THE persistent drizzle from the Silver Sea coated the whole of the city in murky wetness, though the moisture wasn’t likely to freeze until much later in the night. Derek nevertheless pulled his cloak tighter around him in hopes of keeping the icy rivulets that trailed over his face from sliding under his collar. The thought of his bed at the Sleeping Sheep was inviting, even if it would be empty of any save himself. Not that he couldn’t have found a whore both willing and available to fill it—even on a night as miserable as this—but it wasn’t a paid prostitute that his body called out for, and it wasn’t any save the second prince of Llarien who he wanted sharing his bed.
It wasn’t a question any longer that Kherin had taken his heart as easily and as completely as he had taken his cock that morning in the Harper’s Den. And if a cold bed in a port city inn was the cost he would pay for giving it to Kherin, he still wouldn’t regret it. His own thoughts and the memory of Kherin writhing beneath him as he was caught in the throes of pleasure would warm him soon enough, and that would have to do until he could truly feel Kherin pressed against him again.
A sudden gust full of icy crystals brought him back abruptly to the desolate streets of Dennor, and he grimaced against the cold and the sting as he pushed his way closer to the sheltering warmth of the inn. The day after the speech in the market square had been eventful, and more than a little disconcerting, which had made walking the less populated streets back to his room the easiest way to settle his thoughts. And his thoughts were torn between Dennor and Gravlorn.
He had found Dar, the deposed scholar of ancient history, in the same alley he had lived in the last time Derek had visited the port city, and Derek had to applaud the resourcefulness of the old man in the careful arrangement of the discarded debris that now formed a makeshift windbreak against the worst of the winter weather. But his health was suffering because of the cold and damp, that much had been clear, and though Derek had offered to pay the cost of a room in any of the city’s inns, Dar had refused to accept.
“The relief would only be temporary, and it would cost the loss of what endurance I have gained for only a few nights in a warm bed. You know as well as I that that would be more deadly than the harshest winter once I returned to these shadowed depths.”
Dar had spoken kindly, however, and had donned a quiet smile as he added, “It’s amazing what the body can endure as long as the trials remain consistent.”
Derek hadn’t been convinced but had given up the argument in favor of purchasing additional clothing and blankets for the teacher, as well food from the nearest inn to bring back to the alley, all of which Dar had accepted with gratitude. The extension of credit to the market vendors to ensure Dar would remain clothed, warm, and fed would have been done regardless of the teacher’s arguments, but by the end of their visit that day, the matter of credit had become unnecessary.
Derek sighed as he rounded the corner of one the city’s public stables and a gust of bitter air threw more of the icy drizzle against him. It had taken him longer to convince Dar to come with him than it had taken Dar to tell his tale, but in the end he had succeeded. They would be leaving Dennor the next day, and though Derek still held trepidation about whether Dar would withstand the journey, the scholar had assured him that even winter’s worst in the countryside was far less dangerous than its best near the sea. Derek doubted that, but had accepted his words nonetheless.
But he had little choice, and he hadn’t wanted one, to be honest. Now that winter was making its presence known, he doubted the teacher would make it to spring if he continued to allow his fears to condemn him to a life amid the waste in the city. The riots that threatened to break out in Dennor wouldn’t spare him their wrath either. Not when Sethan’s speeches seemed almost certain to lead some to remember what it was the scholar once taught. Derek would wager it was only a matter of time before the townspeople joined the councilman’s son in confronting Dar about what he knew of the magic. And regardless of whether Dar knew as much as the councilman’s son thought, Derek doubted Dar would live to see the end of it.
But it was the fact that they would be traveling to Gravlorn that proved to be an unexpected boon to the situation, and one Derek freely admitted he was grateful and relieved to be given. His worry over Kherin was a constant weight, and one that kept his sleep from being peaceful despite the comfort of the Sheep’s bed and the release brought by his own hand amid the memory of Kherin’s legs wrapped around him as he pounded almost brutally into the heat of his channel.
But it was as much Kherin’s kiss as it was the sex that Derek longed for most in the darkness of the Sleeping Sheep, and it was as much the need to know that Kherin was safe as it was the joy of merely holding him in his arms that pulled him back to Gravlorn.
His steps came to a stop as his visions of the moment he would see Kherin again fell away under the tale Dar had told him in the alley. The words had chilled his blood more than the winter drizzle, and it was a tale Kherin would need to hear if he had any chance of defeating the northerners.
No, not the northerners, he amended silently. The Akhael. Dar had recited their story as though it were nothing more than a common tale told to countless students year after year, but the certainty of the scholar’s words left Derek with little doubt as to the truth of them—or at least Dar’s belief in them—and with more confidence than he expected that the tales had not been watered down. That was what had made them especially disturbing.
The Akhael were indeed barbarian magicians who had lived in the mountains north of Llarien hundreds of years ago, or so Dar had told him, and they were fond of human sacrifice, just as those who knew of the rumors concerning them claimed. But they were a closed, aloof people with little use for the outside world other than to obtain sacrifices for their rituals. That changed about four hundred years ago, however, when they began to find the mountains too small and the northern plains too inviting.
But it seemed the northern plains were already inhabited by tribes of their own, and war raged between the two peoples for nearly all of the next three hundred years. The Akhael magic was fierce and would have destroyed the tribes easily had they been able to obtain enough sacrifices to maintain it. But they couldn’t, because only the blood taken from living beings would aid their magic, and the battles killed rather than captured. So, after three hundred years of war, the Akhael had retreated to their mountains and then simply changed their strategy.
Throughout the following years, they left the mountains slowly and integrated themselves into the northern tribes, achieving both successes and failures in joining the northerners on their plains, but always acting with a great amount of patience. Then they began to slowly destroy the northern tribes from within—murdering them in their sleep, poisoning when they were able, drowning them when the opportunity arose—until the northern tribes were eliminated and the Akhael ruled the plains.
“So it is now the Akhael the Defenders are fighting at the border, rather than the northern tribes we believe them to be?” Derek had asked, stunned at the possibility, though admitting it was not an impossibility given how little they knew of the northerners.
But Dar had simply smiled. “Not entirely, my dear trader. Our Defenders have in fact been fighting both the tribes and the Akhael for the last hundred years or so. Ah yes, I told you the tribes were eliminated, but I believe that some of the tribes still exist, and it may very well be these tribesmen who are sneaking through our border.” Dar’s smile had widened as he watched the trader’s expression change as the pieces fell into place, and when he continued it was with a tone of musing, rather than instruction. “It may be that the northerners who are crossing our border are nothing more than the refugees fleeing the Akhael, rather than invaders set on conquering. And even if they find little solace in Llarien, it is perhaps the lesser of the evils, given their circumstances.”
Derek considered those words now as he had then, and he acknowledged the possibility that if the northerners caught in Llarien were truly fleeing tribesmen, it would explain their small numbers and their attacks on the animals rather than the people. Wild animals could be found in the woodlands of the kingdom, but not so plentifully or as easily taken as domesticated livestock. And as for the stories of the northerners who had attacked people as well as animals….
“That would be the side told by those of the kingdom, would it not?”
Dar’s question had been simple, as had Derek’s answer. “Yes, it would.”
“So tell me, has anyone taken a northerner alive to question him?”
Dar hadn’t expected the answer Derek gave him then, but the answer had been yes, they had. Kherin had. The prince’s questions had proved useless since the northerner refused to answer, but simply learning a northerner was alive and in Llarien hands in Gravlorn had sparked a fire in Dar’s eyes that Derek had little doubt had been dim for far too long. More importantly, it proved to be the turning point he had needed to convince the scholar to come with him. Dar had studied the Akhael for decades, though he had taught the workings of them for mere years, and he had found the forgotten tomes penned by long-forgotten scribes in the libraries of the kingdom and read words that none had seen in ages—and he believed the Akhael still lived, even if no one else remembered they existed. Dar wouldn’t turn down the chance to learn more, regardless if it was from a true Akhael or a northern tribesman.
And Derek wouldn’t turn down the chance for Kherin to learn firsthand what Dar had told him of their magic, especially when both princes, by nothing more than circumstance, faced the greatest danger from it.
“The core of the problem for the Akhael, royal trader,” Dar had told him plainly, “is that magic is not all-powerful, as the young fools in this city seem to think. Oh, it is a great power, mind you, and a power those such as the Akhael seem to covet above all else. But, as in all things, there is a balance. If great power exists in this world, then the power to destroy it exists as well. And that power is what they have named the Destroyer.” Dar’s eyes had nearly glittered in the shadows of the alley. “An apt name, don’t you think? And it seems your prince in Gravlorn may hold the Destroyer they fear, and so they seek to kill the bearer if they cannot contain the Destroyer.”
The prince Dar had referred to was Adrien, and the first act of killing or containing had been the battle in which Adrien was injured by a northern blade. Derek hadn’t needed Dar to confirm that knowledge for him, but the scholar had nonetheless clarified the method they had used.
“Your prince was cut by a northern blade, was he not? Wager that it was the magic-imbued blade of the Akhael that cut him, and in doing so it created the mark that served to draw in the magic that would draw out the Destroyer. The Destroyer is an entity, you see, just as magic itself is, something unseen rather than an object to be handled. And when two powers of such opposite natures meet….” Dar’s eyes had turned sympathetic, though his words remained unyielding. “The Destroyer will draw on the strength of its host to increase its own power, my trader, and so the reactions of your prince were nothing more than the result of the Destroyer taking its due.”
The seizures. What Dar said implied the seizures hadn’t been the result of illness or injury, but the simple theft of Adrien’s health by an entity as little understood in Llarien as magic itself. But the seizures had ended….
“Ah, and so the Destroyer destroyed the mark as well as the magic it drew. It means nothing more than the mark itself was imbued with magic. But that would be as expected, would it not, my dear trader?”
And yet the danger wasn’t over.
“The remnants of their first attempt may have faded, but the Akhael have marked your Prince Adrien as the bearer of the Destroyer, and so the danger of the Akhael is not yet ended for him. Never forget the blade that cut him, my dear trader. Either the one who wielded it first or the hand of another will seek to mark him again. That your prince was marked at all means his face is known.”
And the fact that they had cut Adrien while the battle was in full force meant they knew their target before they ever stepped onto Llarien soil. And knew him well, if they carried out a marking like that while the fighting ensued.
But not even that was the worst of what Dar had told him.
“Picture a sponge set in a bowl of water, which also contains a fish. The sponge will absorb the water, and the fish will die. The magic is the water, the Destroyer is the sponge. The Akhael fancy themselves as the fish.”
The explanation was simple, though Dar’s smile had saddened.
“But there is a price for destroying the magic, my dear trader. As the sponge dries, it becomes brittle and crumbles easily, and not even the greatest care will prevent it from crumbling into dust far before its time. And not even the greatest of healers can replace life when the Destroyer draws its strength.”
Derek’s voice had been strained, but his words were very, very clear. “You’re saying that if Adrien—or rather the Destroyer he carries—destroys the magic of the Akhael, he may destroy himself with it?”
Dar had studied him in silence, and then with a voice still and quiet, he spoke. “If the magic encountered by the Destroyer is great enough to require it draw too much from your prince, then the answer is yes, my dear trader, for the Destroyer gives back nothing of what it takes.”
That was when Dar’s eyes had narrowed to their own blade-like sharpness.
“Prince Adrien has a brother, does he not?”
The sudden slap of icy rain caught in a blustery winter gust snapped him back to the present, and Derek pulled his cloak tight again as he resumed his trek back to the Sleeping Sheep. His urging Dar to accompany him back to Gravlorn had been successful, but Dar insisted he remain in his alley until the time of their departure, since it wouldn’t be inns they would be sleeping in on their journey. And Derek had accepted it, but had left him with the promise to return later with more food and blankets.
Promises he had kept after his visit with the Defenders.
Carrick and Bran had been easy to locate once the crowds in the city thinned after midday. The Defender armor they had worn to the speech last night made it safe to assume they were here on official business, which meant they would most likely be found in the area of the magistrate. He hadn’t been wrong, and had only waited a short time before they appeared from inside the sturdy wood-and-stone building set near the city’s center. The tavern they had chosen to talk in had been both pleasant and quiet. While the news that their business had to do with the supposed army wasn’t entirely surprising, Derek hadn’t doubted that the king would ignore the news he had brought from Dennor on his last visit. Still, sending only two Defenders to learn more of it was to be expected given that Derek had sent no further word from the city.
But news of the slain Defenders found along a remote road between the capital and the port city had been chilling, both because northerners were suspected by both Carrick and Bran, and because they had been left on the road to Gravlorn, either before or after their death.
Worse was the fact that Kherin would learn of the deaths sooner or later, and knowing they had died following orders that would have never been given had it not been for him would cut deeper than the deaths themselves. Derek’s own words to Kherin warning him that his actions affected more than only himself were a cold presence in his mind as he left the Defenders to their mugs, and true though they may have been, the deaths of four Defenders was a cruel manifestation of the lesson. And the fault for this was as much his own as Kherin’s.
But encountering the two Defenders had been another boon the trader wouldn’t dismiss. The news they would send to Delfore would now include his own, and while he knew he would be expected to deliver his own words in person, Gravlorn was where he would go when he left the port city.
“Ah, my prince,” he murmured into the spitting drizzle, and though he said the words aloud, it was a different sound that made it to his ears—or sounds, as what he heard definitely came from more than one person.
The path he had chosen back to the Sleeping Sheep had taken him around the busiest areas of the city, and the stalls of the stables found here opened to the narrow stable yard, though the sounds coming from inside said they were being used for more than stabling horses tonight. His immediate thought of inadvertently interrupting someone’s sexual encounter nearly turned his steps—until the unmistakable slap of leather on flesh stopped him short. It had been too sharp to assume it a form of play, and the cry that had followed had been one of true pain—and fear.
And while it was true that some preferred the mix of pain and pleasure in the games they played, the sound of the second slap and the sound of the second pain-filled cry made it difficult to believe that was the case here. Narrowing his eyes in wariness, he crossed the small stableyard and heard a cry that was both sharper and more harrowing than the others as he pulled the door open.
Deep, growling curses made it to his ears as he caught sight of the men inside. Both were naked, though one leaned obscenely over the rough surface of a small bench bolted to the floor. The ropes around his wrists and ankles were tied to posts nearby, with the tension in them keeping him spread while preventing him from standing. The position of the second man bearing down on the first would have made it clear what was happening even had the hissed invectives that accompanied the savage beat of hips not included vulgar commands for submission. The sweat visible on second man’s skin—easily seen even in the soft light of the lantern hanging above them—also said they hadn’t just started.
It was a rougher form of sex than Derek had a taste for, but he may have let them continue uninterrupted—had he not seen the strip of leather wrapped dangerously around the tied man’s throat, and recognized the twisted face of the man who held it.
Sweat sprayed from this man’s hair as he used the leather for leverage, and his hips never broke their cruel and punishing pattern even as Derek pulled the door wider. Spit came with the curses that hissed through his teeth and drowned out the trader’s steps, and the choking gasps of the other went unheard or unacknowledged, even when Derek drew close enough to make out the sounds. What he saw here wasn’t a game, and given the viciousness with which this man took the other, Derek knew he was liable to snap the man’s neck.
“Tristan!”
Tristan flew back at the sudden sound of his name, his eyes going wide as he whirled to face the noise—and Derek. But the look of surprise didn’t last more than a moment, as the lust still seemed to burn hot enough in his veins to reduce to ashes anything resembling shame at being caught in the act of sex. His lips curled into a sneer even as his chest heaved with the panting of his breath, and he straightened to stand tall and unapologetic as he met the trader’s eyes. He hadn’t come yet, and his cock, red and wet, was still staining hard against his stomach. He stroked it slow and hard with one hand as his tongue slipped out to touch his lips.
“Derek,” Tristan managed between breaths, moving his hand deliberately along his length as he spoke. “I haven’t seen you since Delfore. At least not before last night. Out for a little fun?”
Derek gritted his teeth as he watched the display—and watched how Tristan’s gaze traced the length of his body while his hand began to slide faster over his cock—and then he turned his eyes to the man who remained slumped over the bench.
A very young man, Derek realized suddenly. And a badly hurt one. The dim light of the lantern brought out the deepness of the bruises that covered his back, thighs, and buttocks, and the welts that rose between them and over them said that the leather still wrapped around his neck had been used in the abuse. Derek didn’t doubt he would find blood in the young man’s deepest areas as well, if he were to look closely enough. The ropes around his wrists and ankles had also chafed the skin beneath them, though he wasn’t fighting against them. Pain and exhaustion could be credited for that.
“You want to try him for yourself?” Tristan asked breathily, his hand never stopping, his gaze never leaving Derek’s body when the trader turned to face him. His second hand had begun to sweep slowly over his own body as he talked, caressing himself from his stomach to his nipples, and he twisted one peaked bud in his fingers as he brought his gaze back to Derek’s face. “I won’t mind, and he’s already paid for. Though maybe you wouldn’t mind saving a little bit for me.”
Derek met his eyes coldly, but then moved to where the young man was bound without bothering to form an answer. The eyes that rose to meet him when he crouched down beside him were red with pain and misery—and worry, and Derek lay a hand lightly between the marks on his shoulder as he gave him a gentle smile. He carefully removed the leather strap, then moved to release the ropes that held him down.
He wasn’t surprised that the young man moved slowly and stiffly once he was free, but at least he could stand once Derek raised him to his feet. The redness across the bones of his hips would bruise in a day or so, though, and the skin scraped from his chest and stomach by his position over the bench would be painful even longer than the marks on his back.
Though he stood well short of Derek’s height, Derek didn’t miss how his gaze darted between himself and Tristan in the moments of silence that followed. Gods, he was young. Derek finally stopped the motion of his head by catching his chin with a finger.
“Get your clothes and wait for me outside,” he said quietly, though firmly, and his touch grew just a little firmer when it looked as though the boy would argue or beg. “Do not argue with me, and do not think to make your way home for a few more moments, all right? And do not consider taking another customer tonight.”
The young man swallowed but nodded, and Derek let him go, watching him as he carefully retrieved his clothes from where they had been placed in the corner, his own body tense and ready to move if Tristan tried to stop him. The fact that they were placed rather than thrown said that this encounter wasn’t an accident, though the marks on the man’s skin made the relief that Tristan hadn’t abducted him a cold form of comfort, knowing that he had raped him nonetheless.
And yet he knew that even whores as young as this faced customers who sought abuse as a means of pleasure. And had this night gone on, this one wouldn’t the first or last to ever be permanently injured or worse in their line of work. But while it could still happen to this whore or any other, Derek was nevertheless glad he had stopped it for this whore, this time.
Tristan, however….
Derek turned back to face him once the boy had vanished through the door, and found the former stableboy still watching him, his hands still busy and his still eyes heavy with lust. Derek’s eyes burned with something much different.
“I’ll have him again, you know,” Tristan told him lazily. “And I’ll have him for free next time, since he didn’t finish the job I paid him for.”
“Since when have beatings and rape been tantamount to pleasure for you?” Derek asked him coldly, though not completely without sympathy. He knew Tristan, and he remembered the hardworking and easy nature he had shown in Delfore, tending to Derek’s horse during his visits to the castle as well as those of any other who had business inside the royal house. Though Derek had never spent the time with Tristan that he had with the princes, they had exchanged pleasant conversation from time to time. Exactly what had brought this out in the once even-tempered stableboy….
Tristan actually laughed, though it was more breathy than normal, a sign that his attention was as much on his own ministrations as it was on the trader. “Who says it’s something new?” he asked, aiming his stare squarely at Derek. He gave himself a particularly rough stroke and pinch. “I’ve always been adventurous with my lovers. Didn’t Kherin tell you that?”
Derek’s eyes turned to ice at the mention of Kherin, though not because he doubted what Tristan had said. His own night with Kherin—and the experience they had shared in the way-stop—had proven the accuracy of long-standing castle gossip concerning Kherin’s taste for aggressiveness and rough handling. But neither of those things meant the type of abuse he had seen here.
But he closed his lips rather than address that fact with the naked and self-pleasuring former stableboy. Tristan was in no condition to listen, and Derek wouldn’t waste his words when it was clear this was not the same Tristan he had known in Delfore. His hackles nevertheless rose when Tristan’s smile turned into a leer.
“I’ve made Kherin scream louder than the whore you ran off.”
“And you would have been in chains in the dungeon if you had left marks like that on his body.” The cold calmness of Derek’s words finally made Tristan’s expression falter, but the certainty in Derek’s gaze said that not a single one of them had been a lie.
While Tristan’s claim was.
Everyone in the castle knew how frequently Kherin had taken lovers to his bed, and so anything even remotely close to what Tristan implied—and what he had shown in his treatment of the whore—would have long since made it into castle gossip had it been true. Tristan should have known that.
“What would you know about what Kherin desires from his lovers?” Tristan spat out in sudden vehemence, his hands finally dropping as his anger got the better of his lust. “It’s not like you have ever shared his bed, though you’re probably the only man in castle he hasn’t spread his ass for.”
Derek raised an eyebrow at the venom he heard in Tristan’s words, but it was more from what Tristan didn’t say than it was from the near-truth of what he implied. Tristan’s anger was obvious, but the jealousy Tristan likely didn’t know had made it into his words rang just as clear in his ears. And it gave him the first indication of what had changed in the Tristan he remembered. Kherin had taken frequent lovers to his bed, which meant his attentions toward Tristan had not been solely toward Tristan. And the jealousy of spurned lovers could be vicious.
But at least Tristan’s anger had a second benefit Derek was glad of: it finally spurred Tristan to move to where his own clothes lay piled on the floor.
“It’s not really surprising that you’re the one he wanted most, since you’re the only one he couldn’t have,” Tristan went on, bitterness drowning out his lust as he began dressing with careless actions. “The Gods know how he followed you around like a lovesick puppy. He wouldn’t even look at anyone else until after you were gone.” Tristan stopped his movements to level a cold stare at the trader. “Did you know that? Kherin never took anyone to his bed when you were in the city.” A sickly smile crossed his face. “But then again, maybe he just wanted to make sure there was room in case you ever decided to join him there.”
Derek let out his breath at the bitterness he heard in Tristan’s words, but caught the grain of truth in them as well. No, he hadn’t known Kherin had abstained from sex during his visits, though he had been aware of how Kherin had stayed close to him for the duration of each of them. And while he once would have attributed it to merely wanting the company of a missed friend, the time they had spent in Gravlorn now cast the behavior in suddenly different light.
They had never spoke of their sexual encounters, so Kherin couldn’t have known for certain where Derek’s interests lay until that night in the way-stop… but had the prince been hoping even then? The mere thought of that brought a soft smile to Derek’s face, though it ended abruptly with Tristan’s next words.
“And even if you had decided to fuck him, you wouldn’t have ended up penniless in the street.”
Tristan had finished dressing and moved back into Derek’s line of sight, and Derek met his eyes as they once again faced each other.
“I could have risen to master at the royal stables had it not been for Kherin,” Tristan told him, his voice flat and emotionless. “A roof over my head and food in my stomach, and a little money in my pocket, at the very least. Instead, I was cast out with only the clothes on my back and only enough money to last a few nights. Tell me how that was fair, Derek.”
It wasn’t a question, and…
“It wasn’t fair, Tristan,” Derek answered him quietly, not moving and not blinking. “But Kherin is not to blame for your dismissal. You could have refused his bed without consequence, and you know that. It is the king who hires for the stables, not Kherin, and not even Adrien. You could have told him no, but you didn’t, not even knowing that by refusing you would have likely raised your status with the king, not lowered it. Kherin wouldn’t have forced you, and whatever offense your refusal would have given would have been quickly forgotten. Kherin would never have held a grudge.” His paused but his voice remained firm. “It should have turned out differently, Tristan, but the blame is not his.”
“Tell it to all the men I had to let fuck me to gather enough money to come to Dennor,” Tristan answered darkly. “Or better yet, tell it to Sethan when he raises his army and overthrows your precious royal house.” His mouth showed teeth then. “I know you know who he is, and I saw you listening to the speech he arranged last night. I wouldn’t discount his determination to raise the magic that this kingdom once knew if I were you.”
“Tristan….”
“The Akhael are real, Derek, and when we learn to use the magic the way they did, it’s not going to be some whore from a seaside tavern that I take my satisfaction from.” Tristan curled his lips in a mockery of a smile. “Ciran is just a warm-up.”
Tristan moved quickly then, brushing past Derek before the trader could stop him, but pausing just before he slipped through the door. “So tell me, do you think Kherin is screaming right now? Or are you just wondering whose cock he has up his ass, and whether he’s enjoying it more than he would yours?” And then he was gone without a single look back.
Derek let him go, and then closed his eyes as he let out a heavy breath in the following silence. Tristan was angry, there was no denying that, and despite what he had told the former stableboy, there was blame that could be placed at Kherin’s feet.
And even worse, Kherin had left more than an angry lover in his wake with his tendency to draw whoever was willing to his bed; he had created an enemy, and one who was set on revenge rather than restitution. And the day they settled the issue between them would be an ugly one. Tristan would see to that.
But the one thing that Tristan hadn’t seen during the moments they spoke in these stables was how very close to home he had struck for Derek with his words. Kherin did have a tendency to draw lovers into his bed with a frequency that set nearly every tongue in the castle wagging—and the mere days that had passed since he had ridden out of Gravlorn were no guarantee that he hadn’t found another to warm it in his absence.
Because he hadn’t given Kherin any reason to do otherwise.
The truth of what he felt for the prince was something he would no longer deny, but it had come only after he had left the Defender city, and the bite of his own jealousy forced a heavy breath from his lungs. It was a stark admission, but he knew that if he returned to Gravlorn only to find Kherin in the arms of another, it would be no one’s fault but his own.
Tristan had told him one thing that would make this night easier, however, and that was the name of the whore he had brutalized. And Gods willing, the young man had waited for him as he had instructed.
When he finally left the stables himself, he was relieved to find the man had, though he was most likely in the shadows of another stall until he was certain Tristan had gone. The young man stepped into the openness of the stableyard now, still somewhat fearful, but not shying away as the trader approached. Derek’s heart nearly caught as he truly looked at the man he had rescued from the stables.
Gods, he was so young, younger than even Kherin, and not nearly as muscled or healthy, though Derek wouldn’t claim he was sickly either. Derek tried to ease his fear completely with a warm smile as he came to a stop beside him.
“Ciran,” he began gently, “my name is—”
“Derek,” Ciran cut in quickly, and he looked worriedly at the trader, as if he wasn’t sure how Derek would take his name being known. “You’re the king’s spy,” he continued, more hesitantly now. “I recognize you, just like everyone else in Dennor would. I’ve seen you in the Mast and Sail, and in the markets once in a while too. Everyone knows who you are.”
Derek felt an amused smile playing on his lips as he listened to Ciran, letting the title of “spy” pass without comment. Kherin had accused him of spying once, though he would no more take a whore in Dennor to task over it than he would the prince himself.
But Ciran had told him more in those few words than he would have had Derek actually asked him direct questions. The Mast and Sail was obviously where he plied his trade, which meant his parents were sailors, or had been if they were no longer alive. Given that he was working as a whore at his age, there was a good chance they were not. But Alton, the owner of that particular tavern, was a fair man and likely paid him additional wages to work in the kitchen on days he wasn’t servicing his patrons. He probably also provided him a room over the common room where meals and business activities took place. The clothes he had since donned from the stables were cut well enough to say he at least kept out of the alleys.
But the injuries he had received at Tristan’s hands would likely make work in either his trade or the tavern limited for a time, and the brutality he had witnessed may amount to more damage than was apparent in the shadows of the stables. He had asked Ciran to wait for a reason, and there was no need to make him wait longer to hear it.
“Yes, you know who I am,” he agreed easily, “so I can trust you to follow the instructions I give you. Go to the Fireside Inn and ask for a man named Carrick. Wake the innkeeper up, if necessary. Carrick is a Defender from Delfore, so don’t be surprised if he joins you wearing armor. Tell Carrick I requested that he take you to the healer on the street behind the Mast and Sail, and that I requested as well that he wait while the healer tends to your injuries. Carrick will ensure that payment for the services will be covered by the crown, and he will see that you are returned to the tavern safely. All right?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” Ciran stuttered, and Derek chuckled softly as the young man seemed caught between disobeying the royal trader and his reticence at demanding services from strangers on only the trader’s words.
“Carrick is a friend, and I will speak to himself myself tomorrow,” Derek assured him. “Now go, before the innkeeper gets too far into his sleep that his night is ruined. Tell Carrick he can send word to me at the Sleeping Sheep if he encounters any difficulties.”
“Th-thank you,” Ciran managed at last, and Derek’s smile faded to a frown as he watched how stiffly he moved away from him.
Tristan’s taking his anger out on a whore he had bought could mean suffering for others once Derek left the city with Dar, but staying was not possible given what he had learned from the former scholar. There was little he could do for those who would face Tristan’s abuse until Tristan could be reined in completely, but he hadn’t lied when he said that he would speak to Carrick before he left the city.
And what little protection the Defenders could offer would be better than none at all.