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The dream is muddled and filled with whispers. There is a touch on his face, a sigh, the rustle of fabric. And a voice.
Come to me.
The words are little more than a murmur, and yet they ring with magic, cutting across shapes and sounds. And then the scene shifts, and suddenly he is a boat in a storm, lashed by rain and beset by waves and whirlpools. The words come again, an incantation on the whistling wind.
Come to me.
The boat sinks, the world flips, the ocean fills the sky. Terror engulfs him, and then the storm.
He makes to scream, but the attempt is cut short by a wall of water so cold it seizes the blood in his veins. Silence closes around him like a tomb; death reaches up from the deep. And all the while, all around him, shining through the abyss like eyes that pierce the freezing dark, burn a field of silver stars.
—
Viren jolts upright, suddenly awake.
He’s breathing hard, his mind a frenzy of racing, half-remembered pictures, and for an awful moment he fails to recognize his surroundings. But then the low crackling of embers in the hearth draws his focus, as does the soft familiarity of the bedding beneath him, and slowly, mercifully, the horror of the dream recedes. These are his rooms, his bed, illuminated all by the light of the waxing moon that is pouring through the tracery of his windows, casting patterns on the floor. Outside, the castle is still, the courtyard quiet. It is the very heart of night.
Viren draws a shuddering breath, then falls back against his pillows.
He’d been dreaming. For a moment he cannot recall more than that, but soon enough hazy images float to the surface of his consciousness: hands on his body, hands in his hair, hands on his…
Ah.
Viren scrubs a groggy palm across his face. He can feel the weight of his arousal between his legs, and his skin is warm and prickling beneath his linen nightclothes. He’s getting too old for this kind of thing, he muses dourly, but his body is unusually persistent tonight, and at last Viren relents and fumbles down beneath his quilts to take himself in hand, half a mind on pleasure and half on simply getting things over with so he can get back to sleep. And yet something else tugs at the back of his consciousness, something odd, something he feels he ought to remember—
Come to me.
The words pierce Viren like a blade. He knows that voice.
Suddenly, the memory of the dream Viren’s chasing turns uncomfortable and strange, and he pulls his hand away from himself as if stung. In his mind’s eye a path materializes: down the long steps of his tower, to the dungeon, to the mirror, and then beyond the glass, to a smiling face framed with silver hair and a hand reaching out to him, four-fingered and speckled with stars—
Viren throws himself from bed, tearing aside the sashes of his canopy and striding for the porcelain basin he keeps upon the washstand. The water is a cold and welcome shock, and he splashes his face before slamming his hands down on either side of the bowl, fighting to control the pace of his breathing and the hammering of his heart.
Be rational, he tells himself, as beads of water drip from his beard and the point of his nose. It was just a dream.
And yet the echo of the voice lingers in Viren’s mind, and as he turns it over in his head he realizes it carries the electric resonance of magic, like the charge in the air before a storm.
A summoning spell.
Viren swallows thickly. Is such a thing even possible? After all, the elf is trapped in the mirror, and the worm corked in the bottle, and both sit far below his tower, deep underground in the castle’s lowest level, behind lock and key and every charm for containment and secrecy that Viren knows.
It cannot be. He’s imagining things.
A final drop of water falls from Viren’s face into the basin, and his reflection ripples gently in the soft light of the moon. He is in control of this situation, he tells himself. He is. He is the High Mage of Katolis, its Lord Protector; soon enough, he will be King.
But this thin veneer of calm is shattered when, as if in answer to his resistance, the voice calls to Viren again, stronger than ever, pulling at him so forcefully he nearly stumbles, as if yanked by an invisible chain: Come to me.
“Damn you!” Viren snarls, and in fit of rage he sweeps the basin from the table and sends it smashing to pieces against the smooth stone floor. The sound splits the quiet night; a moment later, there is a sharp rapping at his chamber door.
“Lord Viren? Lord Viren are you alright?”
Viren groans, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he answers sharply, scanning his memory for the image of the duty roster he’d approved the month before, trying to remember who’s been posted to his quarters this night. But the names evade him, and again the spell calls to him, and finally, huffing with exasperation, Viren stomps into his study and pulls a fresh candle and a handful of spell components from the drawers of his desk, and his warmest robe from the chair by the fire.
You don’t have to do this, a part of him thinks, as he fastens a belt around his waist and tugs his boots onto his feet. You can try to fight it. But anger and indignation burn in him, spurring him on…and deeper down, maybe, something like curiosity, even fascination—but Viren doesn’t allow himself to think very long about that. He collects his staff in his right hand and a brass candlestick in his left, then draws a breath to compose himself and turns to face the door.
Shadows are moving in the thin line of torchlight shining through the crack at the floor. Viren can make out the shapes of the two guards hovering on the other side, their movements tense and cautious. Martin and Maren, he recalls at last, the twins from the Dragontail; he’s seen them sparring with Soren and the other members of the Crownguard in the castle yard from time to time. They’re proficient enough soldiers, loyal to their station and therefore to him—which Viren supposes is as good as he could hope for, considering Opeli’s efforts to discredit and censure him following his defeat at the Pentarchy summit. Never in his life has he been more grateful for the glacial pace of Katolian bureaucracy, he thinks bitterly, and then he squares his shoulders and reaches for the latch.
The guards are standing with their hands upon their hilts when Viren emerges from his quarters.
“My lord?” Martin asks, as Viren closes the door behind him. “We heard a noise. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Viren answers, slipping—with just slightly more effort than usual—into the mask of casual neutrality he affects for all the castle guard. “Tell me, one of you, what hour is it?”
“Past three, my lord,” Maren answers. “I heard the tower bell chime not long ago.”
“Very good.” Viren stabs the waxy end of the candle into the brass pricket, then turns towards the twisting stairs that lead down the tower. “I have work to attend to,” he explains. “I’ll be back before the morning bell.” Viren can feel curiosity radiating from the guards—sees Maren’s eyes dart briefly to the gem gleaming in his staff—but, thankfully, both seem to possess enough sense to swallow their questions.
But then they step forward with the intent to follow Viren down the stairs. Viren holds a hand out to stop them. “No, remain here at your post. I don’t require an escort.”
The siblings exchange uncertain glances. “You’re sure?” Martin asks. “You don’t—I mean, forgive me, my lord, it’s just that the captain of the guard’s told us to be as vigilant as possible after…well. You know. What happened to King Harrow.”
Viren’s expression turns icy; there’s an uncomfortable pause. But then Maren steps forward, laying a staying hand on her brother’s shoulder.
“Apologies, Lord Viren,” she says. “We’ll let you be on your way.” And then she touches her helm in deference, and adds, quietly, “And please, accept our deepest sympathies for your loss. I know you and King Harrow were friends.”
Viren’s mouth presses into a tight line.
“Just stay at your post,” he says at last, turning away. “I’ll be fine, I assure you.” He taps the end of his staff upon the ground, and a flame bursts to life upon the candle wick. Quickly, he descends the stairs.
—
The journey through the castle is a quiet one. Viren avoids the guards stationed throughout the main halls with a series of shortcuts through the narrow servants’ corridors, and arrives at the dungeon by way of the workshop he keeps hidden behind the hinged portrait in his office. Though it’s the height of summer, the air here is dank and cool, and full of shadows. Initially, his path is lit by the series of luminous moon quartz torches installed in intervals along the walls, customary for this level of the castle. But the crystals run their course by the time Viren turns down the tunnel to the deepest cell where the mirror is kept, and then the only light to see by is the faint glow cast by the candle in his hand. He keeps walking, stepping carefully through the inky dark. At last, at the end of the tunnel, he holds the flame aloft. Through the gloom, the heavy cell door wavers into view.
A lace wing moth from his pocket and a whispered spell to consume it sets the candlestick floating in the air. Viren rests his hand upon the deadbolt, feeling the tingle in his skin of the enchantments he’s laid upon on the lock. Uncertainty nags at him. But then the memory of the dream rises to the surface of his mind once more, hazy impressions of hands and touching, and a boat, and a storm, and stars. And a voice.
Come to me.
Viren stumbles forward. The spells to unlock the bolt fall effortlessly from his lips, and suddenly the candle is back in his hand; a moment later, he shoulders the cell door open and steps inside.
The cell is still and quiet, exactly as he’d left it the last time he was here. There is the high-backed wooden chair he’d brought down from his office, and there the small working table he’d set up along the wall. It’s filled with quills and notebooks and reference texts, but for the moment, Viren’s attention is consumed by a small object at the table’s center, covered in a square of night-black velvet cloth.
Warily, Viren draws into the room. He lays his staff and candle upon the table, then gingerly peels the cloth away to reveal a stout glass bottle and its singular contents—an overly large caterpillar with rows of sticking feet and a grotesque set of pincers twitching at its mouth. In the flickering candlelight, Viren can just make out the patterns that run along the segments of its body, and the gleam of its beady eyes.
It’s watching him, he realizes. Waiting. Somehow, Viren understands: It knew he was coming. The knowledge makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He is in control, he reminds himself.
Liar, answers a voice.
Whose voice?
But Viren is already uncorking the bottle, drawing the worm from its mouth and dropping it upon the shell of his ear. He feels it undulate against his skin as it curls into place, and suppresses a shudder, swallowing the revulsion that rises in his throat like bile every time he does this. But it passes, and at last, when he can bear it, he turns to face the last remaining object in the room.
The mirror looms tall and foreboding in the corner of the cell. Like the bottle, it is shrouded in black velvet, and like the worm, it radiates the pulse of deep primal magic. Ancient and terrible forces, muses Viren, but the thought doesn’t stop him from pulling the shroud from the ornate frame and dropping the fabric to the floor.
The mirror's silver face is smooth and empty, save his own pale reflection caught in the glass. Viren pauses, taking himself in, frowning at the sight of his sleep-mussed hair and at the rumpled shirtsleeves peeking out from the arms of his robe…and yet there’s little point now in attempting to make himself more presentable—the worm is already watching, and that means so is the elf. Ignoring the twist in his stomach the thought inspires, Viren sets his jaw and snuffs the candle with a wave of his hand, plunging the cell into utter darkness.
For several long seconds nothing happens. But then a dim green glow begins to burn within the glass, slowly intensifying until through the murk images begin to coalesce and sharpen into focus, and the room on the other side of the mirror is revealed.
It’s the same study Viren has seen countless times before—bookshelves, fireplace, and desk, iridescent walls and high, stately windows, but tonight the windows are dark, and the only light in the room comes from the licking tongues of flame burning low in the hearth, sending uneven shadows dancing upon the walls. For a moment Viren thinks he is alone, and then—movement, as a shadowy form rises from where it has been reclined upon the chair at the desk, just beyond the ring of light thrown by the fire. Viren’s eye manages to trace the line of a jagged horn, the gleam of flame on silver, and then the figure steps forward and saunters forth into the light.
Aaravos.
“Hello, Viren,” Aaravos says, as the light of the fire illuminates his face. “How good of you to come.”
Aaravos is different tonight than Viren has ever seen him. The stars of his face gleam brighter than usual in the dim light of the fire, and his opal hair shines as if lit from within. Most shocking, though, is the fact that his dark hooded cloak has been traded for something altogether new—a long, thin robe of liquid silver silk that cascades in glimmering waves from his shoulders to the floor. It hangs loose and open on his body, fully exposing the lines of his neck and broad planes of his chest. Viren finds he cannot help but stare. Before he can stop himself, his eyes travel to the point below Aaravos’ navel, where the fabric gathers and rests secured with a cord of braided gold.
“Like what you see?” asks the worm in Viren’s ear.
Viren startles back to awareness, then scowls, refocusing his attention squarely on Aaravos’ smirking face. "Why have you summoned me here?” he spits, changing the subject, ignoring the faint heat he knows is color rising in his cheeks.
“Because you asked me to help you,” Aaravos answers simply. His tone is conversational, matter-of-fact, but he’s drawn quite near to the mirror now, near enough that Viren can see every point of light shining in his face, and the serpentine way he's moving is making it distinctly challenging for Viren to ignore the fact that he awoke from a dream of this creature less than an hour ago.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he growls. “I was asleep.”
"Yes, but time is of the essence,” says Aaravos. “If the spell is to succeed, we must begin our work at once.”
Viren narrows his eyes. “What spell?”
“The spell I have devised that will propel you to power,” Aaravos answers. “The spell that will finally turn the tide in the war between humans and Xadia.”
Viren glares at the mirror, cursing inwardly. He was determined to keep his distance in this conversation, but already his curiosity is piqued. And yet…it’s such a wild promise—what single spell could possibly do so much? “Explain yourself,” he demands.
“Just as I said,” says Aaravos. “You desire influence and leverage with the Pentarchy, no? With your people? The ability to rally a force that can finally bring Xadia to its knees? Well, I have devised a plan to win you those things. And that plan requires a spell.” He points a finger at Viren’s heart. “You kept the weapons of the fallen Moonshadow assassins, didn't you?”
Viren recoils, caught off guard by the sudden accusation. “I…” he starts reflexively, then pauses, realizing he’s not certain he can afford to lie. “Yes,” he admits. “I kept them.”
“What else did you keep?”
Viren draws a breath. I did it for Katolis, he tells himself. There wasn't any harm done—they were already dead. And yet he finds himself speaking to the stones of the floor as he mutters, grimly: “Their horns. Their blood. The ash from their cremated remains.”
It’s a confession that should shock any creature with a conscience, Viren knows, and yet Aaravos’ only reaction is a rich peal of laughter. Surprised, Viren glances up to see the elf grinning at him through the barrier of glass.
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, my lord,” Aaravos murmurs as their eyes meet, and there’s a bewitching charm to the way he says it, disarming and dangerous in turn, that leaves Viren feeling uncomfortable, exposed…and strangely flustered. He can feel the color rising in his face once more, but he has barely a moment to process what this means before Aaravos is speaking again, pulling Viren along as easily as a leaf caught in a river’s current.
“Three days from now,” says Aaravos, “on the evening of the next full moon, you will use those items to cast a spell to summon the spirits of the Moonshadow elves back from the realm of the dead, and command them to assassinate the four monarchs that oppose you. The spell will only last a night, but by the time the sun rises you will have wrought such havoc and destruction upon the human kingdoms that they will be all but begging for your alliance.”
As he speaks, Aaravos touches a glowing finger to the mirror and begins to draw an array of burning silver runes upon the glass. Bewildered, Viren does his best to follow along. He recognizes symbols from the Moon Primal, and several dark magic marks as well, but others are a mystery, and he finds Aaravos’ way of arranging them together foreign and strange.
“You will use this diagram to complete the spell and seal the binding,” Aaravos instructs, enclosing the runes in a large triangle and inscribing the symbol for the Moon Primal at its top. “You’re familiar with the mountain the humans call the Cursed Caldera? Orient the top of the triangle with that peak—that is the location of the Moon Nexus, the place where the border between life and death is thinnest. Do these things, and you will command the spirits of those who invaded your kingdom and murdered your king.” He pauses, and looks at Viren inquiringly. “Do you understand?”
Viren draws a shaky breath, caught between feelings of wonder at this strange new magic and repulsion at the horror it belies…and beneath both, something else, something deeper, darker—the ravenous compulsion to possess and master it. Distantly, he feels the pull of the imaginary chain, dragging him against his will once more.
Like a boat caught in a whirlpool, he thinks suddenly, and for a moment he remembers his dream, and the horrid worm crawling upon his ear. Doubt grips him.
But then Aaravos leans close to the mirror, pressing his arm against the glass, and the way his hair falls about his face draws Viren’s gaze and scatters his thoughts.
“There is no other way, Viren,” Aaravos murmurs, his voice as soft as silk on skin. “If you want the other human kingdoms to unite with Katolis against Xadia, diplomacy alone will not suffice. I offer you a different path. The only one that will work.”
“Casting this magic would make me responsible for the most heinous crimes,” answers Viren. But his eyes are still on the array of runes shining on the mirror, and on Aaravos’ long fingers, and the points of light upon them.
“Was Harrow’s murder not a heinous crime?” Aaravos asks. “Understand, my lord: with their leaders cut down, the human kingdoms will be looking for protection, and more importantly, for a hand to guide them. They will look to you. They will unite behind your banner and you will at last have the strength to avenge Katolis, and all humans everywhere. You will be venerated, celebrated forever as a savior king, and Xadia will fall.”
Viren frowns, warring within himself. He has the sense he is standing on the edge of a monumental precipice. “This magic is beyond me,” he says at last. “This spell…it would take me months to learn. Maybe even years.”
“True,” answers Aaravos. “But I can teach it to you in moments. Tonight.”
Viren swallows, and finds his throat is dry. Distantly, he remembers Harrow’s admonishing words, spoken so scathingly and so shortly before his death: It’s a shortcut. We may not pay now, but we will pay the blood price eventually. What do you think got us here? Dark magic.
And still, Viren finds he cannot resist. “What must I do?” he whispers.
Aaravos grins. “A new bond must be forged between us,” he says. “A bond strong enough to allow me to channel my knowledge across the confines of this prison—” he taps a finger upon the mirror “—and into you.”
Viren nods slowly. “All right. And how is this done?”
“You must submit yourself to me,” Aaravos answers. “Willingly and completely.”
Viren pauses, licks his lips. He doesn’t understand. “A vow?” he ventures. But Aaravos shakes his head.
“No, my lord. An act. Of carnal subservience.”
For several long moments Viren is nonplussed. But then awareness crashes down around him, cruel and cold, and several things click into place at once—the dream, his arousal, the way Aaravos has draped himself against the mirror with all the decorum of a common whore. Color floods his face. “Is that why you’re doing this?” he asks weakly, once he finds his voice. “Why you’re dressed like that?”
“I confess, I wore it for you,” Aaravos says, extending his arms to showcase elegant trailing sleeves that drip from his wrists like rivers of starlight. He tips his head, staring at Viren with smoldering eyes. “I know what you like, after all.”
Viren is indignant, despite his embarrassment. “You know nothing about me—”
“I can see your mind, mage,” interrupts Aaravos sharply, and though he doesn’t stop smiling, his eyes flash in a dangerous way that steals the rest of Viren’s words from his throat. “Remember the chalice, the knife, the blood? You completed the spell that began our connection. This is merely the next step.”
Aaravos waves his hand to the glowing silver runes inscribed upon the mirror. “I offer you this power freely, Viren,” he says. “But if you want to master it, you must first lay down your ego and submit.”
Viren feels strangely overcome, like he cannot catch his breath. This, he thinks suddenly—this is wrong. He should leave, now. He should be afraid. And yet he stays rooted in place, mesmerized by the sight of Aaravos’ fingers as they brush against the glass, and the way the gleaming fabric of his robe slips as he moves to reveal a shoulder dappled with stars.
“You know nothing about me,” Viren repeats, but his voice is little more than a whispered croak, and Aaravos’s grin turns dark and predatory. And then the worm moves, and Aaravos’ words pour into Viren’s ear, dripping hot with sorcery.
“Look at me, Viren,” he says.
Viren shudders. Around him, the air begins to shimmer, and suddenly, a memory he’s kept locked away for over twenty years bursts to the surface of his mind, bright and hot, and tangible: It is the night of the solstice feast, and he is in the royal quarters, drunk, laughing, bathed in the light of a roaring fire as a snowstorm rages beyond the colored glass of the room’s high windows, and then Harrow, Harrow, wild as a lion and naked save the prince’s crown gleaming on his head, shoves Viren roughly against a tapestry-lined wall and grinds their bodies together in a heated embrace.
The next images are frenetic, molten in intensity: There is the sound of a strangled, breathless moan, the weight of a bruising kiss, the sting of nails clawing lines down skin. Viren is up off the floor with his legs around Harrow’s waist, pressed between Harrow and the wall, and just as he feels he is approaching the very edge of madness he hears the sound of Harrow’s voice, strong and commanding even all those years ago, saying, “Look at me, Viren. Look at me…”
Viren gasps, the illusion shifts, and suddenly things have changed—suddenly it is not Harrow’s hands upon him but another’s, not Harrow’s lips on his but another’s, and Viren opens his eyes and sees silver hair and a face full of stars—
“Get out of my head!”
A furious explosion of dark magic rents the room as as Viren’s shriek ricochets off the stones of the dungeon walls. Immediately, the illusion strains and snaps. Viren comes back to himself in a rush, to the present, to the mirror, to the dungeon; weak-kneed and light-headed, he stumbles backwards, managing to catch himself from falling only by collapsing into the chair. He’s breathing hard as if he’s run for miles; deep in his core, white-hot arousal sits coiled like a snake.
And from the mirror, Aaravos watches, smiling, slowly twirling a lock of hair in his fingers.
“You’re absolutely vile,” Viren spits at him, though the venom in his tone is undercut by the roughness of his voice. “How dare you?”
“I do it only to help you, my lord,” Aaravos croons. “Do you deny you find it pleasurable?”
“I…” Viren starts, but finds he cannot say the rest, because at that moment another tendril of searing desire unfurls within him, and suddenly all he can concentrate upon is the fact that he is warm, far too warm, and terribly uncomfortable in his clothes.
“I know what you like,” murmurs Aaravos again. “Beautiful like Lissa, strong like Harrow. I could be those things for you.”
“Just the paragon of humility, aren’t you?” Viren sneers, biting down on a moan. Aaravos laughs.
“Ah, but you don’t want humility, do you?” he says, fixing Viren with rapacious eyes. “You want someone who will put their hands on you, someone powerful who will hold you down and ravish you and tell you what to do.”
Viren’s heart skips a beat; for a moment he sputters and blinks, and then at last he tears his eyes away from the mirror. He can feel the awful flush of humiliation in his face, and yet, to his horror, he feels also the heat of arousal coursing through his body, stronger now than ever, and where the one feeling ends and the next begins Viren finds he cannot say.
“I understand the sting of loneliness,” Aaravos is murmuring in his ear. “The yearning one feels when trapped in a prison of solitude, the insatiable desire for just a single touch. The bittersweet burden of memory.”
Viren shakes his head. “There must be another way,” he insists, but he shifts in his seat as he says it, fighting to keep his hands off his body. “There must be something else.”
“Oh, I could take your eyes,” Aaravos answers glibly. “Or your tongue. Or ten years of your life. But why choose such difficult options, my lord, when I offer you this enticing alternative? Why choose bitter sacrifice simply to deny yourself very thing you dream about at night, and touch yourself to in the dark…?”
Viren whimpers, pressing his body up against the back of the chair. His hand tugs absently at the collar of his nightshirt. “Aaravos…”
“Yes,” Aaravos whispers, drawing out the hiss of the word against the curve of Viren’s ear. Blearily, Viren watches as the elf draws another rune against the glass, a simple spell of unbinding, and the knot of Viren’s belt loosens and falls undone.
The air is shimmering again.
“Stay out of my memories,” Viren gasps, but Aaravos' only answer is a low chuckle, and then the walls of the dungeon cell fall away.
The world tilts. Viren hears the rustle of wind in leaves.
He’s lying down, he realizes, in a field—a great field of tall, soft grass swaying gently in a warm night breeze. Overhead, a cobalt sky glitters with the first evening stars, and in the distance, a delicate castle rests upon the crest of a hill overlooking the sea. Through the points of its thin white spires, the full moon hangs low on the horizon like a shining silver coin.
There is a touch upon Viren’s cheek. Viren startles and turns, and finds Aaravos sitting beside him in the grass, looking down at him, no longer separated by the mirror. He’s still wearing his silver robe, but now also a crown that Viren doesn’t recognize, and his hair is wilder, too, longer and glowing in the moonlight, and there are diamonds dangling from his ears by fine argentine chains.
“What is this place?” Viren whispers. In answer, Aaravos leans down over him, low enough that his hair falls around Viren’s face like a curtain of pearl silk.
“A memory,” he murmurs into Viren’s ear. “From very long ago.”
“Your memory—?” Viren starts to ask, but his question is interrupted by Aaravos as the elf grips Viren’s face in his hand, turns his head, and forces their lips together. The motion is brutal and possessive, less of a kiss than a claiming, and Viren finds he has little choice but to surrender to it, groaning as all his arousal is brought back to the forefront of his mind with stark, almost painful clarity. Immediately his hands scrabble for purchase in the silk of Aaravos’ robe, at his face and hair and horns, but none of it is enough, and at last he tries to push himself up to bring their bodies together—only for Aaravos to slam a hand upon his chest, pinning him firmly to the ground. Viren hisses in frustration.
“Now, now, remember our bargain, my lord,” says Aaravos, sliding his mouth down to nip teasingly at the thin skin at the corner of Viren’s jaw. Viren whimpers.
“Aaravos…”
“Shhh,” Aaravos answers, sitting up and shifting his hands to Viren’s knees, spreading them apart. Viren drops his legs open with a sigh, watching entranced as Aaravos crawls into the space between them.
“I can feel how much you want me,” Aaravos murmurs, staring down at Viren as a teasing smile plays across his lips. “I can see your desire in my mind’s eye. You have a very…colorful imagination.” Ever so slowly, he pushes the fabric of Viren’s nightshirt up past his thighs, higher, higher, until at last Viren is completely exposed save the thin fabric of his smallclothes.
A soft breeze ripples through the grass. Aaravos eyes the outline of Viren’s erection for a moment, then leans close.
“How would you command me, my lord?” he asks, grinning that wicked grin again, and his shining eyes are boring into Viren’s own, and the stars on his face burn like silver flames. Viren is beyond answering. He can hardly speak, can hardly even think...and then Aaravos licks his lips and dips his head and drags his open mouth against the clothed line of Viren’s cock, so suddenly and with such enthusiasm that Viren throws his head back and clutches fistfuls of earth, and the sound that’s pulled from his chest starts as a growl and ends as a cry.
The contact is over as quickly as it began. Viren is aware of the sound of his own pleading moan of protest, of Aaravos’ answering laugh, and then Aaravos reaches down to take one of Viren’s hands in his.
“You accept this exchange between us,” he says. It’s not a question.
Viren blinks up at him, panting raggedly on his bed of grass. A dim and distant part of his mind is aware that he should extricate himself from this situation, should fight back, should say no. But then Aaravos presses a filthy, open-mouthed kiss against Viren’s palm, licking between his fingers before taking two of them deep into his mouth, and all that remain of Viren’s reservations vanish in an instant.
“Yes,” he breathes.
“You will submit yourself to me, ” Aaravos says.
“Yes,” Viren moans. “Yes, yes, Aaravos, please…”
Aaravos smiles. “Then touch yourself for me, Lord Viren of Katolis,” he says, dragging Viren’s hand to the aching space between his legs, prowling forward until all Viren can see is his crown gleaming in the moonlight, and the fire in his glowing eyes. “Touch yourself for me, and you will know magic the likes of which humans have not worked since the fall of Elarion…”
Viren does not need to be told again. He’s trembling, he realizes suddenly, shaking like a maid, but even so his fingers make quick work of the laces of his breeches, and it’s only a few seconds before he’s pushing down his waistband and drawing his leaking cock into the open air. There’s no concealing his desperation; everything about his performance is utterly shameless—Who’s the common whore now? hisses that voice in his head—and still, with Aaravos pressing him against the ground, hovering above him and smiling like a silver-gilt siren, it’s all Viren can do to keep from sobbing with relief.
“Very good,” Aaravos whispers, as his fingers trail up the line of Viren’s body to entwine in his hair, pulling hard enough to draw a thin whine from the back of Viren’s throat. “As I said before, I knew you would not disappoint me.” He leans close, pressing an encouraging kiss to the side of Viren’s neck.
“Aaravos…” Viren sighs, but his voice is carried away by the breeze; the wind, he realizes, is picking up. High above them, dark and menacing clouds are gathering in the sky, blocking out the stars.
A storm is approaching.
Viren squirms, but Aaravos grips his shoulder, staring hard into his eyes. “Do not stop,” he orders, and Viren doesn’t; he’s so close to the edge already, so consumed with want and desperate for release, that he’s not sure he could even if he wanted to. He swirls a thumb, thrusting hard into the slick of his hand. Far out to sea, a bolt of lightning arcs between clouds, and thunder follows close behind.
And then Aaravos begins to murmur, strange chanting words that spill into the whistling wind, and touches a glowing finger to Viren’s brow to draw a rune upon his forehead. Viren hisses in pain; the magic feels like the drag of a red-hot pin against his skin. But then Aaravos’ hand is in his hair again, gripping hard, holding him down.
“Give yourself to me,” the elf hisses fiercely, and Viren nods, helpless, lost to the spell, and to the burning heat of his impending orgasm.
“Please, please, please…” he pants, begs, pressing his head back against the earth beneath him as the first drops of falling rain strike his face. A moment later there’s a hand around his throat, and then Aaravos surges against him, clawing, demanding, and for the next several seconds Viren can think of nothing except the hot slide of Aaravos’ tongue in his mouth, and the weight of his body and the strength of his hands.
The wind howls, the storm roils; Viren can feel himself coming undone. He reaches up and grips Aaravos by the horn; directly above them, lightning splits the sky. And then Aaravos’ voice is in his head, a thousand whispers that join the storm and culminate in a single word of command:
Submit.
Climax takes Viren like a wave. The world splinters—he hears the sound of his own broken shout, feels the searing pain of the rune upon his brow, and sees for a moment Aaravos’ amber eyes and silver hair, blazing incandescent in the storm that is consuming them both.
The last thing he feels is the brush of a hand upon his face, gentle, almost a caress…and then the storm sweeps that away as well, and he is drowning in darkness, and knows no more.
—
Viren opens his eyes.
He’s gulping air, dizzy, drenched in sweat. His mind feels slow and clumsy, as if he’s been ill abed for days, and it’s only after several very long seconds that he realizes he’s terribly cold, that the air around him is damp and chill, and that the rough stone floor is cutting into his bare knees—
Awareness dawns, sharp as glass. Viren looks down.
He’s in the dungeon cell, kneeling on the ground before the mirror, with his nightshirt rucked up and his breeches undone and his spent cock in his hand. On his fingers, and on the stones in front of him, is a spatter of glistening white. Viren reels. For a brief moment nausea overwhelms him and he is sure he will be sick.
“You did very well, my lord.”
Viren’s head snaps up. In the mirror, Aaravos is watching. He’s still draped seductively against the glass, as cool and collected as ever, but his eyes are shrewd and his voice is wry, and for a moment Viren feels caught between the equally unpleasant urges to both scream and retch…but then his gaze falls to the array of silver runes still inscribed upon the glass, and his breath catches in his throat.
He understands them.
It’s as if a door has been opened into a vast hall in Viren’s inner consciousness, filled with knowledge beyond his imagining. Not all of it is clear, not yet at least, but this—Viren’s eyes trace the symbols hungrily, following the path of the spell, and he realizes, with awed, almost giddy delight, that they’re as straightforward as if he’d drawn the diagram himself.
“It worked,” he murmurs.
“But of course,” Aaravos replies. “As I said, you did very well.”
There’s insinuation in Aaravos’ voice, and Viren flushes, quickly remembering that he’s still fully exposed, and kneeling on the ground, and covered in the quickly drying evidence of his own release. Cursing under his breath, he scrambles up off the stones, tucking himself away and lacing himself up in as dignified a manner as he can manage—which isn’t very dignified at all, he knows, considering he’s forced to wipe his fingers on the hem of his nightshirt. It’s sickening, but it’s only then, as he’s looking at his hands, that Viren realizes something else: his true appearance has been revealed.
“Ah yes,” says Aaravos, as Viren stares at his ashy, black-veined palms. “That couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. Nothing a sunray monarch won’t fix, of course.” He smiles, dragging a finger slowly down the glass. “A small price to pay for the knowledge you need…and the pleasure you wanted.”
“This was contractual,” Viren seethes, glaring at Aaravos as he knots his robe around his waist. “An exchange to complete the spell. Nothing more.”
“As you say,” answers Aaravos. “For my part, I admit I enjoyed myself immensely. Should you ever wish to…indulge again, you only need to ask. As always, I’m here to serve.” And then he grins, kisses his finger, presses it sensuously to the glass, and winks.
Viren glowers, angry and appalled. Suddenly, he cannot stand to look at Aaravos a moment longer. With a wave of his hand he summons the candlestick from where it sits upon the bench, catching it as it arcs through the air; the moment his fingers touch the brass, the wick explodes in violent flame. Instantly, the room beyond the mirror vanishes. Yet even as the spell breaks it impresses on Viren’s mind a final image—of Aaravos bowing low, the shine of victory in his eyes, and of the ghostly echo of his parting words: Until next time, my lord.
—
Viren scarcely knows how he manages the journey back to his rooms.
Distantly, he’s aware of tearing the worm from his ear, of the dreadful eagerness he feels to be free of it, of throwing the shroud across the mirror, of his staff in his hand and the sound of his footsteps as he hurries from the cell, pulling the door shut hard behind him.
A spell on the deadbolt, a spell on the door, and then Viren hastens his way up the stairs, out of the dungeon and back though the servants’ passages, careful only enough to stay in the shadows, out of sight of any page or chambermaid who might be up so early.
Stairs again, the swinging portrait, stairs again, and then at last the tower landing, and Martin and Maren, still on duty, scrambling to stand to attention from where they’d been slouching against the wall—only to recoil in alarm at the sight of Viren’s ruined face.
“L-L-Lord Viren?” Martin stammers, and Viren sees his hand move for the pommel of his sword; Maren, quicker on the draw, pulls hers from its scabbard and points it at Viren’s chest.
“What sorcery is this?” she demands, and though her voice is strong Viren can see fear and revulsion in her eyes.
Viren tightens his hand upon his staff. Quickly from his pocket he draws a sharp-edged gryphon talon, and hisses the incantation to set it ablaze with the flames of dark magic. The torches on the walls gutter and spark; the shadows they cast twist grotesquely. The guards seize, frozen in terror.
Viren narrows his glowing eyes at Maren’s blade. “Lower your sword,” he instructs, and Maren does, jerkily and against her will, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. Satisfied, Viren turns to address them both. “Maren. Martin.” Ensnared by the spell, their petrified eyes slide sideways to meet his own.
Viren raises his staff. “You never saw me tonight,” he commands. “We never spoke. Your posting this evening was uneventful, and when I close my door, you will forget your encounters with me and all your questions about my actions.” Viren's words are so distorted by dark magic he hardly recognizes his own voice, but he can feel the spell has woven together successfully.
“Yes, Lord Viren,” Martin and Maren murmur in tandem, and Viren strikes his staff upon the ground. The guards go limp. A moment later, the flames of the torches flare back to life.
Viren draws a breath, surveying his handiwork as the magic in the air dissipates. He's cast variations of this spell many times before, always without qualm…and yet now, staring upon the blank, slack-jawed expressions of the guards, he is overcome with a powerful sense of loathing—is this how he had seemed to Aaravos before the mirror, bespelled and on his knees, at the mercy of a fantasy? Disgusted by the thought, Viren retreats to his rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.
The ashes in his hearth have turned cold. Despite the season, there’s a creeping chill in the air reminiscent of the mirror's cell. Viren throws down his staff and draws his arms around himself, trying desperately to shut out the thoughts of Martin and Maren, and of everything that transpired in the dungeon’s depths. It occurs to him to revive the fire, but even that simple spell feels repellent at the moment, and he finds he’s too agitated to bother with the hassle of the kindling and flint. And then Viren’s eyes fall upon the broken porcelain basin, still a smash of pieces upon the floor.
Come to me.
No. No. He refuses to think of it—of him—any further.
And yet Viren has nowhere to escape to, nowhere to go. Nowhere, at least, save his study and his desk, and so he hastily gathers parchment, quill and ink, and throws himself into the work of mapping out the sinister spell now etched into his mind. It’s complicated runework, but Viren finds he has little difficulty identifying what he’ll need to do and when and how—blood to draw the symbols, ash and horn for the summoning, and he’ll need the weapons, cleaned and polished, and the Shadowlife Candle from his workshop. Viren scrawls down lists and calculations, muttering to himself as he goes. Three days will be enough time to prepare, he figures, but only just, and then…
Viren pauses, draws a breath.
What is he doing? This is regicide. Murder. High treason, so many times over that should even a fraction of this work ever be discovered he’s certain the Council would bring back the gallows just to see him hang. Viren drops his quill, rubbing his temples. Is he truly considering casting this spell? How can he do something so monstrous? He wishes he had more time to weigh his options. And yet he cannot wait, not even for the next full moon; with Opeli mounting forces against him, his time on the Council—and the veil of protection that status provides—is perilously short. If he’s to have any chance of putting this plan into action, he has three days, and nothing more.
Viren sits back, crossing his arms across his chest. Who are you? asks the voice in his head, over and over again. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?
Viren doesn’t have an answer. And yet he can hardly focus even on the bitter draught of self-recrimination, because, try as he might to keep them contained, thoughts of Aaravos begin to claw their way up from the depths of his mind.
The effect on his body is immediate.
Viren grits his teeth, fighting temptation. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He shouldn't want any of this. Aaravos violated his mind. He dragged Viren’s most private, most perverse desires into the open, humiliated and used him, and then watched and grinned and laughed as Viren debased himself in exchange for a spell. What had happened tonight between them was nothing short of an abomination. It was depraved.
…And yet, as Viren stares unseeing at the drying ink of his notes, biting his lip and blushing faintly as he recalls the touch of Aaravos’ hands, the heat of his mouth, and the sound of his voice, he finds himself face to face with a profoundly disturbing conclusion—that he wants more, much more, of everything, and that he’s not certain there’s anything he wouldn’t give to get it.
Should you ever wish to…indulge again, you only need to ask.
How would you command me, my lord?
It’s all too much. Viren’s control shatters—instantly, his mind is overrun with images of Aaravos’ sultry grin and long limbs, of imagined sounds and tastes, of the delicious anticipation of the thrill it will be to finally tear the elf’s glittering body out of that damned silver robe. And then Viren's thoughts become a river, wild and uncontrolled, and all that’s left of his inner propriety and restraint wash away in the lascivious torrent. Desire pools in his core, dark and raw.
So this is the answer, then, Viren? hisses the voice in his head, seething and contemptuous, full of wrath. This is the grand Lord Protector’s true face, revealed at last? A traitor to his country and a murderer of kings and the helpless thrall of an elf whose sorcery is master to his own?
Lissa’s voice, Viren wonders distantly? Harrow’s voice? Or perhaps even his own voice, condemning him across the years, from the time when he had been a better—and much more certain—man?
That man would be a stranger to him now, Viren realizes, and for a moment he recalls the sight of his haggard reflection caught in the mirror’s polished glass.
Who are you?
Through the windows, the first rays of dawn split the night, turning the sky a pale and sickly green. The sight consumes Viren with exhaustion, and yet his mind continues to play its endless tangle of mix-matched images, over and over in his head, arousing and terrible in turn: Silver stars in a mirror. A boat in a tempest. Lips on his neck and hands in his hair.
The full moon, just three nights away.
Who are you?
Viren groans, dropping his head into his hands.
On the wind, faintly, the morning bell begins to toll.