Note: This is a gay themed fantasy novel about kings and magic, love and war. Although I will often allude to sexual encounters, there are no scenes of sexual acts for this is, by and large, a love story. This author claims exclusive copyright to the characters, settings, and plot.
Dark Wishes
M.C. Gordon
Part Four: Devlin
Chapter Seven
A month passed and Devlin's attacker remained at bay. The castle guards had received the sketches Frit made of the man using Devlin's description of him. But, try as they might, scouring the crowds of people in and out of Aolane daily, they saw no one remotely matching the man's picture. Until the day Frit strode in while the king was holding court, unannounced and uninvited. Behind him trailed an obviously worried and uncomfortable couple.
"Majesty," Frit said, nodding curtly - an action which did not go unnoticed by Trelaine. "These good people are Ynel and Frot. They bade me fetch the Master Healer to tend their son not an hour past. The boy has been assaulted, quite badly I fear. Through his pain, the lad was able to tell me about his attacker and I made this sketch."
The court became quiet, at first expecting Frit to be reprimanded for bursting into a council meeting, then all ears for the news they heard.
Trelaine took the offered likeness from Frit and stared in dismay. "This is the man who attacked young Devlin not long ago. An hour you say? Then he will have escaped through the gates and be loose in the countryside."
"Perhaps not," Frit replied. "Sondred and his good lady were close at hand when Frot arrived at my cottage carrying the boy. He sent word to the guard to close the gates so that none could leave."
Trelaine rose from his throne looking beyond the men around him, all of the nobles and courtiers, pages and servants, even beyond Frit and the frightened parents. An anger burned about him and for the first time in the lives of any of those present, the Qell Lord became what he was.
"I Will Not Tolerate This In My Kingdom!!" he shouted in so loud a voice that the very windowpanes trembled. "Not In My Kingdom!!" His body began to glow with the white fire of his anger and the very air around him was thick with royal fury.
The room became deathly still. So overwhelming was the High King's anger that the air became hard to breathe. Trelaine closed his eyes and lowered his head. When he raised it again, his eyes burned black, blacker than the darkest night any could remember. And when he spoke, his voice echoed through the chamber, low and menacing.
"There is a tavern near the west wall," his voice said. "He is there."
Sondred, who had just entered the room to report to his king, immediately seized the moment. "To arms!" he called to the guardsmen who were present. "I know the tavern, the Ram's Horn. Go! And quickly!"
There was a sudden flurry as the royal guard sped from the room, unsheathing their swords.
"Detain him!" Sondred shouted after them. And then, "Majesty? Majesty, you must refrain! Your own law decrees that each man face his accuser, that the council hears witness and passes judgment. You cannot do this, My Lord! You cannot! For of what worth are your just laws if you do that which you seek to do in your heart? It must be your laws that prevail, my gracious lord, please ... let go your anger. Do not do that which you desire to do!" For Sondred, above all men save Gelemar and Frit, knew that their lord wished revenge upon the man who had accosted Devlin. They alone knew that their king loved the young man with a passion that he refused to acknowledge.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Trelaine heard Sondred's plea. Slowly, and with great pain, the Qell Lord let go. The vengeance that was Miralen withdrew and Trelaine returned to himself. "How is the child?" he asked.
"His body will heal, Majesty," Frit managed to respond. "But his spirit has been gravely wounded."
"Thank you, Frit, for coming to me so quickly with this news. Return to the child in your care." To the parents he turned and said, "You know my law. This man will be held to account for what he has done."
Ynel dropped to her knees and grasped Trelaine's right hand between hers. "Bless your kindness, Majesty," she said and kissed his hand.
Trelaine helped her to stand and replied, "Go, good lady. See to your son. The law will see to the creature who has done this evil thing."
When Frit, Ynel, and Frot had left the great courtroom, Trelaine turned to his council. "I fear we will need to put the matters before us aside," he said to the representatives from the other nine kingdoms.
This august group assembled once every three years to petition the High King in the name of their own sovereigns. They came with matters of trade and questions of boundaries. They met to pass on knowledge of the nomads who occasionally threatened the outermost kingdoms. They made agreements for aid should one or another of the kingdoms suffer from drought or famine. And they came to learn of and from each other, to formulate laws, and to present Trelaine with matters requiring a decision he alone could make.
For although Trelaine had chosen to rule only in Elanen, he was acknowledged as High King by the other nine kingdoms.
"Majesty?" asked Prince Laurin of Endril, "may we remain if that is our desire? I, for one, would like to see this situation carried to the end. This was a heinous crime committed against a child. Each of us could then return to our homes and let it be known that we were witness to your judgment."
Trelaine was fond of Laurin, descendant of his most beloved friend King Llewelyn and heir to the Endril throne. "Any who wish may stay," he replied, "and see that I do not stand in judgment. That duty belongs to my Council. Theirs is the final word."
. . . . .
The royal guard had found the accused man where Trelaine had said he would be, sitting in a darkened corner of the Ram's Head Tavern. The guardsmen had been hard pressed to not run him through with their broadswords, but they knew that the king's law would mete out a more deserving punishment. And Sondred had threatened dishonor on any man who took it upon himself to inflict premature justice.
For seven days Hagan dwelt in a small, enclosed room buried deep within the bowels of the ancient fortress castle. The only sounds he heard were the muted voices of his guards and the soft rolling of dice as the guards played the simple game. He was supplied with ample food and water, and his chamber pot was emptied several times each day. His only light was the candles in scones set into the walls outside his room. Hagan usually preferred the dark, for he could hide in shadows all the more easily and wait for his unsuspecting victims. But the darkness bothered him now. It settled about him like a gloom and he began to fear his fate. He had already decided to claim that the boys had enticed him, invited him with their supple young bodies. Could he truly be held at fault then if the boys had wanted him?
In that seven days time the Council met and decided upon their course of action. With the approval of the Master Healer, Ynel and Frot brought their son to the paddocks to watch the young Lippiz foals at play as the Council members observed from a short distance. The sight of the young horses brought a painful smile to the child's face. The Council did not smile at the sight of the boy. The bruises on his face and arms were all too obvious. His lips were cut and swollen. The eye that was not swollen shut was glazed over, as if he had retreated into some other place and time. And the Council decided that the child need not be summoned to face the accused. They had seen enough of the damage that was done.
Not so with Devlin. Sondred approached him one evening at his studies in the archive.
"Will you stand before the Council and identify the man who attacked you?" he asked.
"I will," Devlin replied. "Is it the same man who hurt the boy?" he asked.
"Perhaps," Sondred responded. "That will be for you to say."
. . . . .
In the tradition that he had established centuries before, Trelaine alone asked questions during the trial, questions decided upon by the Council of Judges. Summoning Devlin to stand before him, he handed him one of Frit's sketches of his attacker and asked him to identify it.
"This is the man who accosted me," Devlin replied.
"And this man?" Trelaine asked, handing him the sketch of the man who had attacked the young boy.
"This is the same man," Devlin said.
Trelaine nodded toward one of the guards and Hagan was brought into the room. He was as the guards had found him at the tavern. Although amply fed and cared for, he wore the same clothing and had not been granted a bath. It seemed not to matter, for he had not had one in years. The stench of soured ale on his clothing gave more than one of his judges the urge to gag. His hair was matted, no doubt home to lice and fleas. The guards had already made it known that they would need herbs from one of the old grandmothers to rid the entire area of unwanted vermin.
"You know whereof you stand accused," Trelaine said to him. "What is your reply?"
Hagan launched into his planned statement, placing blame on his victims.
"How many?" Trelaine asked, not a question the Council had decided upon but one he thought deserved merit.
"No more'n ten," Hagan replied.
"And all sought you out and requested your affection?" Trelaine asked.
"Yes, M'Lord."
"Even this one?" Trelaine asked, showing him several drawings Frit had made, under protest but at his command, of the child. Drawings that showed bruises, abrasions, bite marks, and swelling about the genital area. "Did this boy seek you out and ask for such treatment? Did he entice you to do this to him?"
Hagan dropped his eyes and said nothing more. What could he say when the pictures were such damaging evidence?
The Council was swift in its judgment. The penalty was death, to be issued by the High King. Trelaine did not believe in inflicting pain or endless torment. He would not cause any mortal man to suffer such. The end was quick and clean. Hagan existed, and then he did not. He had mortal form in this world, and then was gone in less than the blink of an eye.
When it was done, Trelaine left the castle and mounted his favorite light horse, Soltan. One thing remained to be done. Soltan's hooves echoed on the cobbled streets as Trelaine guided him toward the humble cottage of Ynel and Frot.
"It is done," he told them. "My magic cannot speed the healing of your son's physical pains. That is the domain of the healers. But I can do a thing they cannot."
Trelaine entered the small room where the boy lay on his bed and sat down beside him. Taking one small hand in his own, he leaned over and gently kissed the boy's forehead, spreading a healing magic over him, a magic that would heal his soul.
Chapter Eight
The day started like any other. Belen rose early, supervised her household staff in their early morning duties, and sent Sondred off to work. She went over the household accounts, surveyed the cold room for supplies needed at market, and went back to work on the piece of wool cloth on her loom.
She had not been hungry for the morning meal and likewise told the cook not to worry about the noon meal either. The servants would put together what they could for their own repast.
The cottage was quiet now that Devlin was studying at the archive. And Belen sorely missed him.
The young man had provided a break in the monotony of her days during his short stay with them.
Her hands flew as she wove the shuttle through the threads on the loom and tucked them tightly into place. A melody from her childhood took roost in her mind and she softly sang, "Merrily, young lads and lassies, go ye off to play".
Her back ached and she shifted her position several times, hoping to ease the pain. She stopped her weaving for a moment and ran her hands across her swollen belly, marveling that she carried a life within her, Sondred's child.
A quick, sharp twinge caught at her breath but was gone within seconds. She barely noticed for the child often moved and kicked at her. She once again ran her hands across the scant skin that kept her child hidden from her gaze, seeking to soothe Sondred's son or daughter. His future, Frit had said, valued and important.
The ache in her back grew worse and she stood to ease the pain. It would surely pass for it had before. She gasped out in unexpected pain and thrust her thumb into her mouth and bit down hard. The time had come; the child demanded entrance into the world. Belen took quick breaths to ease the pain and regain her composure. Calling to her personal maid, she sent the girl to the castle to summon Frit.
Katia found Frit at the stables with Gelemar. She hesitated to approach for here, in the stables, she was in the world of men. She served in a household mostly of women and her mistress protected her virtue from the male household guard.
Overcoming her fears, she slowly and quietly approached the two men who were discussing the attributes and faults of a newly born foal. "Pardon me, Master Frit," she managed to say.
Frit turned to face her. "Katia!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here, child?"
"My mistress needs you," she replied. "The babe comes and she will have none but you to assist her."
A thousand questions made their way through Frit's mind but he voiced only those of greatest importance. "When did her pains begin? Are they severe just now? Can your mistress still move about?"
When Katia could answer him with, "Not long ago, no, and yes," he called to Gelemar. "Escort her back to Sondred's cottage. I must see the Master Healer. I will meet you there shortly."
Gelemar would have questioned why his love needed to confer with the healing master, but Frit had already sped out of the stable and was almost to the castle entrance before his mind began to function.
"Why did your mistress request Frit?" he asked as he and Katia walked.
"Oh, master Frit is the only one she trusts to be with her when the babe is born," she replied. "She will have no other bring the child into the world."
Gelemar stopped dead in his tracks and placed his hands on Katia's shoulders. "Frit?" he asked, "my Frit? Why him? He is not a healer. He tends to household pets and horses. What does he have to do with your mistress giving birth?"
Katia was suddenly very uncertain of what to say.
"I am sure I do not know, M'Lord," she replied. "I only know that my mistress bade me summon him. Please, M'Lord," she pleaded, "do not badger my mistress with questions. She is in childbirth."
"And?" Gelemar questioned.
Katia glanced toward the ground, and when she raised her head again there were tears in her eyes. "Women die in childbirth," she whispered.
Hearing her simple words, Gelemar felt a strange fear grip him. Not the gentle lady who had risked her life in the middle of the night to tell him of the attack against Devlin. Not his brother's wife. It was not to be countenanced that Belen should lose her life bringing a child into the world.
Gelemar spotted one of his own household guard and called to him. "Rifkin, go quickly to the castle and bid an audience with the King in my name. Ask him to cast his magic to Sondred's cottage for the lady's time has come. And locate Sondred! I am sure he can be spared to return home."
Rifkin sped toward the castle on his errand. Gelemar continued to Sondred's cottage so swiftly that Katia had to run to keep up with him, his long strides being two of hers. Even at the pace he set, Gelemar was not surprised when Frit passed them, riding one of the Lippiz stallions at full gallop. He still did not understand why Belen would request his lover to attend her, but he also understood little of the nature of women.
. . . . .
The hours passed slowly. Sondred paced the cottage impatiently until his grandmother ran him out.
"Go!" she said. "Polish thy armor or sword. Tend to thy horse. Just leave!" Mercatroid had considered setting him to tearing cloth for bandages, a ploy often used to occupy an anxious husband, until Gelemar asked, "Belen will not bleed to death, will she?"
And still the hours passed. Sondred cleaned his armor and set his blade to the whetstone. Gelemar picked at his tunic and still wondered why his sister-in-law wanted Frit at her side. Trelaine stopped by the cottage for word of the birth and left when Mercatroid said, "There be too many men for a woman's ordeal."
Trelaine knew his magic could not help the healing arts, but he did his best to cast an easing of the concern and fear felt by both Sondred and Gelemar.
Toward Frit he cast assurance of the art he had studied so long and hard. And to Belen he cast the image of herself with her children about her, and their children also. Confident that he had done all he could, Trelaine mounted his horse and headed back to the castle. There were matters of crops to be considered and petitions to answer. The lady had Frit to attend her, and he had done all that he could.
. . . . .
"I am afraid," Belen said to Frit. "The pain is unbearable!"
Frit wrapped his fingers around hers and clenched tightly. "The pain is but your child wanting life," he said. "You have done as you were told. You ate fresh fruits and vegetables. You walked every day around the courtyard. You drank juices that were beneficial to both yourself and your child."
"But what if I should die?" she asked, clinging to Frit as if he were a lifeline.
"You will not die," he said. "The High King was here only moments ago. He will surely not let anything untoward happen to you or the child."
"You are fortunate, Frit, for you will never have to know this pain."
"That is true," Frit responded, "but I will also never know the birth of my own child."
"Do you wish you had a child?" Belen asked, her fingers clenching tightly against his.
"Not for myself," he replied. "I sometimes wish that Gelemar and I had a child, but for his sake and not mine. He has enjoyed acting the father for young Devlin."
In the moments between her pains Frit aided Belen in walking around the room. "Lean against me, Lady," he said. They were an odd contrast to each other: Belen, her abdomen greatly distended, leaning against the much taller and extremely slender man. One would not have believed that Frit's fragile frame had the strength to support Belen's weight. Yet he did, and she found an odd comfort in the hand that held hers and the arm about her shoulder.
. . . . .
"You will wear your blade to nothing if you polish it one more time," Gelemar said to his brother, who had indeed cleaned and polished both his sword and his armor many times over. And his horse gleamed with the many brushings he had received as the hours passed.
"What else can I do?" Sondred asked. "Is it natural to take so long?" His worry and concern had become etched in lines on his face. The maids who scurried in and out of the bedroom were of little help and would only say, "Not yet, M'Lord," to his questions about his wife.
Suddenly, the night air was filled with a high pitched wail. Sondred rushed to the bedroom, only to find the door barred by Mercatroid. "I want to see Belen," he said to her.
"Not yet," she responded. "New babes be messy things. Best 'e wait 'till Master Frit bids 'e enter."
"Master Frit?" Gelemar asked, one eyebrow raised, and turned his thoughts again to that very curious subject. Why had Belen summoned his beloved to her side?
"A daughter," Frit said as he laid the now clean and swathed baby against her mother.
Belen cradled her newborn and gently kissed the tiny fingers of one hand. She looked up at Frit and said, "Thank you."
"Me?" he asked. "You did all the hard work. I but guided you. Thank you for allowing me the privilege. Do you wish me to summon Sondred now?"
"Yes," Belen said, and was suddenly gripped by another searing pain. "Frit?" she asked, tears forming in her eyes. "What is happening to me?"
Frit quickly handed the baby to one of the maids and pulled back the blanket. "I do believe there is another," he said.
Sondred was about to remove his grandmother and force his way into the room when the door suddenly opened and Frit smiled at him.
"Congratulations," Frit said grinning from ear to ear. "You have a daughter ... and a son." He moved aside, allowing Sondred entrance.
Sondred hastened to his wife's side and kissed her before gently touching each of the small babes who lay beside her. "What wonder have you wrought?" he asked, amazed that his wife had presented him with two children at one time.
"Frit assures me it is not uncommon," she replied. And then she smiled at him and said, "I think I would prefer that you give birth to the next one."
. . . . .
"Two?" Gelemar asked as he and Frit walked toward their home.
"Male and female," Frit answered, feeling a bit light headed for he had been terrified the entire time. Belen had asked for him and he would not have turned her down, but he had truly believed that he would only assist a more practiced healer. That the Master Healer had told him he was sufficiently prepared had come as a surprise. "She has named the girl Hyptia and the boy Mahon," he said.
"Nice names," Gelemar responded and the two walked in silence for a while. "I do think, my love," Gelemar finally said, "that when we are home you might want to tell me by what mystery you tended to the births."
Chapter Nine
"So, my love," Gelemar said as the two readied themselves for bed, "tell me now why Belen summoned you to her side rather than a healer."
Frit took a few deep breaths as he removed his tunic. The candle light in the room reflected off of the golden red hair which tumbled across his shoulders and down his back. The shadows accentuated his high cheekbones and slenderness, darkening the fairness of his skin.
Gelemar lay back against his pillow and watched as his love removed his breeches. The pale light in the room cast more shadows against Frit's muscles. With the breeches gone, Gelemar rolled to his side and drank in the sight of his lover's bare buttocks.
Frit eased himself into bed and pulled the blanket across himself, the night having turned cool and he was prone to goose flesh. He settled himself, one arm behind his head for comfort.
"Well?" Gelemar asked. "Do you not think an explanation is due?"
"I have been studying with the Master Healer at the archive," Frit finally said, the words pouring out in great rapidity.
"How long have you done so?" Gelemar questioned. "And why did you withhold that from me?"
"Three years," Frit responded. "I wished to better myself, and thus your standing. It was to be a surprise for you, and you were not to know until the day that I was granted the right to heal. It seems today was that day."
Frit closed his eyes and awaited whatever Gelemar might say. He had never kept such a secret from his lover before, and had agonized over his decision daily.
"I should have known," Gelemar said. "I should have known the day you told Devlin that you were a healer. Instead I disparaged your words and cast them aside as insignificant. For that I apologize. And today you delivered Belen of twins, quite a feat for one who held a secret this long a time. You are deserving of a reward for both your deviousness and your skill."
Greatly relieved, Frit smiled and asked, "What reward?"
"I shall go to the market tomorrow and see if there is a jewel you might like, or a piece of bright cloth for a new tunic. Or ... this," Gelemar responded, taking his lover into his arms and kissing him deeply, passionately.
Frit responded, wrapping his arms around Gelemar and pulling his love closer. His hands ran gently across the muscles of his lover's back and shoulders, caressing and demanding at the same time. His slender body arched against Gelemar's heavier one and his tongue slid into his lover's mouth.
Gelemar rolled them over to pin Frit beneath him but in his enthusiasm rolled too far and they landed on the rug beside their bed.
Frit sat up and laughed. Straddling his beloved he said, "You are usually far more gentle with me." His long red hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back where it tickled at Gelemar's manhood.
Gelemar quickly reversed their positions and grabbed Frit's wrists, holding them against the floor above his head. "Do you then deserve gentleness?" he asked. "You withheld knowledge from me."
He eased his grip at the look on Frit's face. Gelemar well knew that his love was not inclined to roughness and had ever striven to be an ardent, but gentle, lover.
"I bought something new at the market this morning," he said as he stood and held out a hand to help Frit rise from the floor.
Frit, always pleased when Gelemar mentioned shopping, asked, "What?"
"This," the heavier man said, producing an oddly shaped item from the inner pocket of his cloak. "I have it on good faith that this is the latest invention."
Frit stared in disbelief. "I know what it is," he said. "And it is used to prevent conception. I seriously doubt that we have that concern. You do not plan to use that thing, do you?"
"Yes, my love, I do," Gelemar responded. "Is there a problem?"
"Surely you jest. That thing is made from the bladder of a fish!"
"Really?" Gelemar asked. "One could hardly tell." He looked at the thing and tried to puzzle out how he was supposed to put it on. And he wondered if it should cover the entire length of his rather remarkable member, for it would be quite disastrous if it slipped off during use. It must have been a very small fish that sacrificed its life. Either that, or he was more greatly endowed than most other men, or the shopkeeper had made a misjudgment.
"I think not!" Frit exclaimed. "You are not going to stick that fish piss retainer up my posterior!!"
Gelemar sighed and removed the thing from sight. Frit, as dearly as Gelemar loved him, was very reluctant to try anything new or out of the ordinary. His desire for gentleness Gelemar could accommodate. Very well, then. He had a friend who was open to new discoveries and he was quite determined to figure out how this newfangled thing worked.
"Do you see?" he asked Frit, "I have put it away.
There will be no fish bladder between us. Are you now content?"
"Yes," Frit replied as he positioned himself on the bed.
Hours later Frit yawned lazily, drifting in a haze of contentment. "Will you still go to the market?" he asked.
"Why?" was Gelemar's response.
"Well," Frit responded, "they `were' twins."
To be continued.
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