Morien slipped through the small high window of the antechamber his father kept for this purpose, and then shifted back into his human body.
First on was his peach pendant. Then the clothes he kept on the peg next to his father’s. Almost no man he knew here owned two pair of boots, but such were the needs of men like himself. He checked his appearance in the round polished brass disc above the wash basin, and then made for the door, ready to serve Rhys, lord of these northern Cymru river lands.
Halfway through the doorway, he stuttered to a halt. Two men stood in the room. That wasn’t unusual—it was a council chamber, after all. But while one was his father, leaning over his map table, pointing out some position on a scroll there…
…the other man was Safir, and his dark eyes were boring into Morien.
Trying to breathe normally, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“Ah. Morien. Thank you for coming so expediently. You may have beaten my messenger back here.” His father gave him a look that flashed with a small warning—don’t call attention to yourself—but it faded into his usual mask of power: easygoing and friendly until one crossed him. “You know Palahmed’s brother, Safir.”
He knew more about Safir than his father would have guessed. More than Safir realized, too. Morien nodded. “Safir.”
“Morien.”
He’d only just heard it a couple hours before, but the man’s voice still came over him like a warm breeze, redolent with showy blossoms.
“Morien, you remember the farm villa I keep to the southeast? Here?”
He approached the map table and looked dutifully at the spot his father indicated. “Yes.”
“I was just describing it to Safir. Arthur’s men are there; Safir will be joining them.”
“It’s winter,” Morien blurted, then felt foolish when both men gave him pitying looks for stating the obvious. “Nothing happens on a farm in winter. Didn’t the staff and animals return here for the dark season?”
“They did. Which is why you’re going to prepare two mounts. You’ll accompany Safir.”
Morien scarcely caught himself from yelping Me? but he must not have masked his own expression very well because Safir smirked. “Why?” he managed.
It came out sounding miserable, and his father gave him another warning look. “Because Arthur and his men are due to receive a message there. Safir has decided to join them, and you’re familiar with the route.” He said more but with his eyes only. Are you going to give me trouble?
Morien wiped the shock from his face and nodded. “I see.” All right. This wasn’t so terrible. He would lead Safir to the farm and then he could get himself back to Lord Ban’s, to Gwen and Elain, where he belonged. He wouldn’t be able to make his nightly visits in his magpie form, but neither would he have to deflect the suggestive things this man always…suggested to him when they crossed paths as men.
It would be a matter of two days, there and back. One day and one night if he rode hard on the return.
“Kitchen and quarters are preparing supplies for your journey,” Rhys said. “And for your stay. You’ll both stay on as long as Arthur needs you. I trust you can make yourself useful to our young bear?”
Stay? Stay? And help Arthur? With what—raiding? He’d never stolen anything in his life. “I can’t do that. I’ll need to come home directly. Gwenhwyfar requires my service.”
Rhys’s smile was wry. “Gwen could fend off half the Saxons with her wit alone. And her sons are no longer babes in need of a nursemaid,” he added, knowing where Morien’s mind was.
But they were still young, those boys. And practically princes. They needed protecting, and he’d guarded them since their births. In fact, he’d been the one to catch Medraut’s small, slippery body after Gwen had gone into labor. “Father—”
“That’s that, then,” Rhys said. “Do you require the map?”
“No.”
“Good, I prefer to keep them here, where they’re secure.”
Did his father have any wish to keep his own son secure? Because he wondered how he was going to survive an untold number of days in close proximity to Safir.
And for every day, a night. A long, cold night.
He racked his brain, trying to recall how many beds that farm villa contained, but the figure he kept coming up with was far too small.
A quick glance confirmed that the man was watching him again. Made him feel over-warm, and he had the urge to peel off his shirt. To fan his face as if it were high summer instead of nearly midwinter.
Rhys nodded to Safir. “And we’re agreed on your term at the border.”
“And on the premium.”
Something—surprise? anger?—flashed across Rhys’s expression, before he nodded to Safir again. “And on the premium.”
Safir was being paid surcoin? For what?
“If you’ll check on the provisions, Safir, I have a few final instructions for my son.”
As soon as the door closed behind the man, Rhys raised a hand. “Don’t argue. It’s time you stopped playing nursemaid to Gwen’s lads.”
“But I guard her as well—”
“Gwen has a wife to guard her, and an entire household as well. She’s safer than I am.” His father stepped closer, his eyes intent. “I’ve let you hide yourself away for too long. Your mother pushed you out of the nest years ago, and the time’s come for me to do the same. You’re needed at the villa.”
“Why?”
But his father didn’t answer that. “As I said, Arthur is awaiting a message. After he receives it, you will do whatever he needs you to do to act on it. Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“And this.” Rhys crossed to his desk and picked up a large leather-wrapped bundle. He handed it to Morien. “Stow this in the stable loft.”
The bundle felt heavy but soft. The leather cords tying it shut were bound by his father’s boat-shaped wax seal.
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“Your armor’s being prepared with everything else. You should be on your way shortly. Arthur has command in his camp, and the same holds for the villa. Consider it his winter camp. Follow his orders. Let no one see you shift, not even that great hound of Gawain’s.” Rhys turned to his desk. “Off you go.”
Morien watched his father’s back for a moment, fighting the urge to embrace him. He turned for the door to the hall.
“Oh, and son?”
He looked back to find his father watching him. “Yes?”
“Mind Safir. He can be very convincing, that one.”
Morien managed a nod, then left as calmly as he could.
Safir glanced away to the countryside around their path, but they hadn’t traveled far enough for it to change. And so his gaze was drawn back to Morien.
Which, if he were forced to put down in ink the story of his past three years, would be all he’d have to write. Anytime he found himself near the man, his eyes betrayed him to latch onto that tall form. Didn’t matter where. Didn’t matter if he was currently trying to seduce someone else. If Morien walked by, Safir was instantly distracted from his purpose.
Morien was striking. His skin was a deep, warm brown, darker even than his father’s, but folks of all shades passed through the river lord’s settlement, thanks to his extensive sea trade network. Morien stood out because he was a head taller than anyone else in Rhys’s hall, including Rhys. Which made him even easier to spot, damn him.
For another thing, he was always so still. Safir had only ever seen such stillness in Bedwyr, who was calmer than seemed possible, and in dead men. Morien’s quiet was aloof and watchful. Rigid. Judgmental.
He was also extremely fit, which was unfortunate since Safir appreciated that sort of thing. He didn’t know what the fellow did to maintain his fine form; Safir had never seen him lift anything but one of Gwen’s sons. Morien was wearing a sword and shield now, and Rhys had assured Safir that he knew how to use them.
“Against actual living men?” Safir had asked.
“Do you want the job or not?” had been Rhys’s quick reply, and Safir had held his peace because they both knew the answer.
So he didn’t know for certain whether Morien could fight his way out of a wool sack, but he had to admit the armor looked good on him. Sadly his shield covered most of his back, and the cloak he wore under it—a long rich piece that Rhys had probably received as a gift—hid the rest of him and half his horse besides. Safir decided it was time for a change.
“Let’s stretch our legs, shall we?”
“I’m fine.” Didn’t even look back.
“All right,” Safir said. “I’ll put it a touch more indelicately: I need to piss.”
Morien frowned over his shoulder. “We’ve ridden scarcely three hours.”
“Yes, three hours. You might possess a prodigious bladder, but I don’t. I’m stopping. And since you’re escorting me—”
“I’m not escorting you, I’m accompanying you.”
“—at your father’s behest…” At Morien’s scowl, Safir smiled. “You should stop too. Have some ale. Eat an apple or two.”
“How long does it take you to piss?”
Safir climbed down from the gelding he rode. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I have any help.”
Predictably, Morien’s shoulders tightened up. “Forget I asked.” He dismounted his mare and reached for Safir’s reins. For three hours, Safir’s only view had been the back of the man’s head. Some snowy pastures too, but this was a grand improvement.
He mostly had scowls for Safir, which Safir enjoyed immensely right alongside the hints of Morien’s shape under his cloak, vest, and shirt. There was his broad chest and his long, flat belly. His sword belt fit snugly across his hips, and his trousers—bless the talented artisan who’d created them—hugged his muscular thighs. The bulge under his belt that was bigger than Safir’s fist.
On second thought, perhaps they would keep this pause in their journey a short one. Otherwise, he’d have to strip off and roll in the snow to keep his head about him.
“Thought you had to piss.”
He left Ned the gelding in Morien’s care and stepped to the edge of the track to relieve himself. As he did so, he sneaked glances at the fellow, who was using the pause in the journey to give a handful of grain to each horse. His mare, Nera, got an additional gentle scratch between her ears.
Safir liked gentle scratches. Everywhere. Too bad his chances of procuring them on this journey were less than nil.
They mounted up again, but at the prospect of another three hours of silence, Safir shuddered. As luck would have it, the track widened as it descended into a flat stretch.
Sometimes God was good.
Safir nudged his horse ahead to walk alongside Morien’s. “How have you been?”
Morien eyed him suspiciously. “Fine.”
“Haven’t seen you around Rhys’s hall lately.”
“Busy.”
Grunts, eh?
No. Not today. Not with hours to ride yet.
“If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”
Morien turned slowly and gazed upon him as if he’d lost his mind. “Solitude.”
Oh, now the man was just teasing him, laying down this trail of single words like so many sunflower seeds. Safir smiled at him, which made Morien’s eyes go delightfully wide. Those eyes blinked rapidly, skittered across the landscape, but, blanketed with early snow, it offered no distractions. He swallowed, which pinched his plush lips in a rather appealing way. “I haven’t seen you, either. Have you been busy as well?”
“Quite.”
Morien looked at him, twice in rapid succession, as if trying to suss his motives.
Poor man. He couldn’t have any idea what Safir wanted, truly. What he would like to do with him. Or what sort of contortions he’d go to to make it happen.
“Doing what?” Morien demanded.
“Oh…enjoying the season. Sitting by the fire. Entertaining guests. Eating good food, drinking hot wine. Licking sweet things. Sucking hard ones—”
“Never mind.” Morien jerked his eyes forward again. “I’m not interested in your escapades.”
“Escapades.” Safir chuckled, even as a voice inside told him to let it go. He ignored that voice a lot. “Fancy word for fucking.”
Morien huffed. “Is that all that interests you?”
“In winter, yes. It’s an excellent way to keep warm.” He grinned. “You should try it.”
The man’s jaw clamped hard at that, one more bit of confirmation of something Safir had long suspected. That Morien—tall, lovely, stiffly responsible Morien—was a virgin.
Which made Safir want to weep.
“Why is he paying you?”
It took him a moment to hear the question. “Who?”
Morien turned to him. “My father. Who else?”
“Ah. Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a sell-sword.”
“I noticed.”
Safir ignored the hint of disdain in the words. “I asked Lord Rhys if he needed anything done, and as it happened, he did. So he hired me.”
“Yes, yes, to go to the villa.” Morien’s eyes narrowed. “But why is he paying you extra?”
To keep Morien where Rhys wanted him. “He’s a nester,” Rhys had said, “and he’s built a cozy one at Gwenhwyfar’s. Don’t let him fly away home.”
So he wasn’t about to tell Morien, now was he? Wasn’t as if the man would make him a counteroffer. He’d likely take both mounts and leave Safir’s arse on the track right here, and that would be a shame all ’round.
Safir smiled. “Because I’m charming.”
Morien looked him over in the slow, reluctant way of a man viewing something distasteful. “If you say so.”
Right.
This was an excellent moment to remember a few things.
First: this was a job. For which he was being paid. A premium.
Second: this man was Lord Rhys’s son. One didn’t cross Rhys, not if one wished to remain in his repeated employ.
And finally: no one—no matter how plush their lips or temptingly round their arse—got to tell him who he was or how much he was worth as a person.
No one.
But especially not an untouched, untried baby-minder who thought he was better than everyone around him.
Safir kicked ahead. “Best keep an eye on our surroundings. Wouldn’t want to lose our way.”
It almost sounded normal considering how loudly his teeth were grinding.