1.22-1.23

-22-

When Jeanir heard the bell start to ring in the village center, he lowered the book that he had been reading and scowled at his cottage door.  It was way too soon for any of the children in the village to even find the knife, let alone be put up for barter. 

            He uncrossed his long legs and stood, smoothing his skirt over his thighs as he rose and running his fingers through his long hair in an effort to comb it.  He gave his wings a quick shake to lose any loose feathers and then walked, almost angrily, through the room.  He stepped onto the porch and pulled his door closed with no sense of delicacy and then skipped down the stairs to the small path that led from his patio to the Great Road. 

            He was not the only one wandering the street with an expression of confusion.  And when he reached the block in the village center that had been built for the purpose of display and sale he sought one of his closest companions and stood beside him with arms folded defensively over his chest.  “Not one of yours, is it?”

            “I guess we’ll find out.”  Ach’tmeck replied with a frown.  “I hope not.  Even my oldest is far too young.”

            “Mine all are too.”  Jeanir replied, shaking his wings behind him again.  “I thought we had a good ten years before Iladrul made his first purchase.”

            “Aye.”  Ach’tmeck nodded.  “Me too.”

            Their nerves raw, they watched in silence as the guard who had been posted at the entrance of the village for the day—an angel named Nounak—walked forward with what appeared to be an official scroll in hand.  He walked directly to the block, jumped upward, fluttering his wings to catch the air, and landed gracefully in the center.  He unrolled the scroll, read, it, and then looked swiftly around, his face bearing the same confusion that everyone in the courtyard, waiting to learn the fate of their children, felt.

            “By order of Lord Wisterian, it is here and thereafter demanded that Jeanir, son of Thyman,” to this, Jeanir started, that was his name and the other was his fathers, “relocate his belongings to the apartment across the hallway from Lord Wisterian and report to him by mid-morning in service of his doxy.”

            “What?” Ach’tmeck asked.

            Jeanir stepped forward, set his hand on the block and leaned forward.  “Are you sure that that is what that says?”

            “Sorry, Jeanir,” Nounak replied with a nervous smile and a shrug.  “Looks like your doxy is off the block.”

            “I didn’t even realize it was on the block!” Jeanir cried, angrily.  And then, looking around at all of the young faces who would soon receive similar messages, he forced himself to calm.  “But, my lot is my lot.”  He forced a smile to one of the young ones, who was looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.  “And to be a doxy bought and paid for is an elf’s greatest honor.”

            Maybe Wisterian knows what he’s doing, he suddenly thought as he saw scared faces slightly relax and young eyes watching him with deep fascination.  Maybe it’s better that its one of us first.  So that we can set the tone regarding the appropriate fashion to accept one’s fate.

            On that note, he decided that his belongings could wait.   He would send one of the castle servants to gather it later.  It was best, he thought, that he leave and that none of them see him again until they joined him in the castle. 

            He walked swiftly out of the village but didn’t bother walking the rest of the way.  It would be faster if he used his wings and he wanted to find out just what in the name of Loki’s beard this purchase of his flesh was all about.

            He did find his feet when he made it to the courtyard however.  It had ever been courtesy since Iladrul had first been born not to use the gift of flight in the elves presence.  But he did walk swiftly through the castle and to Wisterian’s apartment, where he pounded, rather than knocked, on the door to gain an audience.

            It was one of the castle servants that opened the door, but this didn’t surprise Jeanir.  “Is Wisterian in Mailak?”

            “In his study.”  Mailak replied.  “Do you want me to announce you?”

            “I believe he’s expecting me.”  Jeanir replied tightly.  “No need.”

            He stepped past her and made his way through the apartment to the library.  The door was open so he had only to step into the door frame and knock on the open door.  Wisterian looked upward, at first irritated, and then smiled.  “Good morning Jeanir.”

            “What is the meaning of your purchasing my doxy?”  Jeanir demanded.  They had been friends long before Wisterian had become his King and he sometimes found himself unable to negotiate his feelings between the two.   Now was one of those times.  “Without even as much as a heads up?”

            “It just came up last night.”  Wisterian’s eyes danced over his face.  He pointed at one of the chairs on the other side of his large desk.  “Take a seat.  We’ll talk.”

            “I’m not sure that I want to take a seat.”  Jeanir frowned at him.

            “It’s done and it can’t be undone, so sit down.”  Wisterian’s voice was somewhat commanding, telling Jeanir that the time for their old friendship was not right now.  He took a seat.  “I actually have a different arrangement between you and I planned than what you think.”

            “Oh?”  Jeanir asked, his brow raising.  “My heart is simply breaking.  Should I grab a napkin lest I cry?”

            Wisterian chuckled at that.  “What I need is a secretary of sorts.  And I chose you over anyone else for three reasons.”

            “Obviously the first is my pretty face.”

            “Obviously.”  Wisterian smiled softly at that.  “Actually, the first is because I trust you probably more than I trust anyone else.” 

            Jeanir started at this, surprised.  And, more than a little bit flattered.  “Thank you.”

            “Believe me, you’ve earned it.’  Wisterian smiled at him as he nodded.  “The second reason is my son.  I believe that he is going to ask me for one on one training.  And I can think of no better Master to serve him than you.”

            “That would be my honor.”  Jeanir bowed.  And he meant it.  It had been far too long since he had trained the youth in the proper way to enter and win through in battle.  And he, Jeanir, had been the only student to be trained independently by the Archangel Michael—the greatest warrior ever to have been borne and the very General of Arms of the Father of the Gods himself.

            “Thank you.”  Wisterian smiled at him.  “The last reason is for Balean.   I think it wise that the two of you take a bit more caution than maybe you have in the past and given that your apartment will be located within my own apartment and out of the view of the general public he’ll have an easier time coming and going without getting caught.”

            If Jeanir had been surprised by Wisterian’s admission of trust then this last statement spun his head.  “You mean . . . Even though you own me now, you’re okay if we still . . .I thought you meant to make me yours.”

            “Of course I am okay with you and Balean.”  Wisterian waved his hand at him.  “You and I have been friends for far too long to be romantic with one another.”  Jeanir was too flabbergasted to respond. “You’re his and with my blessing.”

            “I don’t know what to say.”

            “There really is a first time for everything.”  Wisterian replied in teasing tones.

            Jeanir, smiling, shook his head.  “Thank you.”

            “Just, please,” Wisterian’s expression was serious now.  “Be discreet.  Everyone must think that you are my property and, therefore, my lover.  If anyone suspects anything different than that then the entire exercise of setting up the doxy village will be for naught.”

            “I understand.”  Jeanir nodded.  And then he smiled.  What he said next, he meant.  “It won’t be too hard a chore to pretend that I find you beautiful.”

            Wisterian chuckled again.  “Nor I you, I can assure you.  Were you not my best friend, you would be just my type.”

            This touched Jeanir.  He hadn’t known that about Wisterian.  He’d only ever seen Wisterian with Helena and so had never bothered to stop to think about what he might find attractive in a male.  “Do you want me to have Mailak fetch my things?”

            Wisterian nodded.  “But just your bric-a-brac.”  He said.  “You’ll have to don a doxy skirt now that you’re my property and you shouldn’t find your apartment lacking any luxury that you may miss since you left the service of your God.”  He smiled tightly.  “Say sorry.”

            Jeanir sighed, but nodded.  The skirt, too, they had all agreed upon before pulling the stones.  “Just give it the courtesy of my knee.”

            Wisterian chuckled and shook his head.  “Say sorry, there, too.  We all agreed on that.”

            “Very well.”  Jeanir conceded.  “Just my bric-a-brac.”

            Wisterian nodded.  “If you want to look through your new apartment before we get started—“

            “No.”  Jeanir shook his head.  “The Gods know you’ve done more than enough for me already.  If you need me this morning, then I’d just as soon make myself useful.”

            “Good.”  Wisterian smiled sadly at him.  He pulled open his desk drawer and pulled out a letter.  Holding it between two fingers, he passed it deftly over his desk to Jeanir.  “Give this to Balean.  Tell him to deliver it at once to Lord Jamiason.”  And then in a very serious tone.  “Resist the urge to tarry, Jeanir.  I need this letter delivered today and he’ll barely reach Jamiason’s realm by the time the demons and vampires wake for the night even if he flies swift.”

            Jeanir nodded.  “I understand.”

            “Good.”  Wisterian’s smile was weary.  “Once the letter is delivered to Balean, I need you to fetch my son.”  He let out a sigh and his weary smile turned into a frown.  “I’m afraid that it’s time for him and me to hold long, long palaver.”

            Jeanir stood, the letter in hand, and gave Wisterian a smart, low bow.  “As you wish, my Lord.”  He began to slide behind the desk and then stopped, turning to meet Wisterian’s gaze again.  “And thank you, again.”  He swallowed.  Because the rest he knew was true.  “I think that by giving Balean and I our privacy that you may just have saved my life.”

            “I’m sure you’ll pay me back tenfold.”  Wisterian replied with a smile.

            Jeanir nodded.  And he meant it.  If, that was, he couldn’t find a way to pay him back a thousandfold.

-23-

            When Iladrul opened the door to his apartment, his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell slightly agape.  He didn’t know who this angel was—he’d never seen him before—but he was probably the most beautiful angel that Iladrul had ever met.  Not in the pretty, fair way that the word beauty usually entailed.   But in a rich, masculine way that only a true warrior could ever master.

            His hair was long and blonde.  His eyes were a deep dark brown.  His face was hard, his jaw square and his chin strong.  His bare chest rippled with muscles and his stomach was flat and appeared hard to the touch.  His arms were huge and bulging.  His thighs were enormous and his calves pleasingly made.  That this angel wasn’t his father’s General of Arms was both a miracle and—Iladrul was more acutely aware of this—a mistake.

            Even at his young age, and as off in his own mind and judgment as he was these days, he could easily see that.

            “Who are you?”  He asked, his eyes dancing over the full length of his father’s bondsman.

            “My name is Jeanir.”  The powerful angel said.  “I am your father’s new doxy.”

            “You?”  Iladrul took a step back.  If he’d said he was Iladrul’s father’s new left toe he couldn’t have been more surprised.  “A doxy?”

            “Proudly so.”  Jeanir bowed.  “He’s bid your audience and asked that I retrieve you.”

            “I . . .”  He shook his head.  “I’m not feeling well.  Tell him that I’ll palaver with him tomorrow.”

            “You would deny your father?”  The angel asked with a dark brow raised high over his fine, brown eye.  “Your King?”

            “Did he ask as either?”  Iladrul wondered aloud.

            “He asks as both.”  Jeanir advised him.  “So you have no say in the matter, child.”   His eyes danced over Iladrul’s small body.  He had dressed for training that morning, though he had never joined his classmates.  “Now go and dress for the occasion.  I shall wait.”

            The instinct for a boy to please his father is deeply ingrained.  Iladrul understood that, even at his young age.  And he was hopeless but to take the advice of this fair doxy, if only to please him.  No matter how wrong the pleasing of his father’s doxy might be.

            “Wait here.”  He nodded his agreement.

            He went to his bedchamber and found a robe that his father had often told him that he looked pleasing in.  It was ivory and the cloak that he hitched around his neck was a vibrant emerald green.  He didn’t bother with sandals; he preferred to walk bare footed.  Once dressed, he returned to his sitting room and his father’s doxy.

            “I am ready, doxy.”  He was aware that his voice sounded as young as his face must appear to the man, but he was nothing if not a Prince.  He knew his place.  And he knew his father’s doxy’s place.  “Take me to my father.”

            “Yes, my Prince.”  Smiling, amused, the angel bowed and held the door to Iladrul’s apartment open for him.

            His father’s apartment was only next door and, apparently, he was in.  Jeanir led him to his father’s library, knocked on the open door, and then announced him.  “Comes Prince Iladrul, my Lord.”

            His father looked up from his desk, his eyes as green as Iladrul’s ever had been, and smiled.  “Come son.  Sit.”

            “My Lord.”  Iladrul bowed, entered his father’s library, and took his seat.

            “How are you, lad?” 

Iladrul met his gaze, hard as that was given his failings, and lied.  “Fine.”

“That’s not what I hear.”  Wisterian lowered the pen he had been writing with and sat back on his chair.  “In fact I hear that you haven’t joined your classmates in lessons in some time.  And that you refuse to even play.  Even with Balean’s boy.”

“I have to stop playing with them eventually.”  Iladrul stuck out his chin.  “They aren’t my equals.  Now are they.”

His father looked at him for a long, hard moment.  Finally he nodded.  “That’s true.  But I’d hoped that you would remain a boy for a while yet.”

“The sooner I’m a man, the sooner you can be proud of me.”  Iladrul swallowed.  If his father had known how he’d cried and embarrassed him when the two demons were fighting outside of his room, he’d never be proud of him. 

“I’m proud of you now.”  His father’s voice was concerned.

“You’ll be prouder of me when I can act like a man.”  Iladrul replied to this.  “When I stop being a baby or a boy.”

Wisterian’s brow furrowed.  “You believe you’re ready to start your training as a man?”

Iladrul swallowed.  He didn’t.  But maybe if he could learn the manner in which a man fought, next time he wouldn’t duck for cower.  “I do.”

Wisterian sighed and nodded.  His gaze shifted to Jeanir, who remained in the doorframe.  Then his gaze returned to Iladrul.  “Fine.  As you will.  If you believe that you are ready to train as a man, then who am I to tell you otherwise.”  He flicked his eyes back to Jeanir, and then again to Iladrul.  “Each morning you are to rise with the sun.  You are then to meet Jeanir in the field behind the stables.  I know no finer warrior with sword or bow.”

“You mean me to train with your doxy?”  Iladrul asked, alarmed.

“You asked to be trained like a man.”  Wisterian growled at him.  “Doxy or no, you will find no better trainer.  I’ve fought with Jeanir in battle and I can assure you that had his stone been pulled gold rather than red then it would have been he in charge of my army and not Balean.”  And then in a tight voice.  “Do you refuse my advice?”

“No.”  Iladrul swallowed and turned his gaze to Jeanir.  Hadn’t that been his very own thought upon first sight of the angel?   “I accept your advice.  And, if Jeanir is willing to train me, I concede him as my Master.”

“Jeanir?”

“It would be my honor.”  Jeanir said, holding Iladrul’s gaze.  “Your doxy or not.”

Iladrul felt himself blush.  He had insulted the angel and he knew it.  But he was Wisterian’s doxy.  And Iladrul would do well to remember that.  He returned his gaze to that of his father. 

“Very well.”  Wisterian nodded.  “You are to tell no one who your Master is, only that you are in training.”  And then frowning.  “In the afternoons, your training will be a mixture of academics and alchemy.  I’m not quite sure who is fit to train you yet.  But I’ll have that worked out by week’s end.  In the meantime, you could do worse than spending the full of the day under Jaenir’s instruction.”  Iladrul nodded. “Is there anything else you and I need to discuss?”

Iladrul sat straight in his chair.  “No, father.”

“Fine.”  Wisterian bowed his head to him.  “Then go and meditate.  And pray to the Gods that you are up for the challenge that you have brought upon yourself.”

Iladrul, knowing that it would take far more than prayer to make him ready or worthy, bowed his head in fealty, rose and then left the room.