he had believed all his life
with the burning need that made him wonder how unnatural he
truly was. Surely the gods had not meant desire to be like this.

Kisses drizzled down his face to slide down his chin and the

apple of his throat. “Who are men to say what the gods intended?”
murmured Olenwë. “Tell me why you gave yourself to the Lady.”

Such a question seemed out of place. “I do not understand….”
“That’s what they call it in the islands when a man drowns

himself, a sacrifice to the Lady.”

Already overcome by emotion, Ninion could not help the tears

filling his eyes. “I do not know, only that I was lying on the floor of

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my room wanting to die. I could see the sea outside my window. I
cannot swim, so I thought it would be easy. They would never find
me. I did not want them to find me. I did not want to be anymore of
an embarrassment to my father than I already was.” His voice broke
on the last syllable, swallowed by the body that muffled his sobs.

Olenwë made gentle, shushing noises. “The Lady called to you.

She wanted you to come to Her, so She could take you away from
those people. It’s all right, listen.” The rippling of the waters in the
pool had become a fluid trickle that filled the chamber like the
murmur of a brook, and in it was the lullaby of the goddess.

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Chapter Seven

Ninion woke chilled and damp, blindly pawing at a wet

coverlet. As awareness slowly returned to him, he realized his hair
was also soaked. His body tingled pleasantly when he moved to
retrieve a dry robe from the clothes chest. He could not quite
remember what had happened, only the rushing of water and liquid
caresses. By now, he understood enough to know the Lady had
been with him, and though he was disconcerted by the wetness on a
cold winter morning when he knew the Lady was more likely to be
with Her consort, he was not frightened by it.

As the servants changed the bedding, Ninion retreated to a

corner of his room with his drawing materials and, in the light and
heat of the brazier, quickly sketched the details before they faded
from recall. The task he set himself was not an easy one; he was
used to rendering tangible objects or people, not abstract
impressions. Only when he was satisfied did he comb out his hair,
get dressed, and go downstairs for breakfast.

The activity upstairs was enough for the entire household to

know what had taken place. Dyas, who sat beside Ninion, was
ready with half a dozen questions, but the observed etiquette
prevented anyone from commenting on the event; someone kicked
the boy under the table until he was quiet.

Afterward, Ninion found Olveru and Enedhil alone in the

sitting room. Knowing they would not laugh, he took out the
drawing and showed it to them. He did not tell them what it was,
yet he saw that they immediately understood.

Weariness dogged him throughout the day. Olveru informed

him that such exhaustion was normal for one who had just
experienced communion with the Lady; it would pass within a day
or two. He was permitted to attend to his duties in the House of the

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Water, though the priest who supervised him was instructed to
release him at the first sign of overexertion.

After the evening devotions, while the rest of the household

went in to supper, Ninion made his excuses and went up to bed.
Food did not interest him, and neither Olveru nor the eunuchs who
served the meal made any comment about his lack of appetite.

Sleep would not come. He lay awake in the curtained bed,

watching the early twilight slowly darken the sky outside his
window. Cobalt shadows filtered into his room, and a soothing
quiet descended upon the house. Below him, he could hear the
muffled voices of the other talevé at their evening amusements.

Pale moonlight had begun to silver the shadows near the

window when a soft knock came at the door. Rather than undertake
the effort of answering, Ninion burrowed deeper under the covers
and waited for whoever it was to go away.

The latch slowly turned and the door edged open. Through the

bed curtains, Ninion saw a shadow slip into the room and carefully
close the door again. Whoever it was, their presence banished his
comfortable solitude. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay as still as
possible.

“Ninion,” said a voice. The curtains parted and the mattress

shifted under the weight of a heavy body. “I know you’re awake.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes to look up at Olenwë. They had

been together for the last two weeks, kissing and touching in private
corners but no more than that, and Ninion slept alone at night. To
have his lover wander in after nightfall indicated a desire for greater
intimacy. Ninion had known this was inevitable, and the eagerness
that mingled with the concern in Olenwë’s voice seemed to confirm
this.

Olenwë set down the heavy book he was carrying to fish

something out of his pocket; it was an apple. “You didn’t have any
supper. I thought you might be hungry,” he said. “I brought
something else, too, if you want to look at it.” With a sheepish smile
he pushed the book forward. “Well, actually, I stole it.”

Ninion sat up. With his movement, the apple rolled off the bed

and into the shadows. “You stole it?”

“I’ll put it back when I’m done with it.” Olenwë fumbled with

the bedside lamp and tinder box, lighting the wick before kicking

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137

off his house slippers and climbing up onto the bed. Ninion shifted
over to make room for him. “This is the book I told you about
before, remember?”

Worn around the edges, with a splotched leather cover, the

book had been passed among the priests for generations. Olenwë
carefully turned the pages to the beginning.

On each page were fading ink drawings of young men in

various states of undress, kissing and touching each other. Ninion
felt the heat rise to his face. “Who drew this? The lines—”

“I bring you a sex book and all you can do is comment on the

artwork?”

Ninion felt himself blushing. “Well, I-I have never seen such a

thing before and I—”

When he tried to turn the pages to the middle and back,

Olenwë stopped him. “This is just the kissing part. I don’t know if
you want to see the rest.”

What was before him was more than enough to make the blood

rise to his face. As he studied the images he was suddenly aware of
Olenwë’s hand on his arm; the other man leaned over his shoulder
to see what he was looking at. The proximity was magnetic, and the
book became an afterthought. When their lips met, it came as no
surprise. Ninion did not even mind that Olenwë might have had an
ulterior motive in bringing the book here.

But when a large hand slid down the hollow of his throat to

undo the laces of his nightshirt, his own hand flew up to prevent it.
“Please, no.”

Olenwë’s fingers lingered over the laces, gently teasing the skin

he had already bared. “You like it when I kiss you. I just want to
look at you and touch you. I won’t hurt you.”

As much as he knew and believed in his lover’s sincerity,

where love turned to lust it frightened him. He did not know what
to do, and did not want Olenwë to find him ugly, never mind that
the other man had already seen him in the bath dozens of times
before. “I-I do not know—”

“No, you’re afraid.” Olenwë reached up to touch Ninion’s

mouth with his fingertips before kissing him again. “I’m only going
to do what’s in the pictures that I showed you, nothing else unless
you want me to.”

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And when Olenwë undid his clothing and saw him erect he did

not know what he would do. The men in the book were touching
each other and themselves between their legs; he wanted that also,
but did not know how to ask. I want you to put your hand here—but
then what was he to say or do? Perhaps Olenwë would not even
want to touch him there.

Olenwe’s thigh pressed against his groin. Ninion rubbed

against him until Olenwë drew back and slid his hand between
their bodies.

Ninion gasped sharply. “Are you going to—?”
“Do you want me to? You get so hard when I kiss you, I think

this time I ought to do something about it.”

* * * *

Olenwë did everything he knew to make the experience

pleasurable, yet even as his clothing was slowly, gently drawn
aside, Ninion apologized for being so ugly.

Sweet gods, what are you thinking? Who told you that you were

ugly? Olenwë silenced his protests by telling him that he was
beautiful, and that there was no such thing as an ugly talevé,
compensating with his hands and mouth for his lack of poetry.

His original intent had been to show Ninion the book and

perhaps coax him out of his shyness, but he had underestimated the
power of visual stimulation. In the heat of arousal, it was becoming
increasingly difficult to control his passion.

When Olenwë had promised to do only what was in the

drawings, he meant it, but as they loosened and discarded their
clothing he chanced more, telling Ninion exactly what he intended
to do as he did it. His talevé lovers had taught him what pleasure
sensual language was, where Pelhan had simply told him how
badly he wanted to fuck him and left it at that.

He readily admitted wanting to sheathe himself in Ninion’s

body and ride to his own climax; in their three years together,
Pelhan had never let him have that pleasure, and toward the end
there were days when Olenwë had almost hated the man. If Ninion
ever trusted him enough to allow him such intimacy, it would be a
gift, but even in his need Olenwë knew and accepted that it would
not be tonight.

* * * *

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It barely registered that he was half-naked and that another

was touching him. The hands roaming over his torso and thighs
were so firm and warm that all thought stopped. Shame did not
enter into it. When his shirt slowly rode up his chest, followed by a
hot mouth determined to explore every inch of his torso, Ninion
forgot his reluctance. All that existed was the small candlelit circle
of his bed, their bodies moving upon it and the words of passion
that made him blush.

And when those lips closed over his left nipple, nibbling and

suckling for a few moments before moving over to its twin, he
pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle his outcry. That anyone
would be interested in a part of his body he thought useless amazed
him. Then those teasing lips and tongue were venturing lower,
sliding over his belly to his thighs, licking and swallowing his
erection.

In the darkness of his bed, on many other nights, Ninion had

explored the memory of their embraces, imagining his lover’s hands
on his body. It was hardly the first time he had touched himself, but
until now the faces in his daydreams had always been ephemeral.
He had fantasized about a lover caressing him, even stroking his
cock the way he did when he was alone, yet never imagined what
Olenwë was doing now. He could not believe that anyone would
think to do this, or that it would feel so good.

Hands cupped his buttocks and roamed his flanks, urging him

toward a release that did not come. Just short of his orgasm, Olenwë
stopped and crawled up to cover him with his body. Their bare skin
touched, their erections brushing together.

Slowly Olenwë began to thrust, encouraging his partner to

match his movements by the grinding of his hips. Ninion twined his
legs around him and let instinct take over. He rocked in time to the
delicious heat that was swallowing him, meeting his lover’s lips and
tongue with the same rhythm. Not even the Lady’s embrace, what
little he could remember of it, had given him such wild pleasure.
Yes, the thought was blasphemy, but he was too far gone in orgasm
to care.

Only when the spasms stopped and he could think again did

rational thought return to him. No longer a slave to animal desire,
he realized what they had just done and was ashamed. All his

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father’s invectives came flooding back to him. He was unnatural
and hideous, and between their bodies was smeared the proof.
Clutching at the bedclothes, trying to cover his nakedness, he
shrank back.

Olenwë immediately began dusting his cheek with kisses. They

were both panting, flushed with exertion, and Ninion felt a peculiar
lassitude weigh his limbs. “That was good,” Olenwë said. “The
Lady was watching us, you know.”

Ninion looked at him in confusion until he indicated the little

shrine in the corner. “She does not mind?”

“No, I think She enjoys it as much as we do. Wait here, I will

come back.” Olenwë suddenly rolled away from him, off the bed,
and Ninion heard the soft splash of water before his lover returned
to his side. A moist cloth swiped across his belly to clean it.

Ninion tugged the blanket up over his torso and thighs. The

sweat cooling on his body reminded him how cold the room still
was. “I should not have done that,” he stammered. “I have made a
mess.”

His apology elicited soft laughter from Olenwë. “But you’re

supposed to come when I touch you. If you hadn’t, I would’ve
thought something was wrong.”

Curling up next to Olenwë under the covers, Ninion looked

again at the book, which had been pushed off to the side during
their lovemaking. He turned it to the back and stared at the image
before him. A couple lay in each other’s arms, one lover atop the
other, whose legs were drawn up to his chest; they were kissing
with open mouths, and the one on the bottom did not seem to mind
where the other’s cock was. “It looks like it hurts.”

Olenwë nuzzled his ear. “No, he’s enjoying it. Look at his face.”
“Does it hurt?”
The arms around him tightened in reassurance. “It feels strange

at first, and it can hurt if you’re not careful. You can’t just jam it in
there and do it like you would with a woman, but the gods made a
secret place inside a man that feels good when you touch it.”

Ninion turned the page. A young man with long, flowing hair

sat in his lover’s lap while being penetrated from below. They were
clasping each other, and the one being taken had his head thrown

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141

back in ecstasy. “I wonder who posed for these, and who drew
them.”

“The pictures are all talevé. It was probably an artist like you,

somebody who knew what it felt like.” Olenwë kissed his shoulder,
sliding up to his neck. “Would you ever consider letting me do that
to you? I don’t mean right now, but someday?”

The lovers in the drawing were of equal height and weight.

Olenwë was taller than he by nearly half a foot and was much
broader in the shoulders. Being held by him in the fire of passion
was to be overwhelmed by his power. To have a lover like that
inside his body would hurt.

“Why did you choose me?” he asked. “I am not very

interesting.” As for being an exciting sex partner, he could not
fathom why Olenwë was wasting his time.

Olenwë nuzzled his ear. “Do I need to show you again how

much I want you? As for why I want you, I could ask you the same
question. Why did you draw me like that?”

Ninion felt the heat rise to his face. “I do not know,” he

murmured. “It seemed somehow that I should.”

They perused the book, studying and commenting on some of

the other drawings, until Ninion realized with some consternation
that his stomach was growling. “Olenwë,” he murmured, “where
did that apple go? I am hungry.”

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Chapter Eight

When Madril asked to see his drawings, Ninion did not know

what to say. In his mind he saw his father ordering him to bring out
his artwork, before instructing the household guards to restrain him
so he could tear them to shreds and burn them unchallenged. “They
are nothing, truly,” he stammered.

“I would still like to see them,” said Madril.
Olenwë appeared in the doorway. “It’s all right. Let him see

them.”

Seeing his lover standing with the priest stung more than the

request itself. On the night his father destroyed his folios, his
mother had stood by and done nothing to help him. “No, I do not
have them anymore.”

“Sanadhil,” Madril said gently, “I am not going to destroy your

work. I have been hearing from the others what a skilled artist you
are. I simply want to see if there is any truth to it.”

When Ninion was finally persuaded to bring his drawing pad

out from under the mattress, Madril sat on the clothes chest to study
it. If he could have done so, Ninion would have fled, done anything
to avoid being present when Madril finally condemned his meager
talent. Even when Olenwë moved in to reassure him with a hand on
his arm, he could not bear the scrutiny and turned his eyes away.

To his surprise, Madril complimented many of the drawings

but seemed most interested in his renderings of the stag. “Sanadhil,
if you were taken to see the other sacred animals, could you draw
them?”

“Why would you want me to do such a thing?”
“There is a wall downstairs in the atrium whose decorations are

centuries old and too badly worn to restore. An image of the Twelve
Sacred Animals might be just the thing to please Her,” said Madril.

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“We have painters for the task, if you would compose and transfer
the image.”

“Are you asking me to draw something for the Blue House?”

Ninion was not certain he had heard correctly. When he looked up
at Olenwë to see if this was true, he was stunned to find his lover
was nodding and smiling down at him. “But I do not understand,”
he told Madril. “Why would you ask me to do such a thing? They
are just scribblings.”

Madril closed the pad and handed it back to him. “Then they

are extremely talented scribblings. Many of the murals you see here
and in the House of the Water are the work of talevé who came
before you. You are not the first artist to enter the service of the
Lady.”

Under escort, Ninion went with his drawing materials to the

royal menagerie. Then, with Olenwë in tow, Daro took him down to
the beach where he still practiced the senu’s art of speaking to the
hrill and asked the creatures to show Ninion how they moved.

As he sketched, a composition began to take shape in his mind.

An artist who worked in frescoes and murals came to show him
how to create cartoons of his work, large-scale drawings which
could be placed on the wall. Holes were poked along the outlines,
through which charcoal dust would be rubbed to transfer the
image. The painting would be done by others who were skilled in
the medium. Only the composition was his, and he demurred when
the others complimented the results.

* * * *

Late spring in Sirilon was cool and windy, no more so than on

the heights of the temple precinct where the cliffs afforded a
majestic vista of the city and harbor below.

On a spur of rock thrusting out over the water like a ship’s keel

was an ancient shrine said to be the oldest in Shivar. For centuries it
had withstood wind, sun, and rain, the once brilliantly colored tiles
now cracked and fading; if one looked hard enough, one might still
make out the Lady’s sigil. Votive offerings of shells, clattering in the
breeze, hung from its lintel.

Behind the shrine, where the edge of the cliff was bounded by a

wall of perfectly seamed ashlar, Ninion looked down at the harbor.
Only a year ago he had stood at his window in his father’s house

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and contemplated death. Then as now, the blue sea had drawn him,
promising freedom from the shadows in which he had lived his life.
And he had sought it out, unable to swim but embracing the
oblivion of its depths as a supplicant.

A solid presence at his back told him he was no longer alone.

He turned in Olenwë’s embrace and lifted his face to receive his
lover’s kiss.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Olenwë. “Dyas has just

made his transformation. The darling little wolf puppy is nipping at
Elentur’s heels.”

Anyone looking up to the heights might have seen them, two

figures sharing a lovers’ embrace. From on high, Ninion felt so
solitary, so removed from the rest of the world that it did not matter
what others saw. His father, barred from contacting him, ceased to
be a threat months ago.

In the months following their first night together, Olenwë had

been patient with him. He gradually introduced Ninion to forms of
lovemaking he thought they would both enjoy, and made no move
to fully consummate their relationship. Whether it happened at all
or never, he seemed content.

“Is Dyas really nipping Elentur’s heels?” asked Ninion.
Olenwë chuckled. “Yes, but only after pissing on him first. If

that wolf pup is any indication, I think the boy is going to grow up
to be quite the firebrand. Why are you all the way out here? You’re
missing a good show.”

“I have been working all morning and needed some air. Madril

wants me to design more murals for the House of the Water.”

“You should. The one you did of the animals is beautiful.”

Olenwë lifted his hand to push aside a windblown strand of hair
before letting his fingertips rest on Ninion’s lips. “Now come,
there’s a certain puppy that’s waiting for you to throw him a stick.”

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Still Life

L.E. BRYCE

146

An abridged version of Still Life was published as “An Exchange of Gifts”
by Forbidden Fruit Magazine in 2006.

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147

Chapter One

Striding across the newly plastered wall were eighteen figures,

life-sized tracings Ninion had carefully mounted, fixed, and
laboriously transferred with charcoal. Days passed, his work
requiring such patience that his hand scarcely seemed to move.
When he was finished, the twenty-five foot mural stood ready to be
painted, each figure elaborately dressed and bearing a different
offering.

Ninion would not color his own mural. The House of the Water

had hired the finest painter in Sirilon to work with him. The man
and his assistants waited upon his instructions, ready to breathe life
into his figures with their pigment.

That Shevan, full of his own importance, would defer to him

seemed outrageous. Ninion had known the painter’s reputation
even as a boy, when his father had commissioned a full-length
portrait to hang in his study. Shevan delivered a masterpiece so
lifelike Ninion cringed to look at it, and left with the distinction of
being the only man in recent memory who could give the
formidable Lord Kirrion a tongue-lashing without having to answer
for it.

For that alone Ninion liked him.
Shevan neither criticized nor hastened his work, only offered

advice where he seemed to need it. “The hands on this figure are
very expressive,” he said, “but try smoothing those lines. It’ll be
more difficult to paint if you don’t.”

Where he saw sense in the suggestion, Ninion made the

improvements. Whether Shevan behaved so agreeably because he
was one of the Lady’s sacred consorts, or because the portraitist
truly respected his work, Ninion could not say. He was merely
thankful Shevan made no protests about his staying to supervise the
painting.

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Normally he would not interfere with the work of another

craftsman, yet his reasons for doing so needed little explanation. In
order to create this mural, an ancient one had to be demolished to
prime the wall for his tracings. The earlier work had been centuries
old, crumbling beyond restoration, and that which took its place
must be worthy of both the Lady’s approval and his own exacting
standards.

When he was ready, Shevan helped him remove the onion-thin

paper through which he had transferred his designs. “We’ll start on
the background first thing in the morning, unless you want the
priests to have a look first.”

“That will not be necessary,” replied Ninion. “You may start

whenever you are ready. I only wish the light in here was better.”

“We’ll light candles,” said Shevan. His gaze swept the vaulted,

dimly-lit hall, then he nodded. “I’ve worked in darker places.”

Shevan’s frescoes covered the entry hall ceiling in the sanctuary

of the Lord of the Winds, walls in the catacombs under the House of
the Water and royal residence, and the extensive library of the
Mariners’ Guild. That much Ninion knew. As a boy, often too frail
to leave his father’s house, he had seen very little of the city, and
now as a talevé confined to the Blue House, he saw even less. Talevé,
who were always buried at sea, never ventured into the catacombs,
and on their annual pilgrimage to the House of the Air they had
neither time nor privacy to gaze up, nor would they have been able
to see much within the shadowed recesses if they had.

Ninion trusted Shevan’s skill. Others did not.
Several priests had already questioned the propriety of giving

these two-dimensional Water-lovers faces that could be identified. It
was not the first time talevé would be portrayed in temple art, yet it
was a new thing not to represent them as stiff and iconic. When he
received the commission, Shevan had gazed at Ninion’s drawings
and studied them at length, humming under his breath while
remaining otherwise inscrutable. Slowly the haughtiness melted
from his face, and he smiled.

“This will work,” he said. It was all the praise he ever offered.

Ninion knew not to expect more. Certainly he did not point out that
the realism was based on Shevan’s own techniques, or that he had
been inspired by the portrait the artist had painted twelve years

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149

ago. Do you recall a commission from Fhersan Tal né Kirrion? He bit his
tongue against the temptation to mention the earlier work. Do you
remember snapping at him to hold still and keep his complaints to himself?
But Ninion was no longer Sanadhil né Kirrion, the lord’s son who
tried to drown himself in the harbor. He had no reason to speak of
such things.

A priest chaperoned the whole affair from his corner stool.

Under such scrutiny Ninion could not give his instructions as freely
as he would have liked. Instead he had to lay out his drawings,
move his finger over the design, and hope Shevan was astute
enough to recognize the messages hidden within.

Half a moment passed before Shevan grinned. No one need

point out that hiding a signature or some other tidbit was a
hallmark of his work. Ninion wondered if his father ever noticed
the two greyhounds buggering each other among the illuminated
capitals of the open book in his portrait.

“It will be done as you wish,” said the artist. “I’ll do those parts

myself.”

Later, as Ninion made the brief walk back to his quarters in the

Blue House, his chaperone abruptly stopped him. “First you are
giving too much life to sacred images,” the priest complained, “then
you give special instructions to the painters. I trust that you are
doing only what is right and moral in the Lady’s honor.”

How ironic, reflected Ninion, and arrogant, for the priesthood

to assume it represented the Lady’s wishes better than Her own
sacred lovers. “I have incorporated devotions to the Lady in my
work.” Ninion let his chaperone note his sanctimonious air before
continuing, “Madril and the other senior priests have already seen
and approved the project. Do not trouble yourself further with it.”

A pallid sunset filled the horizon. Dusk spread shadows

through the Blue House gardens, and a chill breeze set the candles
in the atrium fluttering when Ninion entered. Supper was being
served in the dining room; he had time enough to doff his cloak and
take his place beside his lover, who grinned at his unexpected
arrival.

“I thought you’d be eating with the painters,” whispered

Olenwë.

“I do not even have lunch with them.” At noon the chaperone

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always hustled Ninion to a private alcove, whether he would or no.
Most days he was too busy to note the time, or his appetite.

Dyas, seated across from them, handed Olenwë a plate of

biscuits. “How’s the project going?” he asked Ninion.

Ninion selected a biscuit from the tray. “The mural is ready to

be painted.”

Thus far all anyone else knew was that the mural would depict

a procession of talevé bearing gifts for the Lady’s altar. No one in the
Blue House could have suspected that they themselves would be
portrayed, and Ninion preferred it that way. Otherwise his
unwitting subjects would never have given him a moment’s peace.

“You’re terrible,” grumbled Dyas. “You’re gone all day and

have nothing to report when you get back.”

“That is because you always roll your eyes when I start talking

about perspective and shading.”

Two seats down, a talevé with lank hair and watery blue eyes

cleared his throat. “What the wolf-pup means is you spend your
days with Shevan Ardannes, whose ego is reported to be as big as
his cock—”

Madril cleared his throat. “Decorum, please, Elentur,” he said.
Elentur glossed over the reprimand. “I’ve heard he takes over

every project he’s involved in. How can you stand him?”

Before Ninion could reply, the high priest provided an answer.

“The House of the Water is paying Master Ardannes a handsome
sum to do as he is told.”

“Is that why he told Prince Carancil to smile for his portrait or

he’d paint pink bows all over the prince’s doublet, because he was
being well paid?”

“Where do you hear these things?” asked Ninion. “I do not

remember hearing such tales, and several priests were at the
unveiling.”

“Yes,” added Madril. “There were, as I recall, no pink ribbons.”
Elentur simply chuckled over his soup. “I have my sources.”
“What he means,” said Dyas, “is he believes every bit of gossip

the eunuchs feed him.”

Elentur made a rude gesture, then smiled at the disapproving

high priest. “Well, Ninion, are you going to answer the question?”

“There is nothing to say. The drawing is on the wall, and

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Master Ardannes will start painting tomorrow. So far there have
been no complaints.”

After the evening prayers Ninion sought only to enjoy a

relaxing bath and retire, as he had to return to the temple early the
next morning. Had Olenwë not been so intent on his company, he
might have succeeded.

Olenwë did not like the long hours he had been spending at the

House of the Water and wasted little time in saying so. “Look at
you. You’re exhausted and you’ve hardly two words to say to
anybody.”

Ninion set down the book he had been reading. “I hardly ever

say anything and this is not the first time I have been away working
on a project.” Seeing how frustrated his partner was, he leaned over
the chair’s arm and kissed him as passionately as he thought proper
outside the bedchamber. Such chaste demonstrations, however,
rarely did more than enflame Olenwë.

“Those were here in the Blue House.” Olenwë grasped Ninion’s

arm with one large hand and cupped his cheek with the other,
steadying him while he returned the kiss. His passion observed no
proprieties, and Ninion soon felt a warm tongue slide between his
lips. He knew then precisely how the night would end. “I was able
to visit you.”

“You are forgetting how many times I had to throw you out for

distracting me.”

“If that cockhead artist gives you any trouble—”
“Then he will be receiving a much smaller fee.” Ninion kissed

him again. “I will find some way for you to see the work when it is
finished. I think you will like it very much.”

Sensing that his words were not enough, he tucked his book

into the pocket of his voluminous robe and allowed Olenwë to lead
him upstairs. In his bedchamber, they undid their clothing, heaping
it in a corner while they slid under the covers to begin the
lovemaking Olenwë craved.

Ninion’s eyes, strained from working in candlelight and

shadows, begged sleep. His body ached with exhaustion from the
laborious process of transferring twenty-five feet of images in all
their detail, yet his lover’s urgency would not let him drift off. Guilt
tugged at him as strongly as the body coaxing him toward arousal. I

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should not be doing this as a favor to him. I should want it as much as he
does.

Even after two years he could not quite believe this tall,

stunning man was his. His awe, his gratitude for the affection he
received, was why he never pushed Olenwë away. Quite simply,
Ninion did not want to be without him.

Olenwë knew how to coax him into desire. With the

stimulation of the mouth and hands roaming his torso, the tongue
seeking his own, it was not long before he was arching his back, his
lethargy pushed aside in favor of little gasps and grunts that urged
Olenwë to make him come. Ninion alternately pulled his lover to
him and tried to shove him away, to push his head down to his
erection.

All he received were a few moments of oral pleasure. Olenwë

took him in once, twice, then released his member to insert a finger
between his lips. Knowing what was to come, Ninion licked it,
coated it with his saliva while lifting his thighs for the cushion
Olenwë slid under his hips.

Many times he tried, but had never been able to relax enough

for his partner to use his tongue in that place. However, over time
he had been able to accept and enjoy being fingered. Olenwë knew
precisely where to touch him, and how—sometimes hard and fast,
and sometimes slow like now, building toward a breathless,
boneless climax.

“You should let me do this the right way.” Olenwë’s fingers

drew little circles over his belly. “I want to come inside you.”

Despite their intimacy, they had not fully consummated their

relationship, and it surprised Ninion that such gentle quips were
the only reproach he ever heard. To offset the disappointment he
was certain his lover must feel, he gave Olenwë numerous proofs of
his affection, allowing his partner to finger his most intimate parts
and struggling past an instilled revulsion to oral sex to reciprocate
the joy he received. On a few occasions, he consented to taking the
lead and found unexpected pleasure in penetrating his lover, but
dominance was not a role he wanted to play.

Surely Olenwë must nurse some private regrets. A more skilled

lover could have satisfied him far better than I. “One day,” murmured
Ninion. “You are so big, that is all.”

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153

He spent the next quarter of an hour demonstrating his

admiration, taking his partner’s erection in hand and lavishing it
with his tongue, making Olenwë squirm, though he did not
swallow the result.

Afterward they lay close under the covers, Olenwë dropping

off to sleep almost at once while Ninion remained awake,
comfortably drowsy if a bit apprehensive. Naturally he had
promised Olenwë that he could view the finished mural. What his
lover would say he had no idea. That Shevan, a master portraitist,
had no complaints with, and even guarded praise for his work did
little to quell his sudden misgivings.

At the time it had seemed like a good idea. For two years now

he had wanted to do something for Olenwë, something that meant
more than the little drawings his lover tacked all over the walls of
his room. Now his plans struck him as too ambitious, too liable to
fall flat.

His only consolation was that Olenwë did not suspect what he

planned, and if the end result turned out all wrong, perhaps he
would not notice at all.

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Chapter Two

Olenwë stayed the night, and was still in bed when Ninion

rose, dressed, and ate in the kitchen before joining his chaperone in
the icy predawn for the walk to the House of the Water. He took the
morning prayers with the priests at the main altar before meeting
Shevan and his crew in the side hall.

Though access to the work area had been restricted, this part of

the temple received substantial foot traffic during the day. That,
coupled with the presence of a talevé among the workers,
necessitated screens behind the scaffolds, hung with the same
canvas sheeting that protected the floor.

Shevan liked to start early. His workspace illuminated by three

oil lamps, he supervised two assistants as they mixed pigment for
the background: muted sepia and parchment tones that would not
compete with the richness of the figures. When he saw Ninion with
his chaperone, Shevan respectfully touched his hand to his forehead
while hissing at his assistants to stop and do the same. Whether he
really meant the gesture or did it because the priests expected it of
him Ninion could not say.

“I’ll soon be mixing the colors for the first figure on the left,” he

said. “Your notes indicate turquoise and sky blue with gold trim. Is
it necessary to be that specific?”

Now came the inevitable criticism. “That is what Alanáro

actually wears during the procession.”

Shevan consulted the sketches, smaller versions of the tracings,

and nodded. “Yes, I see. I’d never really noticed. I’ll get your
approval on the colors before they go up. However, I am rather
curious about two of the figures.”

Leading Ninion over to the wall, he motioned to the hem of the

figure’s flowing robe. “I know this is you,” he said, “and I also

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noticed the text hidden in the embroidery. This name is different
than the one you seem to use.”

His finger traced Sanadhil concealed among the scrolling leaves

and vines. “Yes,” admitted Ninion, “that is the name I was born
with.”

“I wasn’t aware that talevé changed their names when they

entered the Blue House.”

Ninion did not want to have this discussion. “Sometimes they

do,” he replied. “My other name is hidden among the garlands I am
carrying.”

Shevan grunted acknowledgment, then moved to his right.

“Now this figure behind you—”

“Yes, that is Olenwë.”
“Is he a particular friend of yours?”
Ninion glanced over at the chaperone; the man was not

yesterday’s lecturing priest and not terribly interested in the work.
“I assure you, Master Ardannes, I would not offer the Lady what
was improper, nor would the priests allow it. Talevé have a strange
brotherhood. Sometimes it is more, but that is not for anyone but
the Lady to judge.”

That last part sounded harsher than he intended, and from the

way Shevan flinched back, Ninion could see he had surprised the
man. “What you Water-lovers do is your business. I only want to
make sure I have it right.”

“Olenwë has been my friend since the day I first entered the

Blue House.”

Shevan, flustered by the turn of conversation, glanced aside.

“Of course,” he said shakily. “I think we’re ready to begin with the
background.”

I have said too much, and none of it gracefully. Ninion donned the

canvas apron Shevan handed him. From the beginning he sensed
the portraitist was nervous in his presence. Now he had made it
worse, with the project only at its halfway point. I should never have
written those words. His hidden message revealed too many secrets,
laid bare too much dangerous knowledge where outsiders would
not understand. This he knew, because he had once been in
Shevan’s position, made awkward by the very notion of two men in
love.

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While the assistants laid down the background with its sepia

shadows, Ninion refined charcoal lines where his tracings had not
gone through, then helped Shevan mix pigment for the figures
themselves.

Shevan spent as much time holding swatches of colored

parchment up to the wall as he did at the mixing table. After a short
time Ninion asked him why.

“It’s difficult to render what I’ve never seen,” he replied. “Your

image will be the easiest, since you’re right here, but blending tones
for the others will be much harder. You’re certain the priests won’t
allow the other talevé to sit for their portraits?”

“They do not even know the figures are to be portraits,”

confessed Ninion. “The drawings I submitted left out most of the
detail. Not even Olenwë knows he is going to be on this wall.”

Shevan stared at him in genuine surprise. “You didn’t tell

him?”

If it does not come out right I will be ashamed. “I did not want to

ruin the surprise.”

Sighing, holding up a pair of colored scraps, Shevan shook his

head. “Then you’ll have to help me with the faces. My assistants can
do the hair.”

By day’s end most of the background was finished. At one end

Shevan had begun on Alanáro’s face, adding light and shadow.
Color blushed the cheek, deepening on the lips, while the eyes
remained hollow. “I leave that for last,” he explained. “They’re the
most expressive part of the face. While I’m working on the face I
think about the eyes, how they should look.”

“I draw the eyes first.” Standing at a distance, Ninion found

Alanáro’s image strangely haunting, sightless, wanting to step away
from the wall’s flat surface into life yet unable.

“Drawing, yes,” agreed Shevan. “When you paint it is

different.” A few more strokes, subtly blending color and shadow
on the cheek, then he set the brush down. “We’ll come back
tomorrow and finish this.”

Upon his return to the Blue House, Ninion found Olenwë

upstairs in the bath, soaking a badly bruised shin while the healer
supervised from a footstool at the edge of the pool.

“What happened?” he asked.

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157

Olveru looked more irritated than concerned. “He and Elentur

were sparring in the yard with quarterstaffs.”

“We were just exercising,” said Olenwë.
“Is that what you call it in the Seaward Islands?”
Ninion noticed the bruises darkening Olenwë’s shoulder and

cheek. “You look like you were in a fight.”

“They were,” said Olveru. “Apparently they took it into their

heads that the purpose behind sparring was not exercise but
comparing the relative size of their cocks.”

Olenwë turned, his sudden movement spattering the other

talevé’s priestly robe with droplets of hot water. “Everyone knows
mine is bigger.”

“Say what you like, but you can be sure Madril will insist on

having a word with both you and Elentur tomorrow. Talevé do not
behave this way.”

“Just because you never have any fun doesn’t mean you have

to spoil it for the rest of us.”

Ninion handed Olveru a towel to dab the areas where Olenwë

splashed him. “I am not impressed.”

“You get hard watching me sweat.”
The crude statement brought an embarrassed flush to Ninion’s

face. This sort of banter was not at all to his taste. “We will see how
handsome I find you when Elentur knocks your teeth out.”

“A few teeth are nothing. My grandfather had only the one

tooth, and the women still whistled at him.”

“I do not whistle,” said Ninion.
“No, but I can teach you.” Olenwë rose naked from the

steaming water, seized the towel the healer handed him, and
stepped out onto the tiles. Injuries sustained during his daily
exercises were nothing new, and once his irritation at the discomfort
passed he seemed to enjoy flaunting his scrapes and bruises. “I’ll be
limping for a week,” he hissed, as he put weight on his battered
shin, “but it’s nothing.”

Ninion could tolerate only so much posturing. Meeting

Olveru’s gaze, he rolled his eyes. “Just get a poultice on it and get
dressed for supper. We are going to be late.”

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss first? I’ll tell you where,

and Olveru can step outside.”

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“That would only encourage you. If I wanted someone with

such crude manners, I would have found myself a soldier.” Ninion
looked about, found his partner’s tunic and other clothing on the
stool Olveru had vacated and flung them at him.

Olenwë peeled the sweat-soiled linen off his chest. “Maybe, but

you’d never get one as good-looking or as good in bed as I am.”

“Get dressed and come downstairs, you big baby, and try not

to make too much of a fuss.”

As he washed and went down to supper, Ninion shook his

head at his lover’s antics. Occasionally he wondered what drew him
to Olenwë when on the surface they had so little in common. Tall,
broad-shouldered and rough-mannered, Olenwë stubbornly clung
to his islander fishing heritage and was so exuberant in bed it was
sometimes more than his highborn, delicate partner could bear.

Two years after entering the Blue House, Ninion now knew

profanity that would make his parents livid with shock. Once in a
while he gently asked Olenwë to mind his tongue, but it no longer
unsettled him as it had in the beginning. Even the sparring matches
with Elentur meant nothing more than a little friendly competition,
a way for Olenwë to assert himself in a place where he had no real
responsibilities or other pastimes. So Ninion learned to roll his eyes
and be tolerant. Olenwë was not going to change, and Ninion did
not really want him to.

It could have been different. Life with his genteel family or the

bride they had chosen for him would have made him miserable. No,
he thought quickly, it did make me miserable. It was far easier to
forget those years of isolation and strict rule in his father’s house
than remember the rejection that had driven him to despair. For all
his crudeness, Olenwë was surprisingly astute and gentle, and
Ninion could easily forgive him his faults.

Soon Olenwë limped down the stairs and into the atrium. “Did

I tell you that Dyas changed this afternoon?”

“As I recall you were too busy trying to convince Olveru and

me that your cock is bigger than Elentur’s. Not that it matters in the
slightest to me.”

Olenwë laughed before kissing him lightly on the lips. “You’ll

be happy to know that Dyas bit Elentur on the ass again. Elentur
gave me the shiner on my cheek when I couldn’t stop laughing.”

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Ninion sighed at the mental image of the sixteen-year old as a

wolf chasing after Elentur, who often teased the youth, and Olenwë
howling with laughter as his rival received his comeuppance. “Tell
me Dyas did not urinate on him again.”

“Of course he did.”
Dyas, exhausted from his transformation, would still be

upstairs sleeping. Ninion reminded himself to look in on the youth
before going to bed. “I keep telling him not to do that.”

“Let him have his fun,” said Olenwë. “That’s the problem with

being a sea creature. I never get to do anything as remotely
interesting.”

Elentur chose that particular moment to appear, wearing a

surly look that deepened when he saw Olenwë. Ninion smiled at
him. No matter the ferocity of their posturing, tomorrow the two
men would be exercising together and exchanging their customary
banter.

“You see,” continued Olenwë, “he’s a wolf, while I’m stuck as a

hrill.”

“I thought you liked being a sea creature.”
“Yes, but for once I’d like to piss on his leg the way he does

mine.”

Ninion stood on his toes to kiss his lover’s temple. For years the

priests had tried to instill Olenwë with eloquence and a sense of
etiquette, to no avail. Good breeding would only ruin his natural
good humor, and his allure. “Do you want the whole House in an
uproar?”

“You say that as though it were a bad thing.”
Sighing, Ninion took Olenwë’s arm and headed toward the

dining room. “What am I going to do with you?”

“If you’re at a loss for suggestions—”
“Your suggestions are not fit for public viewing.”
A half-second later he felt a hand smack him lightly on the

buttocks. Flushed, not knowing whether to be shocked, furious, or
both, Ninion started. “If you do not behave during supper you can
forget about playing later.”

Olenwë pulled a long face. “You wouldn’t really do that, would

you?”

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It really was impossible to refuse Olenwë when he put so much

effort into being endearing. But Ninion held firm. “Tease me during
supper,” he replied, “and you’ll see how much I mean it.”

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Chapter Three

Madril made the usual noises, complaining about the lack of

decorum in the Blue House, and Olenwë did his best to look
contrite. Elentur did the same, while rubbing his buttocks where
Dyas had nipped him a day earlier. Scolding came to nothing, for
within the hour the two were once again in the exercise yard
wrestling and baiting each other.

They noticed Olveru off to the side, grimly shaking his head at

their antics. Olenwë grinned, waved, then chuckled when the healer
left in an irritated huff. “I think he’s impressed.”

“With my manly charms or your clumsiness?” asked Elentur.
“Fuck you.”
“Sorry, I don’t take it in the ass.”
Gritting his teeth, Olenwë searched for a suitable retort, yet

found something better in the figure approaching from the main
house. “Oh, look who’s here. It’s your favorite person.”

When Dyas, still bleary-eyed from yesterday’s change, blinked

and innocently denied any memory of biting Elentur, it was all
Olenwë could do to hold in his laughter. Young as he was, the boy
was as devious as he was ferocious, and Lady help the man who
claimed him once he was finally old enough to have a lover.

“I swear I’ll bite his prick off the next time I change,” Elentur

grumbled once the youth was gone.

“Oh, but you heard what he said.” Olenwë let escape a tiny

guffaw. “He doesn’t remember a thing.”

“I’ll give him something to remember.”
“He’s not afraid of you.”
Elentur flashed him an obscene gesture. “Why don’t you go

bother Ninion?”

This Olenwë would have done had he been able. As annoying

as he knew his presence was, he enjoyed watching Ninion at his

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tasks, whether on small murals around the Blue House or just
sketching with charcoal. Most days Ninion spent in the temple
scriptorium copying manuscripts or occasionally illustrating them.
Olenwë wrote well enough to sign his name, and could read a little,
but not enough to join Ninion in his work.

As much he would have liked to share in this part of his lover’s

life, he knew it was futile to brood over things he could not change.
Certainly, knowing the privations Ninion had endured in his
father’s house, Olenwë was not about to begrudge his art simply
because he lacked talent.

This time, however, he felt uneasy. In the scriptorium Ninion

was safe, surrounded by priests and other talevé, and while the
supervising clergy might ask him to recopy a text or measure his
margins more carefully, no one criticized his art. But this artist,
renowned more for his abrasive reputation than his skill as a
painter, seemed to respect neither princes nor priests. A twenty-
one-year-old talevé, a rival, might draw a careless comment, a
hurtful remark that Ninion was unlikely to report.

He won’t tell me anything. That Ninion trusted him at all was a

gift given to no other, but he still carried some hurts inside him.

“You don’t have to be there all the time, do you?”
Ninion snuggled against him. How pleasant it would be to

remain like this all morning, or at least until one of the priests
barged in to hustle them to morning prayers. “You want me to stay
with you.”

“Of course I do,” replied Olenwë.
“I have to supervise the painting.”
Olenwë snorted. “This famous artist isn’t much good if he

needs you to watch him. And besides, it’s outright dangerous for a
talevé with your beauty to remain too long among laymen. This man
might try to abduct you.”

“I hardly think so. Shevan Ardannes is married.”
“When has having a wife ever stopped a man from lusting after

a gorgeous talevé?”

“You are exaggerating my beauty,” said Ninion. Turning, he

kissed Olenwë lightly on the mouth. “But if it makes you feel any
better, the priests never leave me alone with the painters.”

Olenwë sighed. So much for that argument. “I’ll be glad when

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this project ends. You’re always so tired and anxious when you
come home sometimes I think you aren’t happy with the work.
You’re sure this artist isn’t giving you trouble?”

“No, he is fine.”
“Then what’s wrong?” asked Olenwë. “I’ve never seen you like

this with other projects.”

He had fully expected Ninion to deny any trouble, to insist on

how happy the work made him, but when his lover sighed and
rolled over to one side he knew his instincts were right. “The mural
is such a massive project I am surprised the priests let me submit a
design at all.”

“You should be honored they chose it.”
In the shadows Olenwë thought Ninion might have shrugged.

“So many people will see it, and if it does not turn out right—”

No more of that nonsense. Olenwë placed a hand on Ninion’s left

shoulder, drew him close, and kissed his brow. “You always say
that about your own work, and you’re always wrong.”

“But this is special, Olenwë.”
“Everything you do is special—ah, watch my shin.”
“You and your ridiculous posturing,” said Ninion. “You and

Elentur behave like children who have nothing better to do.”

“That’s just it,” replied Olenwë. “We don’t have anything better

to do. I don’t have any duties in the House of the Water, and
nothing else to keep me out of trouble.” No one had to tell him that
idle hands made for disaster; in the fishing communities of the
Seaward Islands a man imbibed such maxims along with his
mother’s breast milk. Olenwë found his current boredom all the
more frustrating because he could not do anything about it. “In fact,
if you hadn’t come along when you did I’d spend all my time
wishing I could go back to Ikun.”

What he never shared with Ninion or anyone else was the

knowledge that there were some talevé in the southernmost Islands
who avoided coming to Sirilon, who lived free and did as they
pleased. So the stories went. Many times Olenwë felt he should
have fled Ikun while he had the chance, before the ship came to take
him to the mainland.

But had he escaped, had he lived free in the warm southern

Islands, he never would have known Ninion. Therefore, what

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should have been a constant longing became an occasional regret,
tinged with the certainty that a man could not have everything he
wanted.

* * * *

As the work neared completion Ninion lingered off to the side

with his chaperone and watched Shevan put the final touches on the
elaborate details of jewelry and embroidery. His assistants followed
in his wake to apply sealant.

Once the mural was finished and before the sealant had

completely dried, Madril and the other senior priests came to
inspect the work. Ninion, standing beside Shevan, held his breath
and tried to keep from trembling as they paced the length of the
mural, scrutinizing the craftsmanship, discussing the details in
hushed tones until he was certain they would find fault with it.

Finally Madril, wearing an inscrutable look, approached. “The

results are acceptable,” he said. “Of course, we do not necessarily
approve of portraiture in the sacred enclosure, but in view of the
high quality of the work we will let this pass.”

Ninion waited until the priests departed before daring to

breathe. They did not notice, he thought. It was before their eyes and
they never saw.

“So the stuffy old men approve,” Shevan commented drily. “I

suppose Madril realizes he’d have gotten pink bows if he
complained.”

So the tale must be true. “Those are real talevé,” said Ninion. “I

do not think Arion or Olveru would appreciate bows in their hair
anymore than Prince Carancil.”

Shevan’s laughter echoed through the vaulted space, startling

his assistants. “Ah, so you’ve heard that story.”

“Is it true?”
“If you look carefully enough at his portrait you might find a

bow or two.” Shevan nodded at his assistants to reassure them, then
winked at Ninion. “I couldn’t let the dour old fool escape thinking I
didn’t mean it.”

All that evening Ninion’s thoughts turned toward obtaining

clearance for Olenwë to leave the Blue House in order to see the
mural; only talevé who were anointed members of the priesthood or
were assigned tasks in the House of the Water had the privilege of

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165

leaving the enclosure. He considered his next move through the
morning prayers and breakfast, and before noon went to ask Madril
to allow Olenwë to visit the temple early tomorrow morning. “No
one will be there,” he said. “Normally I would not ask but I would
like him to be able to see his face in the mural.”

Madril sighed heavily. “When I saw the mural I suspected you

might ask.”

“It is a small request,” replied Ninion, “and it would give him

such joy.”

“Of course, but you realize that once the others learn their

portraits are in the House of the Water, they will also wish to see
themselves. Those who frequent the temple will view the mural and
spread the word.”

Ninion had not, in fact, considered that possibility. “Is it so

impossible a request? Arrangements could be made for a private
night viewing.”

Madril made no promises beyond giving his consent for

Olenwë to make a brief predawn visit. His reluctance made no
sense. Often it seemed that the priesthood hesitated in giving the
talevé too much leeway; their attitude in letting Ninion work on the
mural felt more like a favor than an honor, and soured his elation at
receiving the commission. Ninion could not comprehend this, even
when Olveru explained that the priests, threatened by the
connection the youthful Water-lovers had with the Lady, behaved
as they did out of a need for self-preservation.

I have no wish to usurp Madril’s position, he thought. I simply want

Olenwë to be able to see the work I did.

Not wanting to rouse suspicions in the Blue House, Ninion

kept quiet until a eunuch came to his door just before dawn to
inform him that his escort had arrived.

It was his misfortune that Olenwë did not like rising before it

was necessary, and often came down to morning prayers
disheveled and bleary-eyed. Ninion, already dressed, shook him
vigorously. “I do not want to have to dump cold water on you to
get you up.”

Groaning, Olenwë tried to shove him away. “Lemme alone,” he

mumbled.

“You could not have been this sluggish in the Seaward

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Islands.” Ninion opened the clothes press and selected items that he
promptly dumped onto the bed. “All those stories of being out on
the water before dawn and here you cannot even drag your lazy
carcass out of bed for me.”

Olenwë rolled over, yawned, and scratched himself. “Unless

we’re going fishing or about to fuck I don’t see the point.”

“Oh, you are impossible!” Ninion threw a tunic over his head,

and followed that with a pair of trousers. “Here I get Madril to
agree to let you go to the House of the Water and see the mural, and
you cannot even manage to open your eyes. Now get up, put your
clothes on and wash. You have all afternoon to sleep if you are truly
that lazy.”

Once motivated, Olenwë could and did move as quickly as any

fisherman due out on the water before sunrise. He dressed, dragged
a comb through his hair, and rinsed the sleep from his mouth with
scented water. “Now if you’d just told me instead of barging in like
a nagging fishwife,” he complained, “we wouldn’t have had all this
fuss.”

“It was to be a surprise,” said Ninion.
A temple guard awaited them in the outer courtyard, and in the

chill darkness and fog they made their way from the Blue House,
down the linking colonnade and into the House of the Water. The
night guards were still on duty, with no priests in sight. Olenwë
noticed this at once and promptly commented. “It’s nowhere near
dawn.”

“Stop your grumbling and turn left,” said Ninion. “We are

here.”

From the lantern the guard carried, he lit a pair of oil lamps

Shevan’s crew had left behind. Later this morning the men would
dismantle the scaffold, remove the canvas flooring, and by
afternoon the mural would be visible to the public. “Come inside
and see,” he told Olenwë, taking his hand to guide him into the
enclosure.

Although he gave no indication that the man was not welcome,

the guard retreated to a respectful distance to await further orders.

“All right,” chuckled Olenwë, his voice softly echoing through

the temple’s empty spaces, “what do you want to show me?”

Smiling, his heart beating hard with mingled fear and

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167

excitement, Ninion turned toward the wall. Then he abruptly
stopped, bewildered at what he saw. Once, twice he blinked, but no,
there was no mistake.

Where their images had been earlier, and should have been

now, was now a blank, white space.

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Chapter Four

“I do not understand.”
The whiteness was plaster, still wet and applied unevenly, and

only to their two figures; the other sixteen looked as they should.
Ninion stood rooted to the canvas-covered floor, mouth agape in
disbelief and unable to wrap his mind around the concept that
someone would want to ruin his hard work, that they would
specifically want to hurt him and Olenwë.

After a moment he gave a little cry, all he could manage when

inside he was screaming in agony.

From behind he felt Olenwë’s hands on his shoulders, then his

muscular arms wrapping around him. “What is it?”

“Those were our portraits, you and me. Someone ruined them.”
In his ear he heard his lover hiss, “Who did this?”
“I do not know. Only the priests and painters have seen it.”

Ninion’s thoughts raced, trying to grasp at that which made no
sense. “Perhaps it was a priest who disapproved—I do not know.”

“We’ll find out who did it.” Olenwë’s lips touched his temple,

then he spoke again, very softly, “We’ll fix it. Now, show me the
rest of your work.”

All Ninion wanted at that moment was to flee, to run back to

his room in the Blue House and hide, but with Olenwë gently
urging him on he saw he had no hope of escape. Slowly, reluctantly,
he led Olenwë to the far end of the mural, where the procession
began. “Look carefully,” he said tonelessly. “You should recognize
them.”

Olenwë squinted in the flickering light at the figure upon the

wall, and tilted back his head to peer at a face two feet above his.
“This looks like Arion,” he said, letting his eyes trace the figure’s
waist-length hair.

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169

“Daro is behind him,” said Ninion. “He is the one holding the

brass bowl of seashells.”

“Are they all like this?” Olenwë’s hand instinctively came up to

touch the work, but after a warning about the sealant, which was in
the final stages of drying, he kept his distance.

“Yes, they are.” Ninion felt his voice knot in his throat. Only

decorum kept him from burying his face in his hands and bursting
into tears. Despite his denials he had a sinking suspicion he knew
who had defaced the mural, and why.

This he did not want to believe, and did his utmost to convince

himself that it could not be possible in such a short space of time.
The mural had not yet been unveiled to the public; the dedication
was still days away.

No one else would try to erase me like this, he thought.
Olenwë laid a hand on his arm and, with the guard in tow, led

him back to the Blue House. There he flagged down the first eunuch
he could find and ordered him to find Madril.

“But, holy one,” protested Zanir, “the high priest is still—”
“I don’t care if he’s asleep or fucking some whore. Go get him,”

barked Olenwë. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

Half an hour later Madril arrived wearing a tired, harried look

that dissolved the moment he learned the reason behind his rude
awakening. “I will begin making inquiries immediately. Olenwë,
take Ninion into the dining room and see that he eats something.”

“I am not hungry,” Ninion said in a small voice.
“There is no need for you to be this upset,” replied Madril. “We

will find out who did this, and the mural will be repaired.”

Once Olenwë led Ninion into the dining room and helped him

sit down it did not take long for the other talevé to discover what
had happened. Immediately they put forth theories as to who the
culprit must be, an exercise Ninion did not encourage and wished
would end.

“The priests make a fuss over everything,” said Dyas. “It’s

always ‘don’t do this’ or ‘that’s not proper.’ They must have seen
something they didn’t like.”

Right away there were murmurs of disagreement. “The priests

gave their final approval yesterday,” Olveru pointed out. “They
would not have done so unless the work was to their liking.”

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“What about that cockhead artist?” asked Elentur.
Here Olveru shook his head again. “He would not sabotage his

own work this way. Ninion, I saw your sketches when Madril
approved the design. If that is what the mural looks like then there
is no reason for anyone to have done what they did.”

“There is one person—”
“Do not even say it, Dyas.” Olveru wagged a finger at him. “No

one needs to hear it.”

Throughout this, Ninion bit down on his lip, drawing blood as

he struggled to hold back his tears. No matter what Olenwë tried to
press on him he could not eat. Dyas was right, he must be, unless
someone else wished him ill. But Ninion dared not say anything,
dared not admit to the messages he had concealed within the ruined
images, not now, when all his hard work had come to nothing.

At last, pressured on all sides, he burst into tears. Olenwë

hugged him close, while waving everyone else away. “Stop this and
just let him be. All of you, go.”

Madril entered as the dining room cleared. “Sanadhil,” he said,

using the formal name Ninion despised, “you must accompany me
to the work site. Olenwë, you do not have clearance to—”

“Fuck you. I’m a talevé. I should be able to go to the House of

the Water whenever I want.”

“Your temper does not help matters. Sanadhil is already

agitated; he does not need you threatening half the city in his
defense. Olveru will go with him.”

Ninion regretted the sting the high priest’s decision caused

Olenwë, yet at the same time he welcomed it. “It will be right,” he
said quietly.

“I don’t like this,” grumbled Olenwë.
“It will only be for a short time. We will inspect the damage,

then Sanadhil will return and Olveru will give him something to
help him rest.” Madril nodded toward Ninion, who had already
begun to protest that he did not want to be drugged. “I assure you,
we have as much interest as you in learning who did this.”

Why he needed to go at all Ninion did not know. Shevan,

already present at the site and swearing profusely at the damage,
was able to answer Madril’s questions. “It’s only the two images
here, and only their faces and other scattered details. Before you

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171

ask, my men and I had nothing to do with this.”

“Can it be repaired?” asked Madril.
“Of course,” replied Shevan. “We have the original tracings,

and once they’re positioned properly we can restore the damaged
areas in a very short time. However, we should wait for the sealant
to dry, otherwise the parchment will stick to the wall.”

Nodding, Madril drew Ninion aside. “I did not wish to say this

in front of Olenwë, knowing what his temper is like, but my initial
inquiries have yielded some possible answers. Your father visited
the temple yesterday.”

Ninion stiffened. From the beginning, however much he hoped

against it, he had known this moment would come. “No one aside
from the artists and senior priests has seen the mural.”

“There may have been informants among your chaperones,”

said Madril, “and the House of the Water is not entirely closed at
night. It is possible.”

Ninion grasped Olveru’s arm as a wave of nausea threatened to

overwhelm him. Even within the sanctuary of the temple, it seemed,
he was not beyond his father’s reach. “Has he said anything?”

“I have not yet questioned him,” admitted Madril. “One does

not accuse a man of his status lightly. However, this afternoon I will
find some pretense to call him into my office. He may not confess to
anything, you understand, but we will see to it that he knows the
consequences of any further mishaps.”

In short, nothing would happen. Ninion gasped for air in the

closeness of the canvas-shrouded work area, and felt Olveru tug at
his arm. “You should go outside.”

“I want to go back to the Blue House.”
Madril nodded. “There is no further need for you to remain.”
As Olveru escorted him out Ninion started when he

encountered Shevan standing just outside the hall. “I wouldn’t
worry about repairing the damage,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve
redone countless paintings, most of which I plastered over myself.”

Ninion managed a brief nod. “Thank you,” he croaked.
“I had no idea that blustering idiot Fhersan Tal né Kirrion was

your father.”

“Perhaps it is best you do not mention it,” said Olveru.
Shevan grinned. “I wouldn’t want to acknowledge him either.

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172

You must be Olveru Terrias, the healer.”

Ninion sensed his companion’s mingled interest and

annoyance. “Have we been formally introduced, Master Ardannes?
I believe the correct form of address for a talevé is ‘holy one.’”

“Well, then, holy one Olveru, you might recall that I’ve spent

countless hours poring over all eighteen of your faces. By now, I
know your features in intimate detail. When you have a chance to
look at my poor rendition I think you will find your name hidden
among the herbs in your hands.”

Olveru discreetly coughed, yet made no move to leave. “Are

you flirting with me?”

“Oh, but I am a married man, holy one,” replied Shevan.
“Marriage has never stopped a grown man from panting like a

dog over a talevé,” Olveru said, a hint of disdain creeping into his
voice. Ninion could only wonder how much he was truly enjoying
himself.

Now, venturing beyond presumption, Shevan claimed Olveru’s

hand and kissed it. “Truly I was not able to decide which among
you is the fairest, you are all so lovely.”

Olveru snatched his hand back. “Those are hardly wooing

words, Master Ardannes.”

Madril emerged from the canvas enclosure, bringing the

exchange to an abrupt end. “I hope nothing is amiss here,” he said
drily.

“Not at all,” replied Olveru. “We were just leaving.”
As they turned to go Ninion spoke, “Master Ardannes, the

illuminated manuscript in my father’s portrait—”

A mischievous light twinkled in Shevan’s eyes. “Yes, what

about it?”

“I noticed a pair of greyhounds in a rather...compromising

position.”

“Ah, so you noticed my parting gift to him,” said Shevan. “You

have, I noticed, a rather fine eye for detail.”

Ninion nodded graciously at the compliment. “Unfortunately,

my father never seemed to appreciate it.”

“Yes, I see that.” A grim note crept into Shevan’s voice. “Which

is why I will do my utmost to restore your work to its every last
detail.”

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173

Chapter Five

Olenwë hated it that things were so complicated in Sirilon. First

he needed formal, written permission to leave the Blue House—
even to visit the temple of his Lady—then priestly interference kept
him from staying with Ninion. Olveru and his potions were useless.
Ninion did not need to be drugged like some uncontrollable child;
he needed reassurance that those who damaged his work would be
found, and then, like a man, he needed to dry his tears and go back
to work on the mural. Madril should be acting, not asking polite
questions and shuffling a distraught talevé out of the way simply
because he found it unseemly.

In the Islands, Olenwë would not have to look hard for anyone

who did him wrong; in a fishing village, everyone knew everyone
else’s business. Within the hour, he could go straight to the
offending party and demand restitution. Of course, the Blue House
was not a village and the talevé were not peasants, as the priests so
often reminded him. Fhersan Tal né Kirrion was a powerful noble
attached to an equally powerful ruling prince, and he would only
admit responsibility for defacing his son’s work if it suited him.

“If I were there,” he told Elentur, “I’d make him talk.”
“Are you even sure it was him?”
Whatever ragged doubts Olenwë still had he shoved aside.

“Who else could it be? He burned Ninion’s drawings once before.
Why shouldn’t he do it again?”

“Then why not whitewash the entire mural instead of just your

two faces?” Elentur shook his head. “Does he even know the mural
is Ninion’s work?”

Olenwë made no reply, because at this point he did not know

what to say. The culprit could just as easily be a priest who,
knowing about the relationship between him and Ninion, decided
to erase their faces to show his disapproval. But then why not do

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174

the same to the images of Arion and Daro, or Elentur and his lover
Minias?

It made no sense at all, and all Olenwë could do was make sure

he was with Ninion when Madril returned that afternoon with
news.

“I understand you refused Olveru’s draught.”
Ninion nodded slowly. “I do not want to sleep.”
“Let him go back to work,” said Olenwë. “Fixing the damage

will make him feel better.”

Madril glared at him with such vigor that he knew his

comment was unwelcome. “Master Ardannes has already finished
retracing the plastered areas. He and his assistants are currently
repainting the background. Sanadhil is not needed for this work.”

Olenwë felt Ninion squeeze his hand. “He is right,” Ninion said

softly.

Madril continued, “I have contacted Lord Kirrion over this

matter. Naturally he admits no responsibility, but he does not deny
it either. I do not think it will come as a surprise to hear that he
demands to see you, Sanadhil.”

“I have no desire to see him.”
Olenwë expected that to be the end of it. A talevé could not be

coerced, and the priesthood actively discouraged contact with
family members. Ninion had stated his position once before. As far
as Olenwë was concerned, Madril had no business asking again.

To his utter surprise and dismay, the high priest decided to

press the issue. “Sanadhil, while I respect your wishes, it may be
time to lay this matter to rest. Therefore, you will accompany me
later this afternoon.”

“It appears that respecting his wishes is the last thing you’re

doing,” observed Olenwë. When Madril did not respond, he added,
“If Ninion meets with his father then I demand to be present.”

Madril frowned at him. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“I don’t see how you can prevent me.”
“You may think that because I cannot have the temple guards

come in and subdue you that I cannot have it done at all. Do not
press me on this issue, Olenwë. The law does not forbid other talevé
from laying hands on you, as your recent altercation with Elentur
proves, and if I have to ask him and others to lock you in your

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175

room, I will.”

Olenwë idly wondered what the law said about breaking a

priest’s jaw. “You’re a real ass, Madril. That man erased my face,
too.”

Madril’s mouth tightened at the insult, but he did not yield. “I

cannot risk your assaulting him. I assure you both, this will not be a
private meeting. I would never ask Sanadhil to meet with his father
alone.”

“I do not want to face him at all,” murmured Ninion.
“It doesn’t seem like you have a choice.” Olenwë leaned over in

his chair to drape an arm around his shoulders. “He can’t do
anything to you.”

“He just did, Olenwë.”
Still hugging Ninion close, Olenwë glared one last time at

Madril. This isn’t the end of it, he thought. Naturally he could not
show up when the high priest prepared to leave with Ninion and
expect Madril would not carry out his threat, but he could follow
later. How to proceed, though, that was the question. Never having
left the Blue House except as part of a formal procession or without
a waiver, he would have to order the three sentries at the gate to
stand aside. They would challenge, of course, and Olenwë imagined
they would try to herd him back inside without laying a hand on
him.

Elentur and Minias would come to his aid, and perhaps one or

two others, but once he passed beyond the gate he still had to find
his way to Madril’s office, which he had never visited before.
Asking a passing priest for assistance would only rouse suspicion;
the man would ask to see his waiver, and if he could not produce it
Olenwë knew he would not get very far before additional priests
and guards swarmed down upon him.

Pacing the garden colonnade, he pondered his options until he

noticed a eunuch carrying a message from the gate to the small
outbuilding where Olveru dried and prepared his herbs. Olenwë
followed, and found the healer at his work table reading the open
message.

“Is that what I think it is?”
Olveru dismissed the eunuch with a gesture. “And what do you

think it is?” he asked.

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176

So this was the game Olveru intended to play with him.

Olenwë casually leaned against the doorjamb, blocking the
threshold. “I think you’ve been summoned by Madril in case
Ninion has a nervous fit.”

“That might be,” admitted Olveru.
Olenwë growled in irritation. “Oh, stop fucking around. Ninion

doesn’t need one of your potions. He needs someone to stand
beside him when that big blustering blowhard starts insulting him.
Tell me, are you going to do that for him?” He raked Olveru’s slight
form with a disparaging gaze. “I highly doubt Madril will.”

“Olenwë, you do not know what Lord Kirrion looks like.”
“No, but I know the type. The only way to stop a bully is to

stand up to him.”

“That does not mean you have a right to break every bone in

his body.”

“Did I say I would?” As the healer began to move toward him,

Olenwë straightened, obstructing the doorway outright. “You can
walk past me, Olveru, but I’ll follow you all the same. The guards
wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me, and they’re not about to risk a
fight with a talevé just to keep me out of the House of the Water, not
when I have a right to be there.”

Olveru sighed heavily. “I will have to show you the way.”
In the end he did more than that, getting Olenwë past the

guards with a chilly reprimand when they asked to see the waiver
for the unfamiliar talevé leaving with him. “Just because I agreed to
help you does not mean I think it is a good idea,” he said. “The
eunuch Madril sent knows who I am. Madril is not going to believe
Taran mistook you for me.”

Through wide corridors they hastened, drawing curious looks

from passersby who noticed that Olenwë was not wearing the
priestly blue-and-gray garb talevé wore in the House of the Water.
“Once I get there it will be too late.”

Olveru turned the corner. “It is the second door on the left.

Promise me you will behave and not hit anyone.”

“That depends on what I find,” replied Olenwë.
Behind the door he heard murmuring voices. He started to

knock, hesitated, then shrugged and rapped lightly, drawing a
familiar command to enter.

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177

Madril, seated behind an elaborate desk, went livid. “I sent for

Olveru.”

“Did you?” Olenwë did his best to project innocent confusion.

“The message must have gotten garbled.”

“I very much doubt that,” Madril answered tightly.
Beside the high priest, Ninion sat tense in his chair, his face as

white as Olenwë had ever seen it. With his back to the door sat a
gray-haired man in a green velvet doublet. He shifted in his chair,
his expression of arrogant annoyance turning to apprehension when
he saw who loomed over him. “Olenwë—”

Olenwë took two paces toward him, just for effect. “So you

know me?”

Madril rumbled at him, “If you intend to stay you will sit down

and not make a scene.” He waited just enough for Olenwë to find a
vacant chair near the wall before continuing, “Lord Kirrion, let us
continue. You know the House of the Water does not take such
matters lightly.”

“I will not have my son’s portrait besmirched by something

that foul,” said Kirrion.

“I am afraid I do not quite follow you.”
“Then you are not aware of the text hidden inside the

composition? These two—” With a dismissive wave he gestured to
Olenwë and Ninion. “These two are lovers for all the world to see.
Yes, I know that, as if one could not tell by watching their shameful
proximity during public processions, but this is outrageous.”

Madril turned to Ninion. “What does he mean?”
“It matters nothing, now that he has destroyed the images.”
“Tell them what you have done, boy!” barked Kirrion.
“Lower your voice,” growled Olenwë. “You’re not the only one

around here who knows how to be a bully.”

“Sanadhil,” said Madril, more gently, “tell me what—”
“Stop calling me that!” Ninion’s voice trembled with effort, yet

remained firm. “You know how much I hate that name. Do not call
me that any longer.”

Leaning forward, Kirrion slammed his fist down on the table.

“That is the name I gave you, boy!”

Olenwë started forward, then froze when Ninion rose from his

chair. “Sanadhil né Kirrion is dead, do you hear me? Dead! Do not

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call me that anymore.” Turning to Madril, he added, “You either.”

“I refuse to use this lowly Danasi name you insist upon,” said

Kirrion.

“Then do not use it,” said Ninion. “I did not ask you to come

here.”

Kirrion ignored him. “Shevan Ardannes is an insolent

braggart,” he told Madril. “I insist you speak to him regarding this
outrageous mural. The day you allow such hacks to design work for
this sacred institution is the day I cease making contributions.”

For the first time, Olenwë discerned the faintest trace of a smile

on Madril’s lips. “Lord Kirrion, you are apparently unaware that
Master Ardannes is merely the painter. Sanad—Ninion, that is—
designed the mural. You have attempted to destroy your own son’s
work.”

Kirrion was clearly dumbfounded. Then, shrugging, he slowly

shook his head. “Why you would give him this commission I have
no idea. Sanadhil has never had any remarkable talent aside from
an ability to become sick at the slightest draft and embarrass his
family name at the worst opportunity.”

Olenwë could have split his lip right there. And he would have,

had Madril not answered so quickly.

“Whatever you may think of your son’s artistic abilities,

defacing property that belongs to the House of the Water legally
constitutes blasphemy. The fact that the mural depicts talevé,
whatever your personal opinion of them, only adds gravity to the
offense. We might consider it tantamount to assaulting one in
person. Now, in deference to your rank we are giving you this
warning, but should any further mishaps occur we will have to
approach Prince Carancil and make this a public matter.”

Rather than answer, Kirrion turned instead to Ninion. “I will

not bear this insult. You will change the mural at once.”

“No,” Ninion replied shakily.
“You will do as you are told, boy, or—”
“Or what?” asked Olenwë.
Kirrion snorted. “Do you honestly think you can threaten me?

My bloodline is among the noblest in Shivar. I am an advisor to
Prince Carancil, while you are merely some dimwitted fisherman’s
son from the Islands.”

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179

Despite the scorn lacing the man’s voice, Olenwë took secret

pleasure in the apprehension he saw in Kirrion’s eyes. “Is that
supposed to be an insult?” he asked.

“Olenwë,” said Madril, “we will not have a scene here.”
“Then you’d better tell this blue-blooded dandy to stop

threatening his son.”

Kirrion’s upper lip curled. “I did not think it possible, but my

opinion of the Lady’s sacred lovers has just diminished
significantly.”

Madril turned to him. “Unfortunately what you think is not

important, Lord Kirrion. The Lady does as She wills, and that is not
for you or I to question. At this time I think it prudent to end this
interview.”

Ninion rose from his chair the moment Madril stopped

speaking. “I am leaving.”

“Sanadhil—”
“I do not want to see or hear from you again, Father.”
“Wait for me outside,” said Madril.
Olenwë escorted Ninion from the room into a side corridor.

“Gods, what an ass,” he muttered.

Ninion looked away. “Please, I would rather not talk about it.”
“I am proud of you, though, standing up to him like that.”
Though he said nothing, Ninion did manage a slight smile.
Madril appeared shortly. “Lord Kirrion will think twice before

interfering with this House again, but there is another matter which
still requires our attention. Show me these so-called messages,
Ninion.”

Within the canvas enclosure, Shevan stood on a stool, his face

mere inches from the wall as he applied the slightest hint of blush to
what looked like Ninion’s cheeks. An assistant coughed, drawing
his attention, and he turned, brush and palette still in hand. “The
work goes well,” he said.

“If you would kindly step aside, Master Ardannes,” said

Madril. “I wish to view a certain portion of the work.”

Olenwë meant to follow and discover what all the fuss was

about. When Shevan approached him, however, he found himself
confronted by a short, balding artist whose conceit was reportedly
as great as his talent. “You are Olenwë.”

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180

The utterance came out more as a statement than a question.

“That’s the second time today somebody’s recognized me.”
Olenwë’s attention remained focused on Ninion and Madril, the
priest bending down to view a detail of embroidery Ninion picked
out with his finger; he could not hear what they were saying. “Did
you want something?”

“I would like to make a note of your tones.”
“My what?”
Shevan led him over to a work table and a sketch. “I need to

note down your color tones.” Rather than explain, in the candlelight
space he had Olenwë turn his face this way and that. “It’s difficult
to paint a subject you’ve never seen.” From his palette he daubed
flesh-toned pigment onto the parchment. “It’s too bad I can’t get the
other talevé. You and Ninion will be the most lifelike figures up
there.”

“I do not approve of this,” Madril said in the distance.
Ninion responded in a softer voice, “I am not changing it.”
“What’s going on over there?”
Shevan daubed shades of blue over the sketch’s eyes. “You

mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve no idea what the fuss is about,” said Olenwë. “I take it

that you do?”

“Yes, but I’m not telling you.”
“I could make you tell.”
Shevan grinned. “Oh, I’ve no doubt you could hold me upside

down over the side of the cliff or threaten to choke me, but if Ninion
means for it to be a surprise for you then it isn’t my business to say
anything. Besides, you wouldn’t want me to add little pink bows to
your shoes, would you?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”
With his brush Shevan quickly painted a little blue bow in the

sketch’s hair. “Has Ninion ever told you about the present I left for
his father?”

When Olenwë heard he roared with laughter. “Gods, that’s too

funny. It almost makes up for not being able to shove his man’s
head through the wall.”

Ninion rejoined them. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”
Shevan started to touch his hand to his forehead when Ninion

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181

stopped him. “You do not have to do that.”

“I’m doing it out of respect, not simply because the high priest

is standing behind you glaring daggers at me.”

Olenwë noted how his lover blushed. “I am sure a great artist

like you is accustomed to—”

“You mean a great, conceited artist,” corrected Shevan. “Yes, I’m

accustomed to dealing with the wealthy and powerful, but you’re
the first talevé I’ve met. I had no idea there was so much talent
among your kind.”

“There isn’t.” Olenwë took unabashed pride in saying it.

“Ninion has always been very special.”

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182

Chapter Six

Ninion bit back his excitement as he watched his lover move

along the wall, pausing at intervals to examine the other talevé. “You
have already seen those.”

Olenwë smiled at him in the lantern light. “I never get tired of

looking at them.”

Let him enjoy himself. Madril had grudgingly given his consent

for this second excursion, and who knew when Olenwë would ever
have the opportunity to view the mural again? Thus far, no
arrangements had been made for all the talevé to visit the site.
Perhaps fearing a rebuke or outright refusal, no one dared approach
Madril to ask.

Had the incident not occurred it might have been easier.

Madril, never suspecting how the normally complacent Ninion had
subverted the commission, could have been persuaded to bend, and
even arrange a private viewing party in the House of the Water.

I should have known it would not be easy. Even now Ninion had

misgivings, for what his father and now Madril had noticed would
in time come to the attention of others. Without his knowledge the
priests might even hire artists to repaint certain portions, but it
would not be now, not right away. “Olenwë,” he said, “you know
that is not what I brought you here to see.”

“Then you’d better stop daydreaming over there and show

me.”

Taking his arm, Ninion steered him toward the restored section

of mural. “That is what I want you to see.”

Rising before them, Olenwë, the tallest of all the figures, bore

an offering of cloth lavishly embroidered with hrill, his spirit
animal. His robe was the deep blue garment he wore during
holiday processions. Beside him, in a robe of slate gray intricately

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183

patterned with gold, the painted Ninion carried an armload of
flowers for the Lady’s altar.

“I spent a lot of time on this,” said Ninion. Without touching

the wall, he indicated the embroidery at the hem. “Look carefully at
it.”

“I am looking at it,” said Olenwë.
“So you see the design?” Ninion asked hopefully. His heart

slowly fell as he realized that what he wanted his lover to see, the
moment of revelation he had imagined so vividly for so many
weeks, did not register even when he spelled the design out with
his finger. “Olenwë,” he said quietly, his voice halfway to breaking,
“can you read it?”

“What is it you want me to see?” asked Olenwë.
Despite the rules of the Blue House and the insistence of the

priests that the talevé under their jurisdiction be literate, Olenwë had
stubbornly resisted. He could, he claimed, read and write his own
name and as much as was needful, but it was now apparent that he
had either lied or could not make out what was not clear to his eye.

Please let it be the latter. “All of the figures have their names

hidden somewhere about them, some in their jewelry or their
clothes or in their offerings,” explained Ninion. “But ours are
different.”

Olenwë lightly rested his hand over Ninion’s, which was still

poised above the intricate embroidery. “I see a letter here and there,
but I can’t do any better than that. Fancy lines and puzzles, they just
confuse me.”

With his finger, Ninion slowly began to spell out the message

in the design, for here he had done far more than hide his name. “It
says ‘Sanadhil, beloved of Olenwë.’”

Olenwë bent down until he was almost kneeling and lifted the

lantern for a closer look, but the frown that creased his brows
confirmed that he could do little more than that. “Is that what all
the fuss was about?”

“Yours says the exact opposite—here, on the offering you

carry.” With the hand not holding the lantern, he drew Olenwë
back to the tall, blue figure with the hrill-patterned fabric spilling
from its arms and traced the words Olenwë, beloved of Sanadhil
concealed among the embroidery.

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184

As Olenwë lifted his finger to trace over the design, Ninion

gently guided it over the letters, helping him mark out his name.
“Please tell me you can read that much,” he whispered.

“Yes, I can, now that you’ve shown me where it is.” Olenwë

stood close beside him, his arm sliding around Ninion’s waist and
his mouth grazing his lover’s temple. “But why did you use your
other name and not the one I gave you.”

“No one knows my name outside the Blue House,” said

Ninion.

He felt Olenwë’s large hands take the lantern from him and set

it aside before those same hands slid up his arms and cross his
torso. Their chaperone waited in the shadows, conveniently
forgotten until now; Ninion could only wonder what the poor
sentry must think. “Why does it matter what people outside the
Blue House see or think?” asked Olenwë. Once again that warm
mouth nuzzled his skin, his hairline. “Ah, I see now. You wanted
your father to see this.”

Ninion hesitated before answering. Fhersan Tal né Kirrion had

never even noticed the little touches Shevan Ardannes left on his
portrait. And then, with a heavy sigh, he admitted, “Yes, perhaps I
did. The mural that was here before this lasted for centuries, do you
know that? This one will, too.”

In some dark, quiet hour of the night, it had occurred to him

that his father, who in his contempt had once destroyed his son’s
drawings as the frivolous pastime of an invalid, might walk past
this mural. He will see my face on the wall and know that this was my
work, that it is something he cannot burn and that will outlive us both.
“Had I suspected what he would do, or that it would cause so much
trouble—”

“I’m glad you did it,” said Olenwë, “though that’s not what I

call you.”

“My name is in the flowers I am carrying.” Ninion turned his

head so Olenwë’s lips grazed his nose instead of his cheek. “You
and I will be up here for hundreds of years, long after we are gone.”

Olenwë turned him in his arms. “Why can’t I ever think of

something that special, that meaningful?” He leaned forward to
touch Ninion’s forehead with his own before moving down to claim
his lips. Such a kiss was not proper for the House of the Water,

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

185

certainly not with a witness awkwardly shifting his feet in the
shadows, but Olenwë did not seem to care. “What can I ever do to
repay you for this gift?”

“Oh, but I never expected—”
Olenwë silenced him with a kiss. “I will do something,” he said

afterward. Even if he did not yet know what it would be.

* * * *

“I have to do something.”
Olenwë took his dilemma to his friends, hoping they could help

where his imagination failed. His sense of love and gratitude
required something special, yet as he had no artistic talent and no
money with which to buy a gift he quickly found himself at a loss.

“Won’t your big cock satisfy him?” asked Elentur.
“You’re useless, you know that?”
“Well, you’re not an artist. I’ve seen your stick figures. They all

look like they have broken arms and legs.”

Olenwë glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me how

talentless I am.”

“Get married,” suggested Arion.
“What do you mean?”
“Ask Ninion to marry you.”
Of all the possible things he might do, this option had never

occurred to him. “You mean just go up to him and ask him? That
sounds so simple.”

Arion exchanged looks with his lover, then shook his head.

“No, silly,” he replied. “You do not simply ask someone to marry
you as though you were asking to borrow a tunic or pair of shoes.
You have to do it properly.”

“We’ve no village matchmaker here to go to his family and—”
“Olenwë, are you seriously that clueless?”
Elentur snickered, “And just imagine what Lord Kirrion would

say.”

“Either help me or fuck off,” grumbled Olenwë.
When Arion explained how a marriage proposal should be

made, Olenwë shook his head in amazement. So much fuss, it
seemed. “Tell me you didn’t propose to Daro with all these flowers
and candles. And the kneeling,” he added. “You didn’t actually
kneel, did you?”

L.E. BRYCE

186

“Yes, he really was on his knees,” replied Daro, “shoving his

cock up my ass.”

Olenwë nearly choked with laughter at the mental image those

words conjured. “I don’t really think that’ll work with Ninion.”

“No,” agreed Arion.
“But these things you want me to do, it’s like courting a

woman.”

“Ninion is an artist, extremely sensitive to beauty,” Arion

explained. “Whatever you do for him, you must appeal to his
aesthetic sense.”

“His what?” Like Ninion, Arion came from a noble household,

and with his expensive private education sometimes used words
Olenwë could not understand. “You’re going to have to help me
here.”

In secret, Arion tutored him on what to do and say, and on a

fine, early summer evening Olenwë finally felt ready to attempt a
proposal. After prayers he suggested a walk in the garden, all the
while trying to conceal his anxiety and behave casually. Once they
came to the garden shrine, he knew the moment had come. Getting
down on his knees and uttering the words felt ridiculous, until he
saw how moist Ninion’s eyes became. “Gods,” he said, quickly
standing up, “you’re not going to cry, are you?”

Ninion threw both arms around his neck and kissed him. “Yes,

I am.”

They returned arm-in-arm to the house, where in the atrium

Olenwë’s friends accosted him. “Well?” pressed Elentur.

“What do you think?” answered Olenwë.
“I think he either said yes or you two just had a really good

fuck.”

Olenwë let his friends handle the wedding arrangements, as he

had no idea what to do beyond asking Madril to officiate at the
ceremony. He regretted not paying more attention when he was
younger, but whenever his father began to speak to him of marriage
he had always let his thoughts wander.

Marriage never truly interested him, even though he knew it

was only the most eccentric or poorest men in the Seaward Islands
who remained bachelors; his father would not have tolerated the
rumor of either at a refusal to marry. So Olenwë nodded his head as

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

187

if listening and forced himself to be seen with the girls his parents
thought would make good matches; any less effort, he feared, and
they would suspect what was truly in his heart: that he did not care
for women in that way at all.

Weddings in his village had always been an excuse to get so

drunk that he would not have to lie with any of the girls who
sought his attention, though sometimes the need for sexual
gratification was so great that he was willing to put his own
preferences aside for an evening. Sex with women was not so bad,
but it never excited him enough that he would have wanted to
commit himself to it.

“Do we really need to dress up and arrange for pastries and all

these other things?” he complained.

Arion lightly swatted him with the list. “You are fortunate this

is all you need to worry about. I have already spoken with Madril
about selecting a day and with the head cook about providing
dessert for afterwards. All you have to do is remember to bathe and
not fuss too much when wearing your good clothes. Honestly I do
not see what you are complaining about. You were there when Daro
and I took vows. You know what it is like.”

That was true, but there was no pressure when one was merely

an observer. “There’s so much to remember, I don’t want to forget
anything.”

“The groom typically shows up properly dressed, repeats his

vows, and tries not to get drunk before the wedding night,” said
Arion. “Since there will be no alcohol at the party you need not
worry about that.”

The ceremony would be held in the garden shrine, the

customary site for special occasions in the Blue House. After
evening prayers, Olenwë went upstairs and, with Arion watching,
washed and donned the deep blue robe in which Ninion had
painted him. In the corridor he met Ninion, dressed in his festival
gray and gold, attended by Daro and Olveru.

“Are you ready?” he asked.
Ninion answered by placing a hand in his.
“Not before you put these on,” said Arion. Two wreaths of

summer flowers appeared in his hands. Olenwë accepted the
coronet with good grace, while Ninion blushed at this final,

L.E. BRYCE

188

crowning touch.

Thus they descended into the atrium, to the applause of richly

garbed talevé and eunuchs, and took their places at the head of the
procession.

Hanging like fireflies in the summer twilight, the lanterns

borne by their escort were reflected by the waters of the shrine’s
yanati pool, where Madril stood flanked by two senior priests. The
evening felt soft and beautiful, even magical.

Ninion, abashed at the effort being made on his behalf,

complained many times that it was not necessary, that he was
willing to yield his body without this pledge. Whatever
apprehensions Olenwë had about going through the ceremony, he
knew better than to agree. After years of chaste lovemaking, he
knew what a gift he was being given and he would not have their
first true night together be one of furtive rutting behind closed
doors.

Overcome by the poignancy of the moment, he had reached for

Ninion’s hand, clasping it in his, doing his best to still his nerves
and savor the moment.

Olenwë’s family had always wanted him to bring home a girl

of good family who would cook, clean, and bear healthy children.
Certainly Ninion was far from the bride his parents would have
welcomed. He could neither cook nor clean, but no woman could
have compared with his beauty and gentle grace, and Olenwë
reflected with wry humor that he never cared much for children
anyway.

Madril spoke the words of the pledge; Olenwë repeated them

without hearing what he said. He felt oddly euphoric, aware of only
the lanterns swaying in the blue darkness and the hand clasping his.
Ninion’s low murmur answered, accepting his oath to love and
protect before following Madril’s lead in making his own pledge.

When the last words were spoken, Madril gave a signal.

Olenwë stood frozen, trying to remember what he was supposed to
do now.

“Kiss him, silly!” Elentur’s voice cut through the twilight.
“Go ahead,” added Madril.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

189

They kissed, just enough for the low applause rippling through

the shrine. Later there would be more, much more, and they would
have no need for ritual trappings or witnesses.

“The Lady witnesses this union. She sanctions this joining of

two lovers through Her signs.”

Olenwë took his time about breaking off the kiss, even when

Madril drew the audience’s attention to the yanati pool. Mist curled
above the surface, swirling and doubling back upon itself. Such was
the peculiarity of this dark water, whose depths no one could
fathom, in all seasons, so Olenwë gave it little thought. But, caught
up in the wonder of the occasion, he laughed and applauded with
the others.

In the dining room, the servants had set out watered wine and

pastries, and Madril offered a toast to the newly pledged pair.
Ninion sat in his chair, luminous and flushed with the wine, his
pastry untouched beside him. He gracefully accepted the
congratulations of his friends, even a few small gifts, and burst out
laughing at something Dyas whispered in his ear.

Olenwë caught Arion’s eye; the other man gave a nod,

indicating that all was ready upstairs. Excusing himself to the
company, he claimed Ninion’s hand and led him from the room to
the sound of polite applause. With only a lantern to light their way
they ascended the stairs, and when they came to Ninion’s door
Olenwë stopped to pull his lover into his embrace.

“In here?” murmured Ninion. “I thought we would go to your

room.”

“I think you’d be more comfortable in your own bed.” Without

waiting for an answer, Olenwë nudged the door open to reveal the
brilliance of a dozen flickering candles placed on the sideboard and
around the shrine with its basin and votive figurine. Shadows and
gold suffused the room, tinting the cobweb of sheer silk that now
draped the bed in place of its heavy curtains.

This is exactly what I wanted, he thought, grinning broadly at the

sight.

Taking in the transformation of his room, Ninion gave a little

gasp that was quickly swallowed by Olenwë’s lips. Olenwë nudged
the door shut with his foot before slowly backing his lover toward
the bed.

L.E. BRYCE

190

For close to two years they had been lovers and no strangers to

each other’s nakedness, yet in his movements Olenwë undressed his
beloved with as much care as he would a virgin maid. In some
ways, Ninion was not so different.

Ninion parted his lips in silent astonishment as Olenwë kissed

the bare skin revealed as layers of soft brocade and linen were
pulled away. For him, the joy and ecstasy of making love always
seemed new, and Olenwë never tired of touching him.

Mouths met and hands roamed over warm flesh. Their clothes

became an afterthought that carpeted the floor at the foot of the bed.
Olenwë took a moment to look down at the body under him, ivory
and pearl transmuted to gold in the candlelight, and to meet the
shadowy pools that were Ninion’s eyes. Ninion’s arms twined
around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss that tasted of
wine and salt and heat.

Olenwë was often surprised at what a truly sensual nature his

timid lover had. Once Ninion had grown comfortable in the
embrace of his taller, more physically intimidating partner, he
grasped with both hands the passion he craved, lavishing Olenwë’s
body with caresses that made up for in affection what they lacked in
art. His desire to please was boundless except in the one thing that
would have made their lovemaking complete.

Olenwë had never expected Ninion to undo his deep-rooted

beliefs about male love all at once, for even he had begun his
attraction to other males believing sex with them was painful and
dirty. As long as Ninion allowed him to give him pleasure, and
seeing that his lover was willing to reciprocate in other ways, he did
not mind.

“The next time you draw us on some temple wall,” he said

huskily, “I want you to show us just like this, with me making love
to you.”

“The priests would never let me do that,” murmured Ninion.
Olenwë nuzzled his earlobe, letting his tongue dart around it

and around the pink shell of his lover’s ear. “Do I really care what
they think? This is worshipping the Lady just as much as anything
else. Besides, the look on your father’s face—”

“Please, I would rather not think about him tonight.”
“You and me both,” chuckled Olenwë. Long, breathless kisses

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

191

led him down Ninion’s torso, rolling over nipples that rose hard at
his touch and painting his tongue along a navel that squirmed in
anticipation at the path his mouth was taking.

He coated his fingers in the oil someone had left by the bed and

parted Ninion’s thighs, dropping kisses along the sensitive inner
skin. After such a wait, another lover would have taken him right
there, but that was not what Olenwë wanted; he knew only too well
what it was to be taken for the first time in lust, with little thought
for the moment. Even he, rough-mannered and half-literate as he
was, could see in his lover’s artwork a need to create beauty and
permanence, so he had tolerated all the frustrating etiquette, and
stumbled over the right words to ask for Ninion’s pledge, because
what he held now in his arms was worth it.

The one thing of beauty he could offer was his words of

passion, not the staid formulas Arion taught him but those with
which he had been raised. It was commonplace in the Seaward
Islands for people to use the old Danasi tongue for both
endearments and curses. Olenwë found he could give better
expression to his desire in the old island language, and in the
beginning had translated for his curious partner until Ninion told
him he did not need to know what the words meant. Olenwë had
laughed and said that he might as well have been reciting his
mother’s market list if all his lover wanted were the erotic sounds.

Those words he used now, exhaling them with his breath over

damp skin, letting them slide off the tongue he used to taste the
cock rising before him, swirling them around the hot, hard flesh
before ceasing speech altogether.

Where he would have gone on, quickening the movements of

his fingers and mouth to bring his lover release, he withdrew and
bent over Ninion, catching his panting breath with his lips before
pulling back to ask how he wanted to consummate their
lovemaking.

In hindsight, there was only one way Ninion would have

wanted it, to be surrounded by his lover’s heat and shielded by his
body as they joined. He was careful, patient even with the
temptation of the hot tightness that enveloped him; the short, sharp
gasps Ninion made told him that it was uncomfortable. Olenwë
would have stopped, even then, but the arms that went around him,

L.E. BRYCE

192

cupping his buttocks to draw him closer, urged him to continue.

He could have said many things. He might have told his lover

that in the aftermath of pain he would become accustomed to the
sensation of being filled, even that the discomfort would eventually
turn to pleasure, but those were the assurances of a lover too intent
on his own fulfillment; his own first lover had stilled his protests
with such words. Olenwë could have mouthed such promises; the
subtle changes in his lover’s body, the unconscious thrusting of his
hips and the short, shuddering breaths, rendered it unnecessary.

Hands clutched at his arms, his back, and a breathless voice

uttered his name like a prayer. Falling over the edge of his own
release, he answered.

THE WATER LOVERS OF SIRILON

193

About the Author

L.E. Bryce was born in Los Angeles, California and has never lived
anywhere else. She has a Masters in English Literature from
California State University, Northridge, and currently works as an
English teacher. Her Jewish mother, two dogs and passel of cats
help her keep her sanity. She is a regular contributor to Forbidden
Fruit Magazine, and is the author of Dead to the World, My Sun and
Stars, Aneshu Concubinage, The Golden Lotus, Snake Bite and Other
Dark Homoerotic Fantasies and Those Pearls That Were His Eyes. She
maintains a blog at http://granamyr.livejournal.com.

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