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Tenerith, C.A. 2965
Forty-nine years ago
The medical camp had been set up in a small clearing not too far from the battlefield. Since the fighting had not moved far from the site of the last clash between the royalists and the rebels, there had been no need to dismantle the two tents and have the healers follow the army.
Inside the second tent, Yovan watched a physician stitch up a gash in a young warrior’s shoulder. He smiled tiredly at Keldon as the Ardan came to his side.
“That looks ugly,” Keldon murmured. “I hope you aren’t hurt likewise.”
“I’m not hurt,” Yovan assured him. “But my pride took a small blow. I slipped in a pile of dung while bringing him in. I’m lucky it was only one foot.”
Keldon chuckled. “Ah, that explains the aroma coming off you.” He looked around, taking stock of the soldiers receiving medical attention. “You’re more than lucky for a greenhorn,” he commented. “The worst you’ve suffered are small cuts and bruises.”
“I just do my best to avoid being skewered,” Yovan said.
“And a good job you’ve done thus far.” Keldon cocked his head toward the tent entrance. “Come. I need fresh air. It’s stuffy in here.”
Yovan followed the Ardan out of the tent. He took a deep breath as soon as they got outside. It had indeed been stuffy within and redolent with the odors of pungent medications, dried sweat, and unwashed Deira. At least out here, the stench of his dung-encrusted boot was not so strong.
Keldon led him a fair distance from the tents so they would not get in the way of the healers and soldiers rushing about. They also stayed away from the nervous warsteeds, especially the zentyra who restlessly stomped their sharp hooves and tossed their horned heads. They finally halted when they reached a cluster of trees that would provide enough shade from the midday sun.
Yovan chortled when his cousin produced a flask from somewhere in his tunic.
“Pockets are a marvel,” Keldon said as he uncorked the flask. He took a generous swig and then tossed the container to Yovan. “Go on. It’s good ale.”
It was indeed good ale. Yovan happily took two mouthfuls before returning the flask to Keldon.
“Were those the last of the rebels I saw Imcael chasing down?” he asked.
“The last who weren’t able to slip away,” Keldon replied. “Those others fled to Dantris and will make a stand there.”
“Will they regroup?”
“Not this season. We cut down too many of them. They’ll have to recruit again; bring their numbers up. Those who weren’t caught in our net have already returned to their burrows.”
Keldon gestured in the direction of the mountains. “I wager it will be some years before they try again. But when they took Dantris, they fortified it and secured the land around. They’ll use it as a base from which to attack the forces that patrol the region. We need to wrest the town from them. Unfortunately, it’s not very accessible and we know so very little about the surrounding area.”
Yovan peered up at the sky through the branches of the trees. “Has anyone ever tried to flush them out of their mountain warrens?” he asked.
“The Ardane Gavren and Leandre made the attempt. My sire got as far as the heathlands. But no one as yet has reached the foothills. The mountains form the outermost bounds of old Varadan, did you know that?”
Yovan shook his head. The information made him realize he was standing on what was once foreign soil.
“It can be deadly to those who don’t know the heathlands well. It’s where a great number of ambushes take place. Where we lose a lot of good warriors. It’s miserable country, but it’s theirs and they defend it fiercely.” Keldon grimaced. “In all these centuries, no spy or soldier who’s journeyed farther than that wasteland has returned.”
“And you haven’t scoped out the land around Dantris either.”
“This is the first time we’ve made it this far into rebel territory. Our scouts haven’t been able to enter the innermost towns and settlements yet. It’s a wonder they even learned about Dantris and the rebels’ hold on it. The handful who attempted to sneak in haven’t returned and likely never will,” he grimly added.
“Perhaps they weren’t able to escape notice. But a lone agent might.” Yovan shrugged when Keldon looked at him with raised eyebrows. “One Deir is unlikely to call attention to himself especially if he’s dressed like the locals.”
“And what would his reason be for going there?”
“An itinerant pedlar who tried to skirt around the fighting.”
“His accent will give him away if his ignorance of the dialect doesn’t.”
“Not if they think he’s deaf and mute.”
“A deaf and mute pedlar. How in Aisen would he ply his wares without speaking?”
“With gestures and signs. I saw one in the Rikara market,” Yovan explained. “He’d scribbled the prices of his goods on the table. His customers pointed at what they wanted.”
“That’s one plucky pedlar.” Keldon pursed his lips. “Whoever goes will have to be a good actor.”
Yovan shook his head. “I think the less acting he does, the more genuine he’ll seem. Not to mention there’ll be less room for mistakes if he keeps everything simple.”
Keldon eyed him speculatively. “Are you volunteering?”
“Uh...” Yovan issued an expletive under his breath. “Yes?”
––––––––
They took Dantris in a day.
After a few terrifying close calls, Yovan managed to enter the town, set up a makeshift stall for his wares just outside the small market, and acted the part of a timid deaf mute so convincingly people openly talked in his presence. To avoid interacting with the townsfolk more than necessary, he slept on a pallet beside the stall with only his cloak to keep him warm. He stayed three days, reasoning a longer residency would draw suspicion. On the morning of the fourth day, he packed up his goods, made a show of buying food for his onward journey and tramped his way to where he’d hidden his zentyr in a grassy copse fed by a small spring.
He rode as far as he thought would not garner attention when he generated a corridor which was now possible since he’d learned the lay of the land on the way to the town. And then he rode another hour or so from the meadow where the exit portal opened. In all, his return journey back took only about a tenth of the length of his trek to the outskirts of Dantris.
He’d gathered so much detailed information, the Crown officers learned virtually everything they needed to plan an effective assault on Dantris. From the location of the rebels’ sleeping quarters to the storage shed for their weapons to which townsfolk were diddling their neighbors’ spouses—nothing had escaped his notice. With the way now plotted out and the terrain no longer unknown, the royal army translocated to the field outside before daybreak and fell on the slumbering town as soon as they exited the corridors. So swift and sudden was the charge, the sentries were unable to sound the alarm.
They attacked the barracks on the east side first and slaughtered nearly a third of the occupying rebel force. The rest they rooted out of homes, barns and stables.
Several fled to the church in a bid to claim sanctuary. But the town priest barred the doors and the rebels were swiftly apprehended. It transpired the leaders of the group had torched the house of the town’s First Elder with him and his mate in it when the Deir refused to shift his allegiance to their cause. The priest had protested and suffered abuse for trying to protect the couple.
Upon learning of this, the royal force’s commanding officer had the surviving leaders strung up in the town square. The remaining rebels were given a choice—return to Rikara with the army where they would be tried for treason or suffer the same fate as their leaders without delay. Since there was a chance of imprisonment rather than execution if they had their day in court, the newer recruits chose to face trial.
––––––––
Yovan grimaced as the flames of the funeral pyres leaped up high. He looked on in pity as the townsfolk put their dead to rest the Deiran way. Many held urns or boxes in which would be placed the ashes of their loved ones and these would be interred in the burial vaults and plots behind the church. Yovan glanced to the north where more fires burned with only the Dantris vicon to conduct the rites for the dead.
While the townsfolk were permitted to hold individual funerals for their departed ones, the insurgents could not be accorded the same respect. For one, only a handful hailed from the town and had folk to mourn them. The second more pressing reason for haste was to prevent the spread of the diseases numerous rotting corpses gave rise to if they weren’t disposed of soonest. The rebel dead were gathered in piles a half-league away and their bodies set on fire. Afterward, their bones and ashes were cast into a dug-out pit and covered with dirt and stone. There were no markers to indicate these Deira’s last resting place.
The royalists departed as soon as the last shovelful of dirt was thrown onto the grave. A sizable contingent of soldiers stayed behind to secure the region and ensure no rebels attempted to retake the town or invaded neighboring communities. Heeding Yovan’s counsel, Keldon would later establish a garrison that would keep the entire area west of the heathlands clean of rebels from thereon. It would prove a huge step forward in the quest to bring the conflict in Tenerith to an end.
Keldon confided in Yovan that he did not think this would be achieved in his lifetime. But he had high hopes his son would see the final quelling of the insurrection in his. He reiterated this hope when they returned to Rikara where he convened the Ardan’s Council for a post-mortem of the just-ended conflict.
“By the way, you did exceptionally well, Van,” Keldon said following the meeting and after the counsellors and attending officers had left. “Astounding actually considering you’d never done anything like it before.”
“And proof you’d make a fine thespian,” Dyrael added with a grin. “I’d have given anything to watch you play the deaf-mute hawker.”
Yovan smiled. “It wasn’t too hard playing someone who could neither hear nor speak,” he said. “I didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing or be suspected of eavesdropping.”
“But you had to convince them first,” Dyrael pointed out. “That was a feat for a highborn who’s never lived amongst lesser born commoners, let alone peasants and rural inhabitants.”
“I did have a couple of brushes with disaster,” Yovan admitted. “I didn’t know enough about the region’s peculiarities or the local customs. Given my supposed familiarity with both, I made a few errors that roused suspicion at the start. I had to fall back on playing a lackbrain.”
Keldon snorted. “That couldn’t have been easy considering your intelligence. However did you hide it from them?”
Yovan shrugged. “I learned never to look anyone in the eye for too long and to stare at everything as if it was the first time I’d seen the like. Even the roaches and rodents. I think they eventually took pity on the poor wretch with the wits of a flea who barely scraped by. Interestingly, for someone flea-witted, I managed to sell a goodly portion of my wares.”
He grinned when Dyrael nearly choked on a mouthful of wine. His cousin coughed up whatever had gone down the wrong way and stared at him in awe.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “You didn’t just play the part, you inhabited it. Kel, you must appoint him to Intelligence. Verdun recently complained that he’s long on willing agents, but short on spies who can act their way into their victims’ confidences.”
Keldon nodded and looked at Yovan. “Minister Verdun has a large stable of well-trained agents, but all the training in Aisen can’t imbue someone with a talent he doesn’t possess. You apparently have a gift for convincing folk that you are whatever you claim to be.” He smiled engagingly. “What say you? Care to indulge in espionage once in a while?”
Yovan goggled slightly. “Are you assigning me to the Intelligence Ministry?”
“I don’t assign folk to positions that may put them at risk,” Keldon said. “Which working in Intelligence oft entails. For such jobs, consent is highly preferable.” He regarded Yovan keenly. “I was thinking of making you part of Verdun’s staff with an eye to becoming his adjutant when you’ve got more experience under your belt.”
“More experience...” Yovan frowned. “Exactly how am I to gain that? Will I be sent on covert missions?”
“Verdun’s staff primarily assists him with analyses and planning. But if he decides a particular act of espionage requires a specific set of skills, he can send a staffer on mission,” Keldon explained. “All agents need to be moderately possessed of the mind gifts at the very least; better of course if they’re highly talented. You proved in Dantris that you’re truly gifted, not to mention able to blend in even without prior experience of the situation. You’ll be a valuable asset to Intelligence.”
“The position also pays very well,” Dyrael added. He smiled when Yovan perked up at the information. “Don’t worry overmuch about the danger. The Minister’s staffers are seldom sent on missions and allowed to turn down assignments.” His smile turned into an impish grin. “Of course, most staffers don’t refuse since it’s the thrill of the hunt that drew them to Intelligence in the first place. Judging from the exhilaration with which you recounted your adventure to us, you’ll fit in quite nicely.”
Yovan snorted. “I should have known you’d notice,” he grumbled. At length, he drew a deep breath and said, “I won’t deny I was proud to provide the means by which we were able to take Dantris. Apart from the danger, I did find it quite an interesting experience. Even exhilarating as you put it.”
“Shall I have your appointment papers drawn up then?” Keldon asked.
Yovan shook his head. “I need to talk with Mered first. Though I doubt he’ll be pleased, neither will he stand in the way if he sees I desire this. But I wish to apprise him of anything that will deeply affect our family.”
Keldon smiled approvingly. “You’re lucky you realized soonest how important it is to let your mate in on your decisions. You’ll be spared being dressed down in the most harrowing way possible.”
“I take it you have experience of that,” Yovan said, looking from Keldon to a chuckling Dyrael.
“I did and thankfully I learn fast,” Keldon admitted. “Well, most of the time.”
Dyrael stood up and wove his arms around his mate’s shoulders from behind. “You’re a fine king and a wonderful spouse, Kel. If Yovan follows your example, he’ll be sure of an adoring mate and children no matter what choices he’ll have to make.” He looked up at Yovan and winked at him. “My predictions tend to come true, so chin up, Van.”
Yovan laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.”
––––––––
As he’d expected, Mered was not happy with the appointment.
“I thought you would seek a position in Internal Affairs,” he groused. “It’s safer and you won’t be sent off on harebrained missions. I haven’t forgiven you yet for taking that awful risk in Tenerith.”
Yovan pulled him into his arms. “I know,” he murmured. “I haven’t forgiven myself either for frightening you.”
“Van...”
“Keldon assured me I’ll be based here more oft than sent abroad. And I can decline assignments if I think them too risky.”
“As if you’ll decline any. You enjoyed what you did in Dantris!”
“I enjoyed nearly getting killed?”
“Nay. But admit it, you found it fulfilling.”
“I did, but not because I like danger.” Yovan drew his knuckles down Mered’s cheek. “For so long I had naught to do with House Essendri save to bear the blood. Now I’m not only a recognized member of the Royal House, I’m close to the very core of it. And all because Keldon chose to let the past be. I want to show him my gratitude. I need to prove he made the right decision about me.”
Mered threw his arms around him. “I just don’t want you hurt or worse!” he cried. “We’ve only been wed three years and Rysander is just a babe and—” He buried his face in Yovan’s shoulder. “I can’t bear to lose you so soon after I gained you.”
Yovan held him tightly. “You won’t lose me. I was one of the greenest soldiers in Tenerith yet I suffered less injuries than many a seasoned warrior. And I came away from Dantris with hardly a scratch. Surely that says something about my ability to survive whatever is thrown at me.” He drew back and framed Mered’s face with his hands. “Besides I love you and Rysander too much to risk doing anything that will take me away from you for good. I swear, I’ll do my utmost to remain in Rikara. And I’ll turn down any overly dangerous assignments.”
He pressed a kiss to Mered’s mouth. “Trust me to always put you first,” he said against his mate’s trembling lips. “To put our love first.”
Mered whimpered and then surged forward to seal their mouths together. Yovan walked him backward without breaking their kiss until the back of Mered’s knees met the edge of their bed. Yovan eased him onto the mattress and followed him down. He quickly recaptured his lips.
For the next hour or so, the bedchamber resounded with the sounds of clothes dropping to the floor, the sighs, gasps and cries of intensifying bed-play and the soft slap of flesh against flesh as two Deira became one in the most intimate act of bodily union.
––––––––
In the ensuing decade, Yovan made a name for himself in Intelligence, thriving in a way he had not expected to. By his third year in the Ministry, he had become an invaluable asset not only by dint of his mental and analytical skills, but also his ability to gain trust and establish close relationships in the world of espionage. Indeed, he proved instrumental in the growth of Ylandre’s Intelligence community into the most efficient and far-reaching network in the North Continent. So well did he do his job that he made it easy for Keldon to keep his promise to appoint him Minister Verdun’s adjutant sooner than planned.
He did have to continuously placate Mered who never truly came to terms with the demands of his profession. Especially when he accepted assignments that put him at high risk of injury or worse. But as he reminded Mered repeatedly, there were some missions that required his presence to ensure success. Otherwise, Verdun did not approach him for everyone was aware he declined assignments if someone else could undertake them just as proficiently.
Early on, he discovered he had an ear for accents and languages and could swiftly learn traditions and cultures however unfamiliar they were. Such skills enabled him to slip into different guises with relative ease. He even found occasion to replay the deaf-mute dimwit, a role he perfected over the years until even the most suspicious or discerning folk were taken in time and again. And he used the skills he’d gained as a student instructor to teach and train agents the tricks and tactics he’d employed to great success.
He had turned into a paragon whose services and assistance were very much sought after. Annoyingly so to his spouse. As far as Mered was concerned the problem was Yovan had turned out to be exceptional at whatever he set his mind to. This consequently guaranteed that more often than not no one else would be found to take his place especially for the more delicate missions.
It was a balancing act Yovan was sometimes hard put to maintain. Over the span of his ten years in Intelligence, he and Mered had their share of arguments. Some mild enough to resolve before they called it a night; others that evolved into spats and sent the household staff into hiding lest they overheard things best left unsaid.
This was not to say Mered did naught but lounge around and wait for Yovan to come home. Two years after the birth of Rysander, he returned to university and strove to excel there as much as his mate did in his profession. He did Yovan proud when he graduated with honors and to much praise from his instructors. And it greatly pleased Mered as well as impassioned him that Yovan found his intelligence as attractive and stimulating as his physical beauty.
Many were the times something particularly clever he’d uttered would spur Yovan into pounding him into the bed. And if he paired gorgeous raiment with witty repartee at a social gathering, the end result was all too often the need to cushion his backside the following day with the fluffiest pillow available.
Mered never learned to be comfortable with Yovan’s stint in Intelligence. But he greatly admired his mate for his accomplishments and preened as much as any spouse would when complimented on being wed to so laudable a Deir.
––––––––
Upon entering the master suite sitting room, Mered tossed his cloak on the tea table. He sank down on the couch with a miffed sigh. He had just finished his first day at Bank Cordona’s head office in the central district. It was a little over one year since he left university.
When he graduated, he told his parents and brothers that he wished to devote himself to Yovan and Rysander for a twelve-month before joining the family business. The Cordonas were displeased, but they could hardly object when Yovan stood at his side in full support of his decision. Indeed, Yovan had informed Minister Verdun that he would accept no assignments that would take him away from his mate and son longer than three days. That had ensured that he spent most of the last year in Rikara and Woodmere.
Once the year was over however and he learned Mered would start reporting to his sire by the following month, Yovan felt it his duty to make up for all the declined missions. He accepted a posting to Hamaldi the day after Mered informed him of his schedule. He’d been gone for almost four weeks now and Mered missed him dreadfully.
He stared at the crackling flames, not registering at once that the servants had inexplicably lit a fire in the sitting room when he had not yet arrived. And from the looks of it, the fire had been burning before he even left Bank Cordona.
Mered stiffened and sat up. Had the servant who’d let him in said anything? He realized he had not really listened to the Deir.
“Nay, he said nothing. I asked them not to.”
Mered leaped to his feet and whirled around to behold Yovan standing in the doorway to the bedchamber with his arms crossed and a small smile curving his mouth.
“When did you— How did you know— Did you read my mind?”
Yovan snorted. “When have I ever broken my word?” he replied. “Your thoughts were so loud I didn’t have to try at all to hear them. Really, Mer, wherefore all the lessons in shielding?”
Mered shook his head. “I didn’t know I had to,” he protested. He stared at Yovan. “You didn’t answer my questions!”
“You didn’t finish the first two.”
“Van!”
“Yes?”
Mered burst into laughter. “You can be so exasperating!”
“Oh? Shall I take myself elsewhere?”
“Don’t you dare!” Mered hurried to him and wrapped his arms around him. “Sweet Veres, I missed you so.”
“As did I, ariad. I’d forgotten how lonely it can get being away from you and Rysander.” Yovan cupped Mered’s face and crushed their lips together in a molten kiss. “It’s wonderful to be home. To be with you,” he murmured. “Hopefully to be inside you.”
Mered giggled. “Please do. Our bed has been so cold without you.”
He eagerly drew Yovan into the bedchamber and onto their bed.
One mutual pleasuring by mouth and two couplings later, they lay in a pleasant tangle of limbs, chests and groins pressed together and lips meeting in light yet heated kisses. Yovan smoothed a hand down Mered’s back to his firm arse.
“So how did your first day go?” he softly asked.
“You remembered.”
“Of course I did. All your firsts are important to me.”
Mered tamped down on the impulse to impale himself once more on Yovan’s shaft.
“It was boring. I don’t know anything yet. And I spent most of today being introduced to Veres knows how many business colleagues and investors Aba thought he could fit in a day. He promised I would learn more tomorrow. I hope so.”
Yovan kissed the top of his nose. “If your sire ignores your brilliant mind and doesn’t put it to good use, it will be a missed opportunity. I hope he realizes this before you run out of patience, which you have precious little of as it is.”
Mered pouted. “I’m not impatient, just eager to get things done.”
He pouted even more when Yovan chuckled heartily at his statement. But then Yovan smiled at him with such affection he forgot to be indignant and could only recall how much his body craved his mate’s touch.
“Veres almighty, I want more,” he whispered. “Please take me again. I want to feel you everywhere. To know you’re really home.”
Yovan grinned wolfishly. “Are you certain? I don’t want you too sore to sit down properly tomorrow. Especially in front of your parents or brothers.”
Mered huffed. “I don’t hide what you do to me. Not the marks or bruises or even the funny way I sometimes walk.”
“Shameless,” Yovan teased.
“Nay, proud,” Mered countered. “It pleases me to see their envy of my felicity in our marriage. My so very great satisfaction at your hands.” He shifted to straddle Yovan’s hips. “My awkward gait when you’ve thoroughly had your way with me.”
Yovan’s eyes sparkled. “You certainly have a way with words,” he huskily remarked. He gripped Mered’s hips, raised him slightly and then lowered him onto his shaft. “Ride me. Show me how much you missed me.”
Mered groaned as he sank down fully on Yovan’s length. Saints, more than a decade wed and he still felt the stretch and strain of his mate’s shaft inside him. He was truly a lucky Deir.
“Can we wash up together after this?” he asked, panting a bit from the effort of riding his generously endowed spouse. “I need you to fuck my sheath. I really want to feel you everywhere.”
He cried out as Yovan thrust up hard into him. “I aim to please,” Yovan said. “Take mirash before we bathe. I want no more accidents because we didn’t wait long enough.” He bucked up repeatedly until Mered could do no more than slide down and meet every thrust. Yovan wrapped his fingers around his shaft and stroked it. So wanton. So beautiful. I can never have enough of you.
Mered began to sob as an intense orgasm welled up inside him. Shaking he leaned down and pressed his mouth to Yovan’s. Release came with storm force and his semen dappled their bellies. He softly wailed as he rode out his orgasm, held steady in the weave of Yovan’s arms. A moment later, Yovan groaned and Mered felt the familiar warmth of seed coat his insides.
“I love you, Van, “ he moaned. “I love you so much.”
––––––––
Cattania, C.A 2975
Thirty-nine years ago
Panting from anxiety and exertion, Yovan stared at the Deir at his feet and the blood seeping from the wound that had killed him. Thankfully, the folk in this section of Fereza were so used to violent altercations and wary of involving themselves in what was not their business, they habitually ignored sounds of strife even if they emanated from their immediate neighbors.
Yovan bolted the door then checked the gash in his side. It was not very deep but it was bleeding steadily. Uttering an imprecation, he grabbed his cloak from the coat stand and used his long knife to cut off a lengthy strip of thick wool.
He wrapped the fabric around his torso as tightly as he could and tied the ends securely to stem the bleeding as much as possible. He could not afford to lose his wits now. Not when Cattanian soldiers were probably on their way to the house to arrest him. He wiped the blade clean and shoved it into its sheath in his right boot, scowling as he caught sight of Ravil Nabor’s sightless eyes and gaping mouth.
Yovan had killed his share of enemy agents in the past ten years. But never had he slain one of their own. Or a Deir Ylandre’s Intelligence Ministry believed one of their own. He’d considered Nabor a trusted comrade. It had come as a shock to discover the agent had betrayed him and the kingdom for a goodly sum and assurance of a comfortable life in Cattania.
His great sensitivity to all things to do with the mind had saved him from a horrific death. If the Cattanian sovereign prince got his hands on the Ylandrin king’s cousin, he would use said cousin to send a message to Keldon. Prince Irixon would torture him in the most creative of ways to glean all the information Yovan possessed before dispatching what remained of his corpse back to Ylandre as a warning against further acts of espionage in Cattania.
Yovan’s suspicions had been roused when Nabor had guarded his mind so stringently from him when he’d never done so before. To Yovan, any sudden deviation in someone’s habits was cause for concern. So he’d kept a wary eye on the agent as soon as he sensed the latter’s raised shields when he met Yovan upon his emergence from the translocation corridor just yestereve.
It was fortunate Nabor had not realized his behavior had roused Yovan’s suspicions. He’d therefore been a tad careless else Yovan might not have caught him furtively sending off a messenger from the porch of the cottage that served as their base. In that instant, when Nabor had stepped back into the house and been startled to find Yovan awaiting him, his shields had faltered. Yovan glimpsed enough of his thoughts to discover the Deir’s treachery and that he himself was in grave danger.
But once Nabor realized he’d given the game away, he tried to salvage the situation even if it meant killing Yovan there and then. He yanked out his knife and tried to plunge it into Yovan’s chest. Yovan ducked sideways and the blade cut into his flank instead. Fortunately, Nabor had not put much force into his blow. Nor had he anticipated how fast his opponent could move, the kick that would send him stumbling backward or the knife Yovan pulled from his boot sheath.
Nabor rushed at him again, ironically providing the momentum that allowed Yovan to drive the knife deep into the Deir’s stomach. The agent could only stare in shock at the blade protruding from his belly. He dropped his weapon as Yovan forced the knife in deeper.
He looked at Yovan in wide-eyed pain and terror and whispered, “Mercy, Dyhar. Have mercy.”
Furious the agent had not cared that a colleague would have been subjected to a slow and cruel death, Yovan snarled, “You have the gall to plead for mercy when you showed me none.”
He did not move and let Nabor fall against him, impaling himself further while shuddering in his death throes. At length, Yovan angrily shoved the Deir back, pulling the knife out as Nabor fell away. The traitor slumped to the floor, twitched a few times and then went still.
Yovan estimated he had perhaps less than a half-hour before the Cattanians arrived given the neighborhood’s location deep in Fereza’s most congested district. He had to delay pursuit to keep them from following him too soon as he made his way out of the city with a wound that would slow his pace if he did not find a steed. He looked down at the dead Deir and considered his options.
Taking a deep bracing breath, he hauled the body into the partitioned-off area that served as the sleeping nook and laid it by the nearest of the two cots. Yovan knelt and quickly stripped Nabor down to his shirt and drawers.
He used the clothes and his rent cloak to mop up any and all traces of blood in the common room. He then balled up the soiled garments and hid them in the bottom of the firewood bin. In the dimness of the lightless house, the soldiers would hopefully not realize Nabor had been slain elsewhere. If luck was with him, they would not bother to search the premises extensively, but hurry back to Irixon with their grisly discovery.
Now breathing heavily from pain and exhaustion, he returned to Nabor. Grimacing in distaste, he proceeded to stomp on the corpse’s face.
––––––––
When the soldiers arrived, they found a dead Deir clad in naught but a shirt and drawers as if he’d been getting ready for bed. His face was bashed in and unrecognizable, but they found a clue to his identity in the fine leather boots at the foot of the cot by which the Deir lay. It had a hidden sheath and the hilt of the long knife it held bore the crest of an Ylandrin aristocrat. Where his killer had gone the soldiers did not pause to consider in their eagerness to deliver their macabre trophy to their prince.
A long while passed before closer examination of the corpse determined that the boots were a size bigger than its feet. A thorough search of the cottage and information gathered from the neighbors confirmed the dead Deir was in fact the traitor rather than the Ylandrin agent he’d betrayed.
Unfortunately for Irixon, the city sentries had not suspected the rider who passed through the gates just before they were closed for the night. Nor did they guess that he bore a pinched expression because of a stab wound and ill-fitting boots.
––––––––
Yovan rode out to the meadow below the low walls of Fereza where he hurriedly opened a translocation portal. He vanished into the mists within and the portal winked out of sight before most folk who’d spotted it even realized what it was they’d seen.
He travelled only as far as Diondra, capital of the southern fief of Edessa, lest he lost control due to blood loss and stranded himself in the corridor forever. He made his way to the nearest hospital where the healers, upon learning his identity, immediately sent word to their Herun.
Endrin Mesare’s consort Mihlon was a scion of House Essendri and thus kin to Yovan. The couple came at once to ascertain for themselves that Yovan was not at death’s door. They mentally communicated the situation to Keldon as quickly as they could.
Yovan had only been settled in his cot for an hour or so when Dyrael and a distraught Mered entered the room. Mered almost flung himself upon Yovan before he remembered his wound. He tucked himself against his spouse’s uninjured side instead, tears trickling down his cheeks. He was clearly torn between joy and fury.
“You said you’d take care!” he accused though his hiccups took some of the heat from his tirade. “That you could survive anything! You promised me I wouldn’t lose you! Sweet Veres, I was terrified when Dyrael-dyhar fetched me. How could you, Van!”
He now wept in earnest as much from relief as agitation. Yovan ran his fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead.
“I kept my promise, didn’t I?” he said soothingly. “I survived. I’m alive. And as soon as the healers say I can travel, I’ll return to Rikara with you.”
“But how long before you take on another mission that may cost Rysander his sire? That may lose me my mate?” Mered pointed out with many a sob.
“I won’t take on another assignment too soon. I’ll request Minister Verdun to keep me behind my desk for at least a year.”
“A year is still too soon,” Mered muttered. “But there’s no stopping you from doing your duty, is there?” He heaved a sigh of frustration.
Yovan held him closer and finally looked up at the Ardis. Dyrael smiled sympathetically and came to his other side.
“This did give us all a fright,” he said. “Keldon nigh cancelled all his meetings to come here and see with his own eyes that you’re hale and whole.”
Yovan shook his head. “He can’t drop everything just for one Deir save if that Deir is Rohyr or you.”
Dyrael snorted. “Keldon would do it for anyone dear to him, as would I. He only agreed to stay behind when Mihlon assured us you were out of danger and in the best of care.” He nodded toward Mered. “Now put all thoughts of work and the like from your head. Mered needs your assurances that you’ll stay safe and whole for a goodly while.”
Yovan glanced at his teary mate. He cleared his throat and murmured, “I’m sorry, Mer. You shouldn’t have to be fearful on account of me.”
Mered sniffled and glanced up at Dyrael before looking at Yovan. “Only if you never go on another mission will I cease to be frightened,” he whispered. “Isn’t it so, Dyrael-dyhar?”
“Unfortunately.” Dyrael regarded Yovan a little reprovingly. “Do you recall when Keldon appointed you to Intelligence? I told you as a staffer you’d have the privilege of turning down missions. I knew you’d accept some, but I didn’t foresee that you’d accept more than your fair share. Oh yes, Mer told me all about your penchant for taking perilous assignments and keeping them secret from us. Why? So we wouldn’t order you to desist?”
Yovan colored guiltily. “I just want to be of service to the Crown,” he said. “And to you and Keldon.”
“If that means risking life and limb too frequently, then you’re going about it the wrong way,” Dyrael pointed out. “Indeed have you ever considered what it would do to us were you to come to grief? We would deeply mourn you and perforce live with the guilt of your loss.”
Yovan sighed. “I didn’t think of that. Forgive me.”
Dyrael huffed a wry chuckle. “Didn’t I once say you’ll be a great asset to the Crown? There are many ways to prove your worth to us without risking your life.”
“What are you suggesting?” Yovan asked curiously.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Dyrael cupped Yovan’s cheek briefly. “For now, I advise you to see to Mered’s tears. I’ll send an escort to bring the both of you home as soon as the healers allow it.”
With a smile, Dyrael turned on his heel and left the room. Yovan stared after him in confusion before he remembered his cousin’s advice. Whereupon he pulled Mered flush against him and kissed him soundly. That it was enough to allay his mate’s fears for the present was evident in Mered’s ardent response.