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Red Gery had an inordinate fondness for the earl of Meiden's hair. Truly, it tempted her as much as any apple, for she nibbled at it every chance she got.
"Be polite," Tristen murmured as she once again craned her neck to mouth Crissand's head. Crissand shivered and stepped away -- Tristen thought Gery's warm velvety nose must have tickled his neck -- but he seemed more concerned with the glittering valley.
"It is pretty," Crissand said, flat tone at odds with his intense gaze.
Tristen looked out over the icy stream. The frost-trimmed willows seemed less magical than they had in the morning, before he rushed back to the Zeide for Crissand, eager for someone with whom to share his find. He didn't know how he'd done wrong by it, but he had. In the gray space the winds swirled around them both.
"Will you join me for supper tonight?" Tristen asked quietly. He half-wished for summer again; they might have had Cook pack them lunch to eat by the stream.
In summer, Cefwyn had been in Amefel.
"I'd like that, my lord." Crissand sidestepped Gery again, and Tristen caught her reins. He wished Lusin and Tawwys would stop pretending they weren't listening.
*
Supper was delayed by the arrival of two thanes with grievances against each other, and then by a fist-fight in the barracks between a Guelen and an Amefin guard. Tristen dealt with both, aware of Crissand's impatience and his own growing desire to be anywhere but the duke of Amefel's hard seat.
When at last they sat down in the small room where Tristen had supped so often with Cefwyn, the lamb stew had gone tepid and the greens had wilted beneath the quail. Cook's food tasted as good as ever though, at least until Tristen saw Crissand was hardly eating.
Tristen slowed, his own appetite wilting like the greens. Table manners came without thought to him these days, but he could not remember the last time he'd had to concentrate so hard on using his napkin and drinking his wine in polite sips. His hands had turned clumsy and stupid and forgot how to hold a fork in the thick silence.
He wished for Cefwyn and his easy conversation, Ninévrisë and her deft questions, and even for Efanor, who could be pompous but never a silent dinner partner.
Perhaps Crissand was waiting for Tristen to speak; he had invited Crissand to supper, and it followed that the host should make the conversation. He cleared his throat. "Master Emuin is well settled in his tower."
"Mmm."
Dismayed at the lukewarm reception, Tristen cast about for another topic. "I've had a letter from Cefwyn--"
Crissand's glass came down sharply. More sharply than he'd intended, Tristen decided by the flush rising on his cheeks. His lips were pressed so firmly together Tristen could scarcely make out his apology.
"If you would speak, then speak," Tristen said quietly, and Crissand's head came up.
"I know Your Grace would have it the other way 'round, but I'm here and he is not." Crissand, bafflingly, slid from his chair to kneel before Tristen. His hands settled, hot and uncomfortable, on Tristen's thighs. "I can give you what he does, my lord, if you but give me leave."
Tristen thought of all the things Cefwyn had given him since he had walked all innocent into Henas'amef, and which of those things Crissand might have, and why he would want to give them to Tristen. He remembered Gery's antics that afternoon, and thought Crissand might not enjoy having his hair molested on their outings.
"A horse?" Tristen said, certain he was wrong. He never guessed correctly in such situations, nor did he now.
Crissand's face darkened and he retreated back to his chair. "As Your Grace pleases," he said, sounding sulky. He picked up his fork, and silence thundered around the table.
"I am sorry Gery tried to eat you," Tristen said in a small voice, and Crissand stiffened.
And then he let out all his breath at once, and turned the subject to the chances of a late spring.
*
"He's cross with me," Tristen said, staring out the window and the white flecks of snow darting close enough to be seen against the blackness. Tassand had turned down the bed, but Tristen sent him out to dice with his guards, wanting -- needing -- Uwen's advice. "He won't look at me, but then he puts his hands on me and he wants something but I don't know what it is."
Uwen looked uncomfortable. "He's flirting wi' ye, m'lord."
"Flirting," Tristen said. The word did not quite Unfold to him, but it felt related to some that had. Earthy words, like Kiss, and bold ones, like Hunt. "As Lady Orien did with me in the gardens?"
"As Lady Orien did wi' all an' sundry," Uwen muttered. "Forgive my sayin' so. Lord Meiden's summat more subtle, but aye, he lusts after ye."
Lust.
It Unfolded at once, knocking the strength from his knees and the breath from his lungs. Uwen caught him before he could collapse, but the Unfolding quickly receded to bearable levels, leaving him panting and clinging to Uwen, flustered, hot-cheeked, and possessed of a sudden unbearable doubt concerning appropriate places for his hands.
He had had no idea there were so few of them.
He settled for clutching Uwen's arm as he regained his feet, and letting go the moment he had. He thought he knew now why Mauryl insisted he wear clothes, even when the rain threatened to ruin them.
Uwen ducked his head, not quite hiding the small grin, and called for Tassand. "Send t' the kitchens for hot mead, an' fetch His Grace a brick from the fire."
Tristen refused the bed, but let Uwen bundle him into a chair with a quilt and a hot brick wrapped at his feet. Every time he thought his senses had returned Uwen's words would resurface (he lusts after ye) and his limbs would turn to water, until he had to admit the Unfolding had rattled him in more than the usual way.
"Ye've not had one of your fits for months," Uwen said. Lusin and Syllan had come to the door to see what was the matter, and Uwen sent them back to their dice.
"There are fewer words left to Unfold for me, and when I do discover one I can keep my feet through it... or so I thought." Tristen pressed his hot face to his hands. "Some words are more... forceful than others."
Uwen laughed, startling Tristen out of hiding. "Aye, 'at's a powerful one, lad. Kingdoms have fallen for such."
"And risen," Tristen said, thinking of Cefwyn and Ninévrisë and the wedding he could not attend. Disturbing to think of them in light of the new word, and he flushed all over again, now having an idea of what they did in private.
"How do Men make it through the day?" he asked Uwen, not quite looking at him. Uwen had been married once. Uwen had-- "How do they speak to one another, knowing what they all do in their chambers?"
"Most don't think on it unless they're feelin' it their own selves." Uwen chuckled again. "Or unless it's new to 'em. Lads an' lasses reach a certain age an' it's all they think of."
He'd never been a child, but once everything had been new to him. He'd learned.
He thought he would learn Lust too, as he had learned War. It occurred to him that Crissand might teach it to him, that Crissand thought... What had he said? I can give you what he does, my lord, if you but give me leave.
Crissand thought Cefwyn had already shown Tristen Lust. The gray space snapped and churned, and a gust of snow-laden wind rattled the windows.
Jealousy. There was another word. Tristen had felt it himself, watching Cefwyn with Ninévrisë, but he'd locked it away because he loved them both.
Crissand had no love for Cefwyn.
*
He listened to Uwen speak with Tawwys and Lusin in the outer room for a time, heard the guard change, heard Uwen settle into bed, and still he lay awake, staring at the carved wooden dragons adorning Heryn Aswydd's bed.
His fingertips tingled, and his body felt restless in a way it had not since Ynefel and the spring.
Aye, he lusts after ye. Uwen's words returned over and over, and Tristen's face burned anew each time. He wanted to send for Crissand and ask him if it was true, but Crissand would not appreciate being woken by a foolish boy, even if that foolish boy was his lord, even if Crissand would call him Sihhë and make him king over Cefwyn.
The Unfolding still thrummed through him, or at least the effects of it did. He thought what remained was only his own reaction to the word.
Fool, he told himself, stern as Mauryl had ever been with him. His pigeons had more sense, silly birds as they were. You have an unruly province to turn to Cefwyn's cause, and a war to prepare for before the spring.
But like the pigeons his thoughts bobbed about, squabbling, chasing this and that and knocking one another over. Thoughts of Crissand's strong hands and uncertain smile, thoughts of Crissand shivering away from Gery's soft nose on his neck. Would he shy away if Tristen nuzzled him that way?
His penis had firmed the way it did sometimes when he woke. Mauryl had said it was normal and to leave it alone and it would go away. It always had before but now it only throbbed harder and harder. He touched it, one hand sneaking up his nightshirt to probe the length. It seemed all right, just stiff and swollen and overly sensitive.
Now quite miserable and wishing Men would not complicate matters so, Tristen rolled over and tried once again to sleep.
*
Dawn brought another endless procession of urgent problems that only His Grace the duke of Amefel could solve. Half of his earls were milling in the lesser hall, out of sorts, and the Quinalt had sent a list of demands posing -- badly -- as a polite letter.
It was late afternoon before Tristen felt his province would hold until the morrow without collapsing into chaos and rebellion and shortages of pickled herring, and damn Heryn Aswydd's gold dinner plates. He beckoned to Crissand, and they left the hall together through the lord's door beside the dais. He held his tongue until they reached the South Court doors, and then he could bear no more.
"Would you come to my bed tonight?"
Crissand halted, wild-eyed, and the gray space exploded in a fury of wind. When Tristen only waited patiently for him to answer, he swallowed and murmured, "As my lord pleases."
"It pleases me to know your will."
"I will it," Crissand said, and they were standing in the gray space in the center of a storm.
Crissand, shadowy and no less desperate than the night of Tristen's second arrival in Henas'amef, clutched at Tristen's arms. He would have knelt there in the violent gray mist, had Tristen not stopped him.
--I have willed it since I laid eyes on you, Crissand said, the Marhanen's man or no, and I have willed it more every day since.
Tristen thought to reply, but Master Emuin was listening from his tower even though Paisi had just spilled ink all over his papers, the taste of tea and the stiff feel of cold fingers seeping down to Tristen. He settled for touching Crissand's cheek and slipping
back to the corridor, where Crissand was walking half a step behind him. Tristen's guards had weathered the sudden potent silence with Guelen stoicism, accustomed to their lord's odd ways. Crissand's men, Amefin and more kindly disposed towards magic as they were, had lost a step.
"Good," Tristen said, stumbling over the etiquette involved in soliciting a bed partner. He rubbed his palms, found them sweaty, and cleared his throat for no particular reason. "Tonight then."
They reached the stairs and Crissand's guards went with him away to the stables and Syllan and Aran followed Tristen back to the duke's rooms.
*
Tassand arranged all the comforts Tristen supposed a liaison required, like wine and a tray of pastries swimming in honey, and a few he wouldn't have known to ask for, like herb-scented oil and a basin of warm water with a stack of clean cloths. Tassand did all this with a stiff back and set mouth, dutiful despite his disapproval.
"Quinalt'd have it men wi' women, neat as ye please," Uwen said as Tassand, sharp-voiced, directed the boys bearing away Tristen's bath water. "The Bryaltines is summat more patient to those who don't fit the traces, but ye're already odd in every other way. 'E don't like to see ye make yerself still more diff'rent."
--Not that you can help that, said Master Emuin, sourly, from the gray space. --I'm starting to believe you incapable of getting four out of two and two.
--Seven is a better number anyway, Tristen replied, cheerful now that he could feel Crissand moving towards his apartments. Emuin harrumphed and very deliberately, with the air of a man sticking his fingers in his ears, left the gray space.
Crissand arrived, freshly washed and so white-faced that Tristen offered him wine at once. His guard stayed outside with Lusin and Tawwys, advertising Crissand's presence in the duke's apartments to all who passed. Tristen found he liked the idea. Uwen took himself off to the guards' room off the antechamber with Aran and Syllan, and Tassand poured the wine and then hovered until Tristen dismissed him.
Now that the moment had arrived, Tristen found he did not quite know where to begin. "I'm glad you came," he tried. The words felt right. Welcoming.
"I would never refuse you," Crissand said, red spots rising on his cheeks.
Tristen frowned. He knew Crissand would not refuse him, and that worried him. "Then I'm glad you came so willingly--"
"Eagerly, my lord."
"That is to say I'm glad this is your wish, because it's my wish too." He hoped his wish had not influenced Crissand unduly. His wishes, once loosed, could move Men in subtle ways, and he thought bending Crissand's will to bring him to bed would be a terrible, terrible thing.
"How long have you desired me this way?" Crissand asked. Some of the colour came back to his face; wine or courage, Tristen didn't know, but it eased his fears.
"Since I realized what you wanted." Tristen ducked his head, picked up a pastry and set it down. He licked his sticky fingers, and stopped when Crissand's expression turned pained. "I hadn't known to wish for it before," he said meekly, "or I might have. Did you truly think Cefwyn had...?" He stopped, not knowing exactly what they were about to do, only that it was something he had never done with Cefwyn.
"His Majesty had... a reputation during the time he governed Amefel. Perhaps Your Grace heard talk of Lord Heryn's sisters?"
"Orien and Tarien. I know Cefwyn dallied with them before I came."
"Yes, exactly."
When Tristen only blinked, unsure of what he was supposed to infer, Crissand sighed and caught Tristen's hand.
"You must know the entire court thought he'd set them aside for you." He pressed a kiss to Tristen's palm, soothing some of the shock, and then licked his sticky fingers, which made him squirm. "Would you have? If he'd asked?"
Underneath that lurked another, more important question: would you if he asked tomorrow?
He thought he understood now that Crissand's anger wasn't anger at all, but fear.
A silly fear, Tristen thought, though saying so would not ease Crissand's heart. Tristen had stepped away from Ninévrisë because she belonged to Cefwyn; he could do no less now that Cefwyn belonged to Ninévrisë. Neither was his in the sense Crissand wanted to be.
"Might-have-beens are in the past. Cefwyn did not ask -- all for the better, because now he's married to Ninévrisë and there will be peace with Elwynor once Tasmôrden is gone." Tristen paused, a smile touching his mouth. "And I am here with you."
For once he'd said the right thing.
*
They wasted nearly an hour on the wine and pastries and awkward conversation before Crissand realized that Tristen truly did not know how to proceed. He took charge at once and sat them both on the green sofa with the legs carved and layered in gold leaf, where he arranged a comfortable embrace.
Then Crissand kissed him.
Tristen had been given few kisses in his short life, most of them fervent but fraternal kisses from Cefwyn; on his cheeks, his lips, his brow, demanding his love and loyalty. Crissand's kisses demanded something more. They enticed, hot against his mouth, and bade his lips part so their tongues could touch. Tristen, having noted how fastidious Men could be about their bodies, could not imagine how this custom ever came about, but he could see the merit in the way it made his body tighten and his toes curl inside his boots.
Pleasant sensations, all of them, and he closed his eyes to savour Crissand's soft lips, the clean scent of him -- so unlike Orien's quicksand perfume. He fell back and let Crissand manage the kiss, which he did with masterful efficiency. He had little comparison but, in Tristen's opinion, Crissand was a very fine kisser.
Their lips parted with a wet sound that made him shiver, and Crissand laid his hand on Tristen's thigh. This time he welcomed the touch, knowing what it signified, and laid his hand over Crissand's and smiled at him.
He wasn't prepared for the way his stomach plummeted when Crissand ran his hand higher, thumb grazing the inside of Tristen's thigh. It felt like he'd jumped Gery over a fence, that sharp sweet press of thrill and fear. He couldn't help a little gasp, and Crissand laughed at him, but it was well-meant laughter.
"You are a delight, my lord," Crissand said, but the words dissolved into little nibbles along his jaw, and when Crissand's lips found his ear Tristen could not have replied even if he'd known what to say. Half the tickling of feathers, half stepping into a warm bath, the light touch made Tristen want to jump up and melt into the sofa all at once.
A few sucking bites at his earlobe, and then Crissand moved to a spot behind the ear and Tristen could hardly keep still. Crissand's thumb kept rubbing and rubbing on his thigh, moving ever higher.
"You invited me to your bed, my lord," Crissand murmured. "Shall we retire?"
Tassand had placed the wine and food in the sitting room, but the oil and the wash basin sat warming by the fire in the bedchamber -- for what reason Tristen did not know, but Crissand made a pleased humming sound when he saw them.
He pulled Tristen close and kissed him again, fingers sliding between them to tug at Tristen's belt. "May I?" he asked, speaking to Tristen's collar bone, and Tristen answered by helping him work the buckle. Both their belts struck the stone floor, joined shortly by their boots, and Tristen hardly noticed the cold floor, for Crissand had pushed his coat off his shoulders and started on the laces to Tristen's shirt.
"What would you have of me, my lord?" he asked, giving up on the tangled laces.
"I don't know!" Tristen cried. "Something. Anything."
"My mouth?" Crissand's hand slid up Tristen's thigh, and this time it did not stop until it cupped between his legs. "My mouth right here?"
"You." He managed to make his mouth work. "I'd have you, all of you, everything you can give me."
He'd gone from getting everything wrong to everything right it seemed, for Crissand surged forward and kissed him, hard and fierce, and then they were tumbling to the bed still half-dressed.
They struggled, grappling much as he'd seen the peasant boys tussle in the streets of Henas'amef, but with fewer clothes and greater intent. Crissand pinned him, a squirming heavy weight Tristen felt he could escape if he wanted to. He didn't. Losing, in this case, felt all too pleasant.
Crissand covered him, connected at every point -- most importantly at their hips. He found it a pleasant shock to feel Crissand as hard and urgent as Tristen himself. When they rubbed together just so, delicious jolts shot down his limbs, made him buck and cry for more.
Crissand sat up to strip off his shirt, and Tristen could only gape, amazed he had the will to pull away. He fell back at once, kissing again, and Crissand's bare chest felt so nice against the V of skin exposed by Tristen's half-unlaced shirt that Tristen made them stop again to get rid of the whole lot. Leggings and socks and smalls flew with complete disregard for the maids, and Crissand used Tristen's momentary war with his tangled laces to steal away naked to the fire to collect the oil.
He uncorked the bottle, and the pleasant scent of rosemary poured from it with the oil. Tristen thought he understood the purpose when Crissand rubbed his warm slippery hands across Tristen's chest. Liquid heat spread across his skin, matching the heat inside him. Crissand paused to rub Tristen's nipples, useless things he'd never even considered before, now maddening in their sensitivity.
His entire body had rebelled, and now named Crissand, not Tristen, its master. He bucked and twisted at Crissand's command, writhed under Crissand's hands, his mouth, now sucking at Tristen's nipples, now biting.
For the first time he wished he had gods to swear on. He could feel Crissand's penis, not unlike his own and in a similar state of angry red ferocity, bumping against his thigh, and he realized he wanted to touch Crissand quite everywhere. A tug pulled Crissand atop him again, skin to skin now and slippery and warm and smelling of clean skin and rosemary.
"It's much better without clothes," Tristen said, vindicated now in his early tendency to go about naked.
"That is the consensus." Crissand ground his hips down, rubbing together just so, and then -- oh, the cleverness! -- caught them both in one hand. The oil made everything slick and wonderful, and he raised his head to watch them slide through Crissand's fist, both purple now and glistening with oil and something translucent that leaked from the tips. His muscles tightened.
"Not yet, my lord," Crissand gasped, "not if you want all of me."
"Not yet?" He groaned as Crissand squeezed the base of his penis, and it didn't hurt at all, not like he thought it should, but it frustrated him. "What mustn't I do?"
"You mustn't come, not until you're inside me."
Tristen didn't know where Crissand meant him to come to, but he felt a shiver of alarm at the notion of being in Crissand. He thought of Hasufin, and the dangers of letting another inside, but then he thought Men did this sort of thing all the time, so it must not be very like sorcery's way of occupying another's body.
Crissand rolled off and lay back against the coverlet, thighs sprawling wide, and Tristen took the opportunity to study parts he simply couldn't see on himself. Firm muscled buttocks he had seen on others, having gone swimming with Cefwyn on several of their outings, but what lay between was new.
Crissand took a little oil and rubbed it against the small puckered hole. "Here," he whispered, slipping a finger inside. "Here's where you'll take me."
"How?" Tristen asked, and Crissand caught his bobbing penis and squeezed it.
"With this. Inside me, like sheathing a sword."
"It won't fit," Tristen said, alarmed, and Crissand laughed. He caught Tristen's hand and smoothed some oil over each finger and then guided one inside himself, beside his own.
"See? It will stretch."
It did, hot and elastic around his fingers. The significance of the oil dawned, and he told himself to be extra kind to Tassand, who didn't approve but took care of him anyway. Crissand withdrew, letting Tristen explore on his own, but after a while he became impatient and growled low crude words to hurry him.
"If you would have me, take me now. I will beg, my lord."
Dismayed at the possibility, Tristen scrambled atop Crissand. It was terribly awkward, this slaking of lusts, and Tristen needed Crissand's help to line everything up. When it did, he pushed in, slowly, watching Crissand's face for cues.
It was remarkably little help, alternately scrunching up and going slack-jawed, but Tristen watched all the same, fascinated and not a little besotted. Crissand's body did more than stretch; it welcomed him, parting and yet clinging, until he could go no further. He didn't see how either of them could survive this.
Kingdoms falling indeed.
"You are supposed to move, my lord," Crissand said against his jaw, and embraced him. "No, don't pull away. Just your hips, that's it."
Oh.
How, how did Men ever tear themselves away from this? He caught a rhythm, easy as chopping wood. Crissand's knees pressed against his sides, rising higher until he could cross his ankles over Tristen's back, and that drew him in so deep he thought they might never separate.
He found he didn't care.
"Stay," he gasped.
"No, come!" Crissand cried, laughing, and Tristen did.
All of him tightened up at once, until he thought he would burst. Then he did burst, and it was better than anything, better than sunshine and warm bread, better than riding, better than the rain on his skin.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, oh, oh," and at that moment he would have given Crissand the world.
The feeling faded into lassitude, leaving him feeling foolish at his own extravagant thoughts.
"No," Crissand said when Tristen would have rolled off. His knuckles rolled lazily under Tristen's belly -- pulling at his penis, Tristen thought. "I'd have you inside me until I finish."
"As you will." Tristen kissed him, on the jaw because he was biting his lip, then slid his mouth along Crissand's neck to that spot, the one that felt like tickling and warm baths. Crissand moaned, breathless.
"May I?" he asked, touching Crissand's hand.
"Oh, yes." Crissand let go to lace their fingers together and then resumed his stroking, guiding Tristen now.
It all ended in a short gush of white, hot and unexpected between their woven fingers. Tristen slipped free and Crissand sighed and somehow they got under the blankets, their bodies fitting together; Tristen's head found rest in the hollow of Crissand's shoulder and their legs twined of their own accord.
*
Mauryl would be appalled at the mess. Bedclothes rumpled beyond repair, clothing strewn without regard, oil spilled and cork lost in the sheets, a disheveled and contented earl of Meiden in the center of it all.
The fire had kept the water warm, but the cloths cooled quickly once wrung out. They washed under the blankets, stopping to kiss and explore, so that the whole operation took much longer than it should have. It ended with the wet cloth lost in the bed and Crissand's mouth between Tristen's legs, sucking on everything he could reach.
"This is a dangerous thing," Tristen said, after he had come again. He understood now how Men could forget themselves. He had never suspected such passions lurked within them. The fate of kingdoms rode on such as he and Crissand had done; he recalled wanting to give Crissand everything, more than he should, more than was his to give.
He understood Cefwyn a little better now, and how he could have let the Aswydd twins ensnare him so, how he could have risked all for Ninévrisë.
"Life is dangerous," Crissand said, and kissed him, lightly but full of promise.
This was another truth Men lived with.
*
"Well?" Idrys asked, and Cefwyn realized he hadn't spoken in several minutes.
"We can't expect him to remain celibate," Cefwyn said. His voice sounded faint to his own ears. Tristen, Cefwyn's innocent Tristen, seducing earls and pilfering the king's wagons. The latter to good cause, he was sure he would discover when Tristen bothered to explain. The former made him press his face into his hands.
"At least there shall be no children," said Ninévrisë from across the table. "I doubt either of our kingdoms is prepared for more Tristens." She sounded positively cheerful; her Bryaltine priests would not be shrieking in her ear come the morrow.
"To hell with him," Cefwyn said, raising his head.
"Lord Tristen?" Ninévrisë asked. She touched her throat, distress evident.
"The Patriarch. The Quinalt may have a collective apoplexy, and we'll all be the richer for it." Cefwyn slammed his hand on the table and pretended he hadn't seen the speculative look that crossed Idrys's face. "Tristen may have his Amefin earl, and my wagons, and anything else he desires."
Ninévrisë took his hand and pressed a kiss to his stinging palm, his bride, his queen in all but name, and he smiled at her and wished Tristen well with all the force of his ordinary wishes.
Tristen, he thought, would feel his good will regardless.