Becoming

Becoming a novella of homoerotic fantasy by

L.E. Bryce

What we are to be, we are now becoming -Carl Rogers

Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. eBook ISBN 1-59426-929-7 Becoming © 2005, 2007 by L.E. Bryce All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover art © 2007 by Debi Lewis Edited by Kathryn Lively Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

www.Phaze.com

Also by L.E. Bryce Dead to the World My Sun and Stars Ki'iri

A slightly abridged version of "Becoming" was first published by Forbidden Fruit ezine in January, 2005.

Chapter One The sloop turned toward the deeper water of the harbor, where the sea began to roughen. Unused to boats, the young man grimaced as nausea threatened to overcome him. He managed to hold his stomach. The fisherman and his crew noted his pallor with disdain, but his coin was good and, as long as he stayed out of their way, they would not bother him. Waves frothed in the wake of the boat as the wind caught the sails, and it picked up speed. Among the whitecaps he saw the sleek, darting bodies that could only be hrill. On the port side, the fishermen paused over their nets to call out to them, to the dolphins frolicking among the seal-like creatures to compete for attention, and the fish heads the men would eventually toss back into the waves. Swaying with the movement of the boat and his own unsteadiness, the young man stepped up to the stern, ostensibly to get a better look at the hrill. His breath caught at the dark heads that emerged from the waves to regard him; all his life he had heard of these sacred, intelligent creatures but had never seen one. The waterfront neighborhoods were too rough for well-bred youths, said his father, and his mother complained that such places always smelled unpleasant. From his bedchamber window the young man could see the ocean, and drink in the salty tang of the air that blew inland to cool warm summer afternoons. Until now, that was all he ever knew of the sea. "You are very beautiful," he murmured to the hrill. With trembling hands, he gripped the rail to lean out and watch them. Time pressed down upon him. Urgency and fear made his heart race. If he was to do it, now was the time. There would not be a second chance. "What are you doing?" The boy's voice cut through the breeze, an arrow of annoyance that made him start. Forcing a smile, the young man turned to see about getting rid of the child. "Can you read?"

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Curious gray eyes met his. "Just a little, sir, but my da can read better." From his pocket, he took a sealed letter and pressed it into the boy's hand. He had meant to leave it on deck, but this was better. Its discovery would not be left to chance. "When the boat comes to shore, give your father this. Remember, when you dock and not before, and you are to tell no one you have it until then." He emphasized his point with a silver coin and bade the child to be off. Toward the prow, he heard the fishermen calling out to each other. Rough nets were cast overboard, well away from the hrill who veered to avoid them. Now was the time, he decided, when their eyes were turned and they had no mind for him. He pulled himself over the wooden rail, balancing there while he swung his other leg over. Splinters dug into his palms. Sea spray flew up into his face; he licked salt droplets from his lips. Behind him, he heard a shout and knew it was for him. He did not turn to see who had called out or bother to note what the man said. When the rail slid from his grasp, gravity sped him into the water. The sea weighted his clothing, surging into his mouth. Through the stinging spray he saw the boat making a sharp turn. Voices called out advice to tread water and remain calm. No one knew he could not swim. Pale sky and blurred faces vanished under a smothering blanket of foam. Water swirled into his lungs and, whether he wanted it or not, the body's fight for survival began. **** Taraz, the eunuch who attended the healers, carried the gossip back to the Blue House like the prize it was. "They've brought someone into the gatehouse," he said. The three young men seated on the bench under the apple tree ignored the formal little bow the eunuch bestowed upon them. "Is it a new arrival, or some stuffy priest visiting from another city?" asked Alanáro. "If it is the latter, you can save your breath." "A new arrival, sir," said Taraz. "They carried this one in senseless, so I did not get to speak with him. Olveru and Haeran shoved me out as quickly as I could bring warm clothing and water." "That makes two newcomers in as many months," said Enedhil. "Is this one a child as well?" Taraz shook his head. Shoved to the back of the small bedchamber, he had seen less than he would have liked. "He is the usual age, I think.

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Haeran says he was found half-drowned on the beach. He already has the sickness, so no one can get anything sensible out of him." "Is he pretty?" asked Alanáro, the salacious curve of his lips voicing his thoughts. Olenwë glared at him. "Have you ever seen anybody drown? There's nothing pretty about them when they wash up, even when they don't die." As someone who had grown up in a fishing village, he could have told his companions tales to curdle their stomachs and banish any burgeoning thoughts of seduction. Instead, he asked how long the young man had been in the sea. Taraz could not answer him. Very little useful information was forthcoming from the eunuch, and in the end the three young men were left with more speculation than fact. By the time Olveru returned for supper and the evening devotions, the news had gone throughout the house, and nearly everyone in the communal dining hall clamored for news. "Now tell us," said Enedhil, "is he just sick in the normal way or did he really drown?" The glower Olveru gave his brothers indicated he wanted peace in which to eat. Still, he answered their queries. "He was alive when found, though barely. The fisher folk think the hrill brought him to shore." "Is he handsome?" asked Alanáro. Enedhil swatted him. "When was the last time you saw an ugly talevé?" Olveru said only that they would have to wait and see what the change wrought. A new talevé's confinement usually lasted fifteen days, during which time he weathered the transition as his body adjusted. Once he recovered and was informed of the rules and responsibilities of his new status, he would proceed into the Blue House to live out his life as one of the Lady's sacred Water-lovers. A room must be prepared and all other comforts made ready. From the beginning, it was clear that the young man had no belongings to be moved in. Olveru, whose task it was to welcome newcomers, went into the storeroom to select suitable clothing and toiletries. Before he left, however, he turned and gave a stern warning to others in the room. "We do not even know his name," he said. "I can tell you that he is not a halfwit and can speak, but he says nothing when we ask him who he is and why he was in the water. It may be the changing sickness or the shock of being in the ocean. Madril is adamant that you leave off your

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usual games when he arrives." As he spoke, Olveru glared at Alanáro. "He will probably remind you himself when the time comes." No more news came even as the fortnight passed. Entry to the gatehouse was strictly controlled, so all most could do was gaze across the courtyard at the tall hedgerows and slate roof of the structure and wonder. As a physician, Olveru was the only talevé who had access to the newcomer, yet he was as uninspired as the priests when it came to gossip. From the House of the Water came strict orders from the chief priest Madril that the new talevé was not to be disturbed when he first entered the Blue House. However, anyone who could devise an excuse to be in the atrium or garden on that day did so. Madril came to the house with three other priests. Olveru and the physician Haeran led the young man in through the atrium and out into the garden. He was slightly built, dressed in clothing that did not quite fit, and he leaned on Olveru's arm as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. He appeared dazed and frightened, trembling slightly as he moved, His timidity made it seem a deliberate gesture. "I wish he would move his hair out of the way so we can get a better look at him," muttered Alanáro. "Be quiet," hissed Olenwë. His eyes were fixed on the face shadowed under the curtain of hair. That the young man was shaking did not alarm him, as almost every new talevé who came into the Blue House was weak and disoriented from the change, and there were always a few anxious moments when the introductions were made. Even more puzzling was the way the young man fumbled through the ritual welcome. Surely someone had explained the rite, where he did not have to respond except to nod, but this one looked ready to bolt. Olenwë did not realize he had taken a step forward until Enedhil seized his arm. "You heard what Madril said. Leave him alone." With his eyes still on the youth, Olenwë shook off his companion's hold. Enedhil had followed the others downstairs in order to ensure that no mischief was done. Olenwë could not speak for Alanáro or anyone else. "I'm not going to seduce him. I just want to talk to him." **** After the quiet of the gatehouse, the priests and the house into which they led him were a frightening blur. Through an elaborate, marblefloored atrium he went, past fading murals of dolphins and hrill into a garden abundant with fruit trees and the sound of splashing water.

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Amidst the greenery stood several white-haired men engaged in conversation. They turned at his approach and fell quiet. He did not look at them. Several days ago he had seen his own hair, all the color bled out of it, and did not know what to think beyond his shock, even when the healer Olveru gently explained to him that the Lady of the Waters had chosen him to become one of Her sacred lovers. Olveru was the only talevé he saw in his confinement, though he was assured that others were nearby whom he would meet once he was well enough. The prospect filled him with apprehension. In his blue-gray priestly robes, Olveru exuded such an air of sacred mystery that the young man feared what the others were like. No matter what the mirror told him, he did not believe could not possibly belong among them. It is all a mistake. I am not supposed to be here. At every opportunity, he tried to tell Olveru and the priests who came to visit him, yet when they asked him why he could not say. There were no words for his terror and shame that muddled his thoughts, and he could not think past the chills that racked his body to find them. And when they asked his name, his tongue froze. At last, Olveru said that if he could not remember they would find another name for him. Whatever name he had, he decided, it must not be worth keeping if he could not remember it. They let him sleep in a large, soft bed in a quiet room, bringing him tea and cool compresses when his fever rose. A chamber pot was kept close, for if he did not have to vomit, he had to urinate, and was miserable even when Olveru explained that his body was purging itself as it changed to the Water element. He slept fitfully, his dreams tormented with images of sea creatures swarming around him in dark, cold waters that closed over his head and would not let him go. When the priests came, they told him that he had been in the sea. Some fishermen who dwelt near the shore had found him lying in the surf with the driftwood they had come to collect and had called for the priests, who brought him to the House of the Water. "You must have fallen off a boat on the open sea and washed ashore," said Olveru. "The priests have made inquiries on the waterfront, but none of the fisher folk here in Sirilon have reported anyone missing." His fever lessened and his body grew strong enough that he was able to take exercise in the small garden attached to the gatehouse. When a priest came to tell him that new lodgings were being prepared for him,

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his fear returned. At first he thought he was to be taken out into the city, but the priest drew his attention over to a nearby building with a blue slate roof. From his upper story window he was able to see more of the building and another, larger complex looming behind it. When the priest explained that the Blue House was where the talevé traditionally dwelt, all the young man understood was that he was going to be taken from his quiet room and pretty garden and immured behind temple walls. It did not feel like the honor the priest claimed it was. Clothing was brought for him. More formal than the robe and shift he had worn in the gatehouse, it did not quite fit. More priests came to instruct him in the rules of the Blue House and his responsibilities in it, at which he told them that a mistake had been made and stopped listening. The following morning when they came to escort him to his new lodgings, he struggled between them, calming only when Olveru appeared. "The Blue House is just like the gatehouse, only larger," said the healer. "You will have your own room and a beautiful garden to walk in, and everyone is eager to meet you. No one will hurt you. There is nothing to fear." Although his manner was grave, Olveru had a soft, persuasive voice. At length, the young man took the healer's outstretched hand and let Olveru guide him across a broad courtyard and into the walled compound. Eighteen talevé dwelled in the Blue House, plus the servants, who were eunuchs from a foreign land. Only castrated males were considered reliable enough to wait on the Lady's sacred lovers. "You will be with others who are just like you. I understand you are nervous, but you will soon find there is nothing to fear." Olveru patted the young man's hand, drawing him through the gate. No matter how low his station at birth, every talevé was entitled to respect. He was provided with the best of everything, including an education if he was unlettered, and aside from certain religious obligations his life was one of comfort and leisure. He allowed Olveru's soothing words to take him past the murals whose sea creatures too closely echoed his nightmares and onto a colonnade that looked out on a broad, green garden. Madril, a tall, thin man with salt-and-pepper hair, led the priests who met him on the shaded path. All four bowed deeply to him.

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"Welcome to the Blue House, most favored one. Here you will dwell in the Lady's sight, according to Her wish." Beyond a nod of acknowledgement, the young man was not required to make a ritual response. For this small blessing alone he was grateful. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the talevé began to approach him. No one had warned him about having to interact so soon with the others, and the man's physical presence so intimidated him that he quickly ducked his head. Even the other man's voice was powerful, deep with a strange accent, as he asked if he could give assistance. "Olenwë, the ritual is well in hand. I do not think now is the time," said Madril. "The ritual's over," answered the talevé, whose name the young man did not quite get; it sounded foreign. "I was going to ask if you needed help getting him upstairs." "We have people for that," said one of the other priests. "This is no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest." The voice that answered him dropped to a dangerous timbre. "You might be a priest, Kyrin, but I haven't forgotten how to punch a man who insults me." "That is enough from both of you!" Madril's voice scythed through the tension, separating the two. "Olenwë, I thought I had given orders to clear the garden and atrium. You and your friends should not be here." "I don't know about them, but I was minding my own business," said Olenwë. "Those bushes over there, they need pruning." "And you have not touched a pair of pruning shears in the two years you have been here." "No, but I used to haul fishnets out of the sea for a living. I'm strong enough to carry a man when he can't walk, and this one's shaking so hard I don't see how he's going to make it up the stairs on his own. I don't suppose you're going to carry him. Here, let me take him, Olveru. You just tell somebody to show me where his room is." Powerful arms went around the young man's waist, sliding behind his knees and lifting him off the ground even as his body stiffened in protest. He did not want Olveru to leave him with this stranger. Dizziness took him, forcing him to close his eyes and bury his face in the other man's chest. Olenwë's strength was reassuring, but the words of his argument with the priest made the young man afraid. This is no time for you to go looking for yet another conquest. Though he did not quite

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understand what that warning meant, it implied something sinister.

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Chapter Two The bedchamber was more spacious than the room he had occupied in the gatehouse. Beeswax polish pervaded the air, and a soft blue coverlet draped a bed piled with cushions. As soon as he felt the mattress under him, the young man sat up, blinking his eyes to dispel his vertigo. Once the dizziness passed, he reached to undo the cords that held back the curtains. A large hand circled his wrist to stop him. "Why do you want to hide?" asked Olenwë. "You should pull your hair out of your eyes and stop being so shy. Nobody's going to hurt you." All he could do was shake his head. While reassuring at first, Olenwë's solicitousness was not altogether proper, and the young man could not help but notice that neither Olveru nor the priests had followed them into the room. "All right," said Olenwë, "if you aren't going to show yourself, and since Olveru says you don't have a name, I'm going to call you Ninion. It means hidden one in Danasi. There are statues of their gods everywhere on the island where I was born. They all have blank faces, because it's forbidden to look at the divine. We call them ninoni." The Danasi dwelled in the islands and coastal highlands west of Sirilon. They were secretive and rough, worshipping their own pantheon of nameless gods. "You are not a Shivarian?" the young man asked. Chancing only the slightest look at Olenwë's face, he saw someone tall and broad-shouldered, with a firm jaw. Aside from the accent, Olenwë did not seem like a foreigner. "I thought only Shivarians could become talevé." "I'm mixed blood," said Olenwë. "Most of the people of the Seaward Islands are, but we worship the Lady of the Waters as well as anybody. Here, I'll show you." He quickly rolled up his sleeve to reveal a firmly muscled bicep bearing the triple wave of the Water rune. "I got my tat at fifteen. All islanders honor the Lady like this, and the men on the ship that brought me here had them as well."

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The tattoo rippled as Olenwë flexed his arm; the young man could not stop looking at it. "So do you like the name? Shivarian names don't mean anything, but Danasi ones do." "Ninion," he murmured, trying the name on his lips. It sounded all right. He nodded. Olveru appeared with a few loose leaves of paper and writing implements. He set them down on the wooden sideboard before ushering Olenwë out of the room. "You may see him later, once he is situated." He politely but firmly closed the door after the man. "I will leave you to rest for a while, but first we must see about a name for you. The priests must make a record of your arrival." "He said you could call me Ninion." "Olenwë gave you a name? It must be a Danasi one, like his. But if you like it, that is what we will call you. Should you remember your own name or anything about your former life, I brought paper for you to jot things down as they come to you." Olveru went over to the window, where a long chest covered by cushions doubled as a seat. "You will find toiletries and clothing, which can be altered if it does not fit you. On special occasions, you will wear robes; I will help you choose something suitable from our stores. Tonight you may eat here but tomorrow you will take your meals with everyone else in the communal hall. The bathing room and privy are down the hall. We typically bathe together, though you may decide whether you prefer to go in the morning or evening." A eunuch arrived bearing a tray of food. The young man picked at the oatmeal and sliced apple before curling up on the carpet against the chest with the paper and pencil. During his illness his mind had turned to wool, unable to recall even the names of the people who tended him. Now fragments had begun to return, surprising him with their intensity. Olveru wanted him to write, to remember, but words would not come to him, and what little he knew he did not want to share. Ninion. No other name came to him, however hard he tried to remember. Ninion it would be, then. Letting his thoughts meander with the shifting light of the room, he idly moved the pencil across the page, and had halfway sketched the elaborate feet of the brazier before he realized what he was doing and crumpled up the paper. ****

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The movements were an intricate dance of balance and strength, but the implement belonged to the Seaward Islands and half a dozen other fishing towns and villages along the Shivarian coast; only the net hook had been removed. Olenwë moved in tandem with Elentur and Daro, each one easily twirling the weight of the staff. In the islands it was as good a weapon as a sword, while in the Blue House the purpose of the exercise was physical fitness, not combat. "Oh, look there," said Elentur, snickering loudly enough to be heard halfway across the garden. "He must be looking for his doll." The young talevé who was the butt of his joke stiffened and quickly scurried down the colonnade into the Blue House's library. Olenwë waited to see what Daro would say, but the other man simply stopped his exercise and leaned on the staff in a pensive manner. A fourteen-year-old talevé was really nothing to joke about. The priests told them outright that they did not have any business questioning the Lady's choice, but that did not stop the speculation. What had gotten into Her to even look twice at Dyas made them all wonder. Perhaps in a few years he would be attractive; now he was simply scrawny and childish. "Maybe the doll is a better bedmate," Daro finally said. Elentur snorted. "Yeah, but it doesn't suck cock the way I do." "Leave him alone!" Olenwë was stunned to hear the voice of the young man huddled on the bench at the edge of the exercise yard. In the five weeks he had been in the Blue House, Ninion had hardly said ten words to anyone. It was easy to forget he was even there. "Hey, we're just having a bit of fun," Elentur called back. "You want to join us?" Ninion's eyes were blazing. "You are all disgusting!" When he turned and stormed back toward the house, it had not been in Olenwë to follow. The young man's tantrum was hardly worth the effort, yet before he knew it Olenwë was snatching up his tunic and running across the gravel, then onto the garden path to catch up with him. "Slow down there. Now tell me, why am I so disgusting? I haven't got anything on the bottom of my shoe and I took a bath before, so I shouldn't smell too bad." Ninion stopped under the colonnade, well out of sight of the others. "You make fun of him." "And he lets us," said Olenwë. "Maybe you didn't notice, seeing as

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how you never let your hair out of your eyes, but Dyas always rises to the bait." "You should know better." If there was one thing Olenwë understood about Ninion, it was that under his inexplicable shyness was an arrogance that could only belong to the highborn, whether he remembered his birth or not. Moreover, he did not like other men getting too close to him; he even wore his underclothes into the bathing pool, averting his gaze from those who bared their bodies. Olenwë could not see what was so wrong about young men being naked together. Everybody had the same parts, and it was all very proper. "Is there anything else that disgusts you?" asked Olenwë. "Yes, your vulgar language." "That's a big word, isn't it? Yes, I talk like a fisherman, and so does Elentur, because we both are fishermen, and yes, I say don't instead of do not. No, it's not proper for a talevé, but the priests know if they don't like it they can kiss my—" Ninion growled. "You are impossible!" Quickly sidestepping Olenwë, he scurried away. Again, against his better judgment, Olenwë hurried to catch up with him. **** Ninion wished the other man would leave him alone. Olenwë's presence was intimidating, never mind that he was stripped to the waist for exercise with hands that could snap a wooden post in two. His mingled odors of leather, sweat, and male musk were a combination that unnerved Ninion. He started to slam the door, but Olenwë thrust his hand into the jamb and pushed it open again. "What do you want?" Olenwë walked into the room, noting with a raised eyebrow the way Ninion put the bed between them. "I just want to talk to you." "If you are going to swear at me, you can just turn around and go away." The priests who instructed the talevé in the behavior appropriate for their station all agreed that the speech of some of the Blue House's residents was lamentably crude. A talevé was not supposed to use contractions, just as he was not supposed to scratch himself, wipe his nose on his sleeve or make rude jokes in public. Everyone behaved when the priests were about, but when their backs were turned and once they left the Blue House for the night the talevé did as they pleased.

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Ninion climbed onto the bed, crossed his legs, and tried to ignore Olenwë by doing the meditations prescribed for him by Aglarin. The priest had explained to both him and Dyas that they each had an animal spirit called a ki'iri inside them. Only through meditation and study would they learn what their ki'iri spirit was and how to release it. Olenwë made no effort to leave. "Oh, I see. Do you know what your animal is yet?" Take a hint and go away, Ninion thought. The mattress dipped at one end. When Ninion slitted his eyes to look, he was horrified to see Olenwë sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'm a hrill. There are twelve sacred animals, but that's the best one you can have. There are a few other hrill here, too, and Daro's a senu on top of that." "What is a senu?" asked Ninion. "What cellar did you grow up in that you don't know what a senu is?" he sputtered. "It's somebody who can talk to the hrill." "I did not grow up in a cellar. I was born here in Sirilon, but I never got to go down to the docks. I never left the upper city and I never saw a hrill until—" The memory of dark shapes in the water suddenly washed over him. Hrill were gentle creatures, servants of the Lady who were known to rescue men drowning at sea. They should not inspire fear, yet it was all Ninion could do to force them from his thoughts. At the edge of the bed, Olenwë watched him intently. When he spoke, his voice was soft yet earnest. "The upper city," he murmured. "You remember where you come from?" Ninion quickly shook his head. "I was born here, I know that, and I lived in a house with many servants, but that is all. I remember nothing of my name or family." "So why were you in the water?" asked Olenwë. It was not the first time someone had asked, but Ninion had always been able to evade giving an answer. What am I to say, that I do not remember? Now Olenwë loomed too close to him, an insurmountable obstacle, the need in his eyes burning so hotly it compelled Ninion to draw back. "Go away," he whispered. "Please, just go away."

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Chapter Three The lesson had technically ended for the day, or would have had Dyas stopped questioning the ki'iri master. "Can I become a bird?" "No, Dyas," said Aglarin. "Birds have hollow bones to aid their flight, but you do not. You cannot change your basic nature to include flight, or gills with which to breathe underwater." "But Arion can do a hrill, he's told me so." Aglarin swiftly corrected him. "He has told you. And a hrill is not a fish. It is warm-blooded and breathes air, as you do." Ninion had begun to feel the ki'iri master's impatience. At this rate, they would never be dismissed. Dyas was pleasant enough when he was not being baited. More than anything, he wanted to go home to his two little sisters and his dog, and sulked when the priests told him he could not keep a pet. Seeing his loneliness, Ninion sympathized with him, but like everyone else he wondered what had possessed the Lady of the Waters to select so young and immature a lover. Out of boredom, two other talevé had come to listen to the lecture. Ninion suspected they had come to torment Dyas. Aglarin, in fact, glared at them with eyes that warned them to hold their tongues, which they did not do; they sat in the back and whispered to each other throughout. Ninion drew his lips tight in anger. Did they think the boy could not hear them? Mindful of Olenwë's words, that the boy encouraged his tormentors, he urged Dyas to ignore the teasing. However, the baiting did not stop and the boy could not concentrate. Ninion was strongly tempted to ask Aglarin to put the others out, but he had been taught from a very young age that it was the highest disrespect to interrupt an elder. Aglarin pulled his bushy eyebrows together into the beginnings of a frown. While he had vast reserves of patience, even the portly ki'iri master must eventually reach his limit. Once again, he gave the two young men a warning glare while trying to stay focused on Dyas' digressions. "There are twelve sacred animals and only twelve," he

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answered. "And they must be warm-blooded and close to your own body size and weight." "What about a dog?" pressed Dyas. "Dogs are nice. I used to have one called Arcus." "What about a nice little baby ducky?" Elentur chortled under his breath. Finally, Ninion turned around and snapped at him. "Be quiet! I am trying to listen." In a calm yet tight voice, Aglarin ordered Elentur out of the room. Minias, who had been sitting beside him, made his excuses and left before he could be similarly evicted. "Why do they have to be so mean?" Dyas asked once they left. "I do not know," murmured Ninion, "but you did well in ignoring them." "At least Olenwë wasn't with them. He teases you, too, Ninion." "Yes, he does." "Does that mean he likes you? My mother said that when somebody teases you like that, it means they like you." Dyas frowned, puzzling over what he had just said. "Although I think she meant it about girls." "No," said Ninion, "it means that he is a pest." "I guess they're all pests, then." Aglarin cleared his throat to get their attention. "Any talevé who wishes has the right to attend a lecture, but I will speak to them and see if I can discourage them from attending your lessons." Dyas shrugged. "Don't bother. I'm never going to get it." "The ki'iri gift will come to you, just as proper speech will." Aglarin winked at the boy. "But you must practice both." Ninion gently touched the boy's shoulder. "The gift has not come to me, either." "It will not come to either one of you if you dwell on it too much," said Aglarin. They were released to the afternoon meal, after which they had an hour of exercise before the day's second round of lessons. Some of the talevé who entered the Blue House were unlettered or did not quite meet the standard. These were sent to the schoolroom to take lessons in diction, reading, and writing in addition to the practical and devotional instruction which they all received. And then some must endure further lessons with the priests, who tried to instill in them that such things as

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scratching, belching, and slouching were not considered proper social graces. Upon his arrival, Ninion had been examined in all these areas, and the priests had determined that he was properly educated; that he could not recall his formal schooling or anything beyond the ability to read, write, and do figures did not trouble the priests. "You need only be literate, well-mannered, and able to memorize the correct prayers," he was told. Where he would have spent his afternoon in the schoolroom, Ninion obtained permission to go to the House of the Water where the priests gave him a job cataloguing manuscripts. If he performed well, he might at a later time be allowed to work in the scriptorium. He particularly enjoyed studying the sacred texts with their gilded pages and jewel-like illuminations, though he was careful not to be seen idling. In the evening after dinner, the talevé enjoyed a few hours of leisure before bed. Usually they gathered in the communal sitting room to talk, read, or play games. Sometimes the eunuchs emerged from their quarters to join them and share stories about Tajhaan, the distant desert land where they had been born. A few talevé, looking to alleviate their boredom, even took lessons in the Tajhaani language. Dyas showed Ninion how to play staves, a game which he did not know. "I wish I didn't have to have those stupid speaking and writing lessons," he complained. "The others all make fun of me." Ninion gave the culprits a sidelong glance. "They are jealous because they are all older than you and are not doing as well." "Where did you learn to speak so well? Are you rich? Enedhil says all rich people know how to speak right." "No one is rich or poor in the Blue House." "No," said Dyas. "I meant before." "I do not recall, but I must have had a good teacher. Here, you are neglecting your staves and it was you who wanted to play. You have the blue ones, remember?" **** Ninion had made a practice of coolly ignoring him. His attitude was a typical piece of highborn arrogance that would have been sufficient for Olenwë to leave him alone, yet in unguarded moments Olenwë saw another side of him that renewed his determination to gain the young man's trust.

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When he was not at his lessons, Ninion could often be found curled up in an inconspicuous corner with a scrap of paper and a drawing pencil. Whatever he drew he never showed anyone, shoving it under a book whenever someone expressed curiosity. Olenwë did not know why, but in those moments of peace, Ninion was strikingly beautiful, and Olenwë sensed that seeing him in this state was a rare privilege. The summer air was too warm for afternoon exercises. Olenwë went out into the garden, hoping perhaps for a game of dice or staves with Elentur; the man had trounced him last time and he wanted his coppers back. He paused when he glimpsed Ninion sitting in the partial shade of a lime tree with Dyas. Both were drawing. Now there was an interesting sight. Olenwë stealthily ventured close enough to see the boy's childish scrawling, but Ninion immediately sensed he was being watched and clutched the paper to his breast. There was no sense in hiding his presence any longer. "Why don't you let me see what you're doing?" "'Cause you'll make fun of him," said Dyas. Olenwë took a long breath. "Listen, boy, I didn't ask for your opinion, and if you get snippy with me I'm going box your ears." "You can't do that," answered Dyas. "I'm a talevé." "So am I." Olenwë made a shooing gesture. "Now go scurry off somewhere so I can have a word with Ninion." Gathering his things, Dyas stalked off with a murderous glare. "I'll see you later, Ninion, once he goes away. Just don't let him kiss you. My mother says if you kiss somebody and you're not related that means you're lovers." Before Olenwë could answer the boy with an obscene gesture, Ninion rounded on him. "Why is it so difficult for you to be nice to him?" "I was being nice, otherwise I would've boxed his ears as I said," answered Olenwë. "He hadn't any business saying I was going to make fun of you. I just wanted to see what you were doing. You spend a lot of time with pencil and paper." If anything, Ninion pressed the drawing pad even more firmly against him. "It is nothing, just scribbling." "Then why don't you let me see?" Putting his hand on the edge of the drawing pad, taking care not to be too rough or appear too eager, Olenwë managed to coax it away from Ninion.

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Unable to draw and not knowing anyone who could, he anticipated the type of childish scrawls Dyas had produced. True art was the furthest thing from his expectations. A graphite image of Aglarin met his gaze; the clean-shaven ki'iri master was poised in mid-lecture, as lifelike as if he was standing before them. "This isn't scribbling at all," he murmured. "It's beautiful. Do you have anymore?" Ninion bit his lip. "Can I have it back now?" Instead, Olenwë flipped through the pad. Every inch of paper was covered with drawings, images of trees, statues, and people. Olenwë found himself gazing upon priests, eunuchs, Olveru, Dyas, Arion with his abundantly long hair and….himself? Not just any image, but stripped to the waist in the bath, luxuriating in the warm water; the image was far more sensual than he would have given the artist credit for. "You drew me?" "Please, give them back." Olenwë was alarmed by his pleading tone. There was no reason in the world for him to be so distraught over a compliment. "I was going to ask you if I could keep this one, but it's all right. You can have it back." He put the drawings back into Ninion's hands. "Really, it's all right." The speed with which the young man gathered up his things and fled was doubly alarming. Olenwë could only wonder what he had done or said to put him off so. "All I did was compliment him," he murmured. "You were mean to him. I told him you would be." A familiar and thoroughly unwelcome voice told him that Dyas had been spying on them. Had the boy been standing close enough, Olenwë would have cuffed him. "Oh, shut up."

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Chapter Four Night beaded the windowsill with dew, and a bright moon dappled the curtains of his bed. Within, all was darkness, a cocoon of solitude and dreams. Down the ephemeral paths of sleep he went, peering first in one corner than another until he came to a place that beckoned him to stay. Amid the softly rustling leaves he saw it, a gentle creature, skittish at his approach, browsing through the grass of a sun-dappled clearing in a forest where no other beast stirred. A majestic head lifted, liquid eyes caught his and held his gaze. The next morning after breakfast, Ninion told Aglarin about the dream. Nodding, the ki'iri master waited until he was finished to give his answer. "It was a stag you saw. It is sacred to both the Earth Mother and the Lady of the Waters." Ninion had known what he was seeing; to have it confirmed brought him no relief. "But people hunt stags." Aglarin gave him a curious look. "Only noblemen are permitted to hunt deer. Have you ever done so?" "No, I have just seen them." Whatever memories he had mislaid, Ninion was certain he had never been hunting. He had, however, heard the cautionary fables of talevé who abandoned the Blue House while in the throes of their ki'iri gift only to be killed by hunters or frightened villagers while still in spirit form. "When I change, someone will shoot at me. They will not know any better." "You have heard too many stories. When you transform, it will be strictly within the Blue House. Hrill and dolphins are the only ki'iri permitted to go out." Following protocol, Ninion did not formally announce his vision to the other talevé. This would not occur until after his first successful transformation, but everyone knew by the preparations being undertaken what he would become. Those who shared his ki'iri gift offered encouragement though little practical advice. As the experience was

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different for all, he was discouraged from forming any preconceived notions about what would take place. A ki'iri spirit took its cue from a talevé's own disposition, so the revelation rarely came as a surprise. All agreed that Ninion had a deer's liquid brown eyes, yet were puzzled when Olveru pointed out that a stag could be fierce under certain circumstances. Aglarin arranged for him to visit the private menagerie of Sirilon's ruling prince, where the handlers let him touch a stag and watch it in its pen so he could study the animal he was to become. His dreams intensified, always taking him to that same place: the silent, sun-dappled clearing where his hands and nostrils were filled with the living pulse and musk of the animal in whose pelt he now slept. In the darkness of the night, he woke feeling strangely detached. The deerskin ended up on the floor and he went to the wash basin to vigorously scrub the dead animal's scent from his hands and face. Sleep did not return so easily; he filled the small hours with sketches of things half-remembered from his dreams. One morning he woke to a sudden ache in his limbs. By the time he stumbled out of bed in search of Olveru, he could barely walk. In the corridor, he found a passing eunuch and asked him to bring the healer, as he did not think he could make it downstairs. Another eunuch helped put him back to bed, and Olveru arrived within a few minutes to see what was wrong. The healer did not seem alarmed. He simply took Ninion's pulse and sent for Aglarin. "What is it?" asked Ninion. Every pore in his body radiated pain. Surely he must be dying. "It is your ki'iri spirit trying to emerge. Do not fight it," said Olveru. "Aglarin will be here as swiftly as he can and he will help you release it." Whatever Olveru meant by swiftly, it seemed to be taking forever. There was no space for fear or thought, only the urgency of pain. At that moment, Ninion would have done anything to stop it. Aglarin was still brushing bits of pastry off the front of his robe as he came in. Gently nudging Olveru aside, he sat down on the bed beside Ninion and took his wrist to measure his pulse. "The time is now," he said. "The spirit is already halfway out of you. Relax and release it." Ninion groaned. "It hurts." "That is because you are trying to suppress it by fighting the pain. It is a natural response, but the exact opposite of what you should be doing.

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Relax your limbs and let the pain take you. You will not lose consciousness and you will not die." Slowly, he unwound his body where he had doubled over himself and tried to breathe in and out as Aglarin urged him to do. At once, the pain hit him with renewed vigor, and he cried out, but even as he did so he could feel his limbs stretching and reshaping themselves. Olveru quickly moved in to pull his clothing off him; as he reached up to help, thrashing his arms and legs to be rid of the linen nightshirt, he saw the pelt beginning to erupt over his skin. His cry of alarm dissolved, and the sounds of human speech blurred into incomprehensible background noise. Smells deepened even as many of the colors in the room muted to gray, though the crimson embroidery on the cushions by the window remained vivid. Both men helped roll him off the bed onto the floor, where he wobbled on four legs that seemed too flimsy to bear his weight. His head drooped under the unwieldy antlers that had sprouted from his forehead; he tried to shake them loose until he discovered the trick of keeping his head and neck balanced. Aglarin spoke to him, gesturing that he should follow. Others came out into the corridor to look at him and murmur in their strange tongue. The stairs were difficult to negotiate at first, but he quickly managed the trick of placing his legs and was soon following the man across the atrium into the garden. Morning dew still clung to the grass, which beckoned to him with its crisp, green fragrance. His last meal had been the night before. He started to browse and nibble, ducking away when the man, making negative sounds, gestured for him to stop. Another man approached him. He recognized the scent, only now it was stronger, a blend of soft wool and male musk. The smell should have aroused his competitive instinct, but there were no females about for the challenge of butting antlers. It aroused something else in him instead, and it seemed odd to him that it was musk and not estrus that drew him. Although he did not understand the murmuring sounds the man made, he submitted to his caresses, relishing the way his hands roamed his head and flanks. Exhaustion suddenly crept over him. No longer could he support the weight of his antlers. His head sagged and, wobbling into the grass, he sank down on trembling legs. A stag's instincts told him to keep his eyes open, that it was not safe to be so vulnerable with other males nearby, but

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he was too far gone to care. Closing his eyes, he dreamt, stirring only at the first slight touch of cool air on his body. Arms went around him, lifting him out of the nest of grass he had made for himself. The scent was still there, wool and musk, and his human mind supplied a name. Weariness obscured his shame; he vaguely knew he was naked, but did not care. Once safely cocooned in the warm softness of his bed, Ninion slipped away again. It was evening before nausea woke him. Fumbling in the darkness for the chamber pot, he threw up something that, once he managed to strike a light, looked like bits of grass. Ki'iri and human memories did not quite merge; he tried to remember if he had eaten while in his other body but could not. Aglarin had warned him against it. He slept the rest of the night, stirring only when one of the servants drew back the curtains to admit a blinding panel of morning light. "You cannot stay in bed all day, honored one," said the eunuch. "There is going to be a ceremony today, because you performed your magic. They are going to say special prayers." Olveru presently brought food and clean water for his wash basin. "Aglarin will come later this morning with Madril to lead you in a prayer of thanks to the Lady." He peered into the chamber pot. "You ate while in your ki'iri body." "I do not remember." Ninion managed to keep down half a biscuit and some juice before pushing the rest aside. His limbs felt too slack and drowsy for movement, yet he could not go back to sleep. He curled up among the pillows with his drawing pad and pencil. It had taken two months for him to work up enough courage to ask for good quality paper and graphite, and to his astonishment the priests had been more than happy to accommodate him. Most of the talevé left him alone for the time being, a few peering in to see if he was awake, but the tall figure who came to stand by his bed had the air of one who had come to stay. "Are you feeling better?" asked Olenwë. Letting his hair fall in front of his face, Ninion nodded. "You should be getting dressed soon, didn't they tell you?" Olenwë was dressed more formally than usual, in dark blue silk with a silver brooch at his shoulder. "It's a nice ceremony they have, and they give you a pin that has your animal to say you're a full talevé. I daresay Aglarin's had it ready for weeks." He paused before adding, "You were a lovely stag."

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"You saw me?" "I was the one who carried you back here, don't you remember? Some don't recall their transformations afterward, but those of us who are hrill usually do. I think it's because hrill are smarter to begin with. They're almost like people, in a way." Ninion realized with a sudden flush of embarrassment that he had been naked when his transformation ended. Ducking his head, he hugged the drawing pad to him. Olenwë dropped his eyes to the paper and graphite. "What are you drawing?" "It is nothing." "Show me. I like everything you draw. The Lady knows I can't draw anything, not even a proper eye for the prow of a ship." "Why does a ship need an eye?" "It's a Danasi custom," explained Olenwë. "The eye guards the vessel from evil spirits in the deep. Now come, show me what you're drawing." Ninion reluctantly relinquished the page. "It is not very good." The composition was very fluid, not at all like the portraits or still-life sketches he was accustomed to doing. Olenwë's brow furrowed slightly as he puzzled over it, and Ninion's heart sank. I knew it was not at all good. "Is this what you saw when you were a stag?" "It is what little I remember." He gave the drawing back. "Why are you so shy about your drawings? If I could draw like that, everybody would know about it." Ninion covered the drawing with a blank sheet and stuffed it under his pillow. "I do not like others looking at my work. It is nothing to look at anyway, truly. Perhaps I should not waste my time with it." **** The ceremony was an elegantly simple affair, with all the talevé, eunuchs, and tutors present. Ninion had assumed it would take place in the atrium where the morning and evening devotions were held. Instead, the priests led them across the garden to a shrine whose doors opened to reveal a marble rotunda. A pool of water reflected the sea-greened copper image of the Lady that stood in a niche at the opposite end. In full regalia, Madril officiated, presenting Ninion to the Lady as Her fully invested servant.

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In Your sight, in both bodies, the one he brings and one that is Your gift, here is Your servant, Ninion. What everyone was really to see was Aglarin's gift: a silver brooch in the shape of a leaping stag. When he pinned it on Ninion's shoulder, it was the signal to applaud and come forward to offer congratulations. A small meal was laid out in the communal dining room. Ninion's stomach was still queasy from the grass and he could not eat, but he did his best to smile at the others. Socializing was not something that came easily to him. As soon as possible, he retreated to a corner with Dyas, who, like him, had no one else to talk to. Olenwë promptly came over with a pastry and the watered wine talevé were sometimes allowed. "Why aren't you eating?" "I am not hungry." "Here, take this." He set the plate down in front of Ninion. "If you want to get big and strong you need to eat more." Someone once told him that the people of the Seaward Islands were typically taller and more vigorous than their mainland cousins, so Ninion very much doubted he would ever fill out the way Olenwë had. But he sensed that the other man would not leave him alone until he ate something, so he took the proffered plate and fork and choked down a few bites of pastry to please him. As he took a sip of the wine, Olenwë fumbled in his pocket. "I'd like to give you something. It's not as fancy as that pin, but it'll give you better luck." He held in his hand a bit of shell and rock crystal strung on a leather thong. It was not particularly attractive. "We wear these in the islands to be safe at sea. Before I came here, I wore it all the time." Ninion looked at the worn talisman, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. "Should you not keep it?" "The only time I ever go into the water now is for the hrill, and I can't wear it there. Here, turn around and let me put it on you." The talisman hung heavy and strange around his neck, and worse, Olenwë apparently expected him to wear it. Ninion murmured his thanks, though by this time he was blushing furiously and wanted nothing more than to tear the thing off. Still, the rules of common courtesy were clear. He should give a gift in return. Telling Olenwë to wait, he went upstairs and got his drawing pad.

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When he returned several minutes later, Olenwë was still sitting at the table with the plate of half-eaten pastry. His bemused expression became one of earnest as Ninion opened the pad and began to leaf through the pages. "What are you doing?" he asked. Toward the back, shoved behind images on better-quality paper, Ninion found the image of Olenwë in the bath. "Here," he said, timidly offering the drawing. "You can have this." Olenwë accepted the parchment, smoothing out the edges while careful not to blur the graphite. "You didn't have to give me anything," he said, "but it's beautiful, like you are." He lifted a hand to brush back the strands of hair that had fallen across Ninion's face. "You shouldn't hide yourself like that." Ninion flinched at the touch of those fingertips running through his hair, grazing his cheek. "Please do not touch me." "Why not?" "Because men should not do that." Olenwë smiled at him. He still had not moved his hand. "Outside, maybe they shouldn't, but here it's very different. I'm sure you know that." No one had said anything outright, and Ninion had experienced a very abrupt awakening when he saw two talevé kissing in a corner. The act so shocked him that he felt ill. He was even more horrified that no one stopped the two men, who did not seem the least bit concerned about being discovered. Later, when he summoned the nerve to ask, Olveru told him that talevé had love affairs with each other all the time. As a child he had been taught to revere talevé as pure vessels utterly devoted to the Lady, when in reality it seemed they were nothing more than whores going from one bed to another. Upon returning to his room, he had knelt in front of his shrine and prayed for the Lady's guidance. It was inconceivable that She did not know what Her lovers were doing, and that She would not punish them. "You are supposed to love the Lady, not each other. It is unnatural and disgusting." Olenwë narrowed his eyes. "When was the last time the Lady came to you?" The question cut more deeply than he had perhaps intended. Because the priests were so vague about this aspect of a talevé's calling, Ninion had not given it much thought. Only now did he consider that

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something might be lacking. "Never," he admitted. "Perhaps She does not like me." "That's not true. She came to you once," said Olenwë. "That's why you changed. But you have to understand, we're not with Her all the time. There are other Water-lovers in other cities, and then Her consort must have His due. Each of us gets to be with Her maybe once a year, which leaves us with nothing to do in the meantime." "You don't have to do those other things. You're supposed to be pure vessels for the Lady." "Sleeping with another talevé makes me dirty? There's nothing that says we shouldn't have sex, and the priests don't mind." That was the unlikeliest excuse Ninion had ever heard to justify what everyone knew was an unnatural practice, and he said so. "Maybe you haven't noticed," said Olenwë, "but a good many talevé happen to like men. I'm not ashamed to admit that I do. I always have." "Then why did anyone not punish you? A good beating would have cured you of it." Olenwë took this statement of fact with infuriatingly good humor. "Do you really think so? I wasn't punished because I didn't let anybody know. You're right, my father would've taken the skin off my back if he knew, but I don't think it would've done any good. Of course nobody wants to be unnatural, but there are some things men can't change. The Lady only knows how I tried. I did it with girls hoping I'd get interested, but it was their brothers I really wanted." Disgust and fascination warred within Ninion. "What about here?" "Here I don't have to hide what I am, because there are so many others like me," said Olenwë. "I've learned not to be ashamed of it. Liking other men doesn't make me weak or any less of a man. Give me some idiot who says I'm unnatural and I'll put his head through a wall if you don't believe me. And the way I see it, not liking girls means I'll be faithful to the Lady. If She didn't like it, She would say something." "But She is also a woman," protested Ninion. "No, the Lady is a goddess, and it's very different when you lie with Her. I'm not particularly good with words, and it's not something we're supposed to talk about even with each other, but She doesn't take the flesh to make love." **** It took all his self-control not to lean in and kiss Ninion and crush that slender body against his own. Had he been an islander, the young

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man would have understood immediately what the gift of the talisman meant. Lovers in the Seaward Islands exchanged tokens all the time, and Olenwë still had the bit of spiral shell his first lover had given him. Ninion could say what he liked about male love, but Olenwë sensed uncertainty even when he voiced his objections. Now the young man was wearing his token, but more importantly, he had given a gift in turn, something that was less than chaste. An islander knew that when the gift of a token was reciprocated, it meant that a lover's suit had been accepted. Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, thought Olenwë, you just told me you loved me.

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Chapter Five Crowds lined the streets from the House of the Water, extending east along the heights of Sirilon, to the House of the Air on its high promontory. For the Lord Min's feast-day, His banners hung from every pole and balcony, stirring in the crisp autumn air, and all businesses were closed. The citizens burned incense to the Lady's consort and gathered to catch a glimpse of the talevé, who went in solemn procession to do reverence to the Lord of the Winds. It was ritual humiliation. Once a year the talevé were required to acknowledge Min's right of precedence with the Lady of the Waters. Not to do so was to invite misfortune; those mariners, merchants and fishermen who relied on good winds in their sails for their livelihood could not afford the storms that ensued when Min grew agitated, or the calm seas that came when He withheld His favor. Ninion felt the crowd measuring him. In his finery of pale blue brocade, he felt stiff and half-dressed. For the occasion he had been forced to comb his hair out of his eyes, but he kept his gaze to the ground even as his companions held their heads high. It did not matter that the citizens along the route were respectful, even adoring as some of them called out and threw flowers. Large numbers of people frightened him. Olenwë, in his dark blue silk, was his partner as they walked in double file down the Street of the Princes. Ninion had not asked the other man to accompany him; he had simply taken the honor as if it was his right. Olenwë remained by his side throughout, lending his silent presence, and Ninion felt safe with him. The route was lined with temple guards from the House of the Water, and by the archers of Min, the god's elite corps who were also trained in the city's defense. Dressed in the god's white and gray, they formed an impassive barrier between the crowd and the procession, which included priests of both Houses as well as the talevé and a parade of the city's elite that stretched the entire two mile distance between the temples.

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Unlike Prince Carancil and his courtiers with their richly caparisoned mounts, the talevé were compelled to walk. The priests had cautioned them to wear comfortable shoes under their robes, but even the hardiest of them were footsore by the time they reached the courtyard of the House of the Air. Up a broad flight of steps they climbed, still in double file, and entered the god's white marble domain, a forest of wide columns banded in silver. Every door had been thrown open to welcome the Lord of the Winds; despite the bodies crowding the hall, the air was chill, stirring the chimes dangling high above. At the high altar, where Min's visage glared down at the worshippers, the priests of the Air stepped down to greet the talevé. Although they spoke words of welcome, their courtesy was as stern as the occasion demanded. The attendant priests of the Water fell away, as was proper in the house of another god. They had brought the supplicants as tradition demanded, but would not participate in the offerings. In the weeks before the equinox, the talevé had been taught the ritual genuflection and prayer. Those who had learned it in previous years were made to revisit their lessons until they could execute the movements perfectly. Now all nineteen of them lined up before the altar, went down to their knees in a single fluid gesture before the image of Min, and bowed their heads while performing the ritual invocation. Nineteen voices formed a synchronous echo in the deep, vaulted space; the murmur had barely subsided when the priests came forward with trays bearing small silver cups containing incense. When his turn came, Ninion gagged at the cloying scent of the dozen offerings before his. His hands trembled as they poured the contents of the cup upon the ritual fire. The sacrifice was the culmination of an ordeal that had nothing to do with the god. He was not used to being on display, and it was all he could do to keep his composure long enough to utter the prayer. Aglarin had told him that at one time, on this one day, the worshippers of Min had been permitted to pelt the Lady's lovers with refuse. In some backwater cities, the ritual humiliation was still carried to such extremes, but in the ancient center of the Lady's worship, such practices had been replaced by a beautiful ceremony designed to show the god what worthy lovers His consort had chosen.

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As he poured the incense and made his obeisance, Ninion felt multitudinous eyes on him, stripping him bare. Shame made him tremble; the crowd might as well have been throwing excrement at him. Olenwë stayed beside him. Through the voluminous folds of their robes, he sought Ninion's hand and squeezed it highly as the last few talevé performed the rite. His head was held high, his eyes looking straight ahead, over the heads of the crowd. "If they want to look, let them," he murmured from the corner of his mouth, so only Ninion could hear him. "They can't touch us." His hair stirred and fanned out behind him in the breeze drifting in through the open doorway; he merely lifted his chin and met the scrutiny of Min straight on. On the way back, their part in the ritual done, the talevé were permitted the luxury of a covered wagon to bear them back to the Blue House. Once out of public view, some groaned and began loosening the collars of their sweltering finery, but most were quiet. In all its forms, humiliation was a potent silencer. **** Ninion sat at the table beside Dyas, who was frowning over the day's lesson and munching on dried apricots. It was too cold and windy to sit outside; through the library window they saw one of their brothers taking exercise by sweeping dried leaves off the garden path. "Do you want some, Ninion?" Dyas proffered the plate of apricots. "They're good." He was not hungry but took one to please the boy. "See if you can close the book and repeat the verse back to me." Dyas closed the book and pushed it aside. "I don't know why I have to do any of this stuff," he grumbled. "I'm not any good at it." "It takes practice," Ninion said softly. "I know I'm not supposed to be here. Almost everybody laughs at me, but not you. You're all right." He fidgeted with the book, opening it and fanning the pages. "I've been wondering why there aren't any old talevé. I tried to ask Kyrin, but he won't let me have questions anymore. He says I ask too many of them." Ninion had also noticed the lack of older talevé. "Olveru says they die around age forty. It is part of the price a talevé pays for becoming part of the Water element. He assured me that it is a very gentle, painless death, a gift from the Lady."

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Dyas seemed unperturbed by this. "Forty's old. Still, I don't know why I'm here. I don't even like girls." Fourteen was old enough for a youth to begin developing an interest in the opposite sex, though it did not always happen that way. Even now, at eighteen, Ninion felt only slight stirrings that left him more puzzled than aroused. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. "The Lady is not a girl, but a goddess," he said. "She does not take the flesh to make love." "You mean to have sex? The priests say that I did it with Her once, but I don't remember." "None of us do, I think." Had Olenwë not intimated that making love with Her was to merge with the Water element, Ninion would have sworn that, given their reticence to discuss the matter, the talevé were left with no memory of any encounter with Her. Now it was clear that it was only the first time that he could not recall. "Maybe I don't remember because I'm not supposed to be here," said Dyas. "I still want to go home. I could dye my hair. It would be all right, nobody would know." Dyas would not have been the first talevé to express dissatisfaction with life in the Blue House. Though he came from a family of seafront warehouse clerks who often worked long, difficult hours, the prospects of leisure and luxury held little appeal for him. "My father promised he would take me to the warehouse and let me learn what he does. It was very important, because I was the only son, and now I can't help out." "Madril says that if it is necessary the temple will provide a small yearly sum to a talevé's family," said Ninion. "They will not starve, and I am sure they understand why you are not with them." The door opened and Olenwë came in. This time, he did not ask Dyas to leave or even move, but instead pulled a third chair up to the table. It was clear he was trying to be civil, yet the moment he opened his mouth to greet them the boy gathered up his books and excused himself entirely. "Why did you chase him away?" asked Ninion. "I like talking to him." Olenwë made a face. "Did you hear me tell him he had to go? I can call him back if you like, but I like talking to you, too, and I'd rather not have to deal with him whining about how much he misses his dog and helping his father out. It's obvious he's never done any really hard work

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or he'd be down on his knees thanking the Lady he didn't have to anymore." "You are insufferable." "No, I just remember what it's like getting into a fishing boat before dawn and being out there for hours in the cold and wet. By the time I was Dyas' age, I was already doing a man's work." Ninion knotted his fingers in his lap. "What is it like where you come from?" Olenwë started to answer, but stopped the moment he opened his mouth. "Do you want to walk in the garden?" he asked. "You've been indoors all day; you need a bit more color in your face. We can exercise and I'll tell you." Leaving the library, they went outside. Yellowing trees stirred in the wind, dropping their leaves into the flower beds and pond. Aside from the talevé who was tirelessly trying to keep the path clean, everyone else preferred to stay indoors. It was difficult to keep pace with Olenwë's longer stride, which he gradually slowed when he saw that Ninion was falling behind. "Well, what should I say about the Seaward Islands? There are more than sixty of them, a whole chain going from north to south. I lived on Ikun, which is more to the north, but the biggest island is Lachant where everybody goes to trade. From my village it's a two day sail with a good wind. "From Ikun to Sirilon it's ten days. We don't have a Blue House in the Seaward Islands, so I had to come here. By the time a ship was found that could take me, I'd already had the changing sickness." Once past the clipped hedges, they sat down on a bench under an apple tree. Some weeks earlier, the talevé had made an afternoon of harvesting the garden's three apple trees, and what they had not eaten outright they took down to the cellar to dry for the winter. "The first people to settle the islands were Danasi. Most of us are mixed blood, and we speak that language as well as Shivarian. My name is the Danasi word for strong." Ninion was only half-listening. Although he had broached the subject, it was not what he truly wanted to know. "Olenwë," he asked softly, "when did you first know you were different?" Olenwë stopped his running monologue and considered both speaker and question. "You mean, when I first realized I liked other men? When I was old enough to want sex," he answered. "My friends were all going with girls, talking about them, but I wasn't interested. I

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thought maybe something was wrong with me, but then our families went to a gathering on the isle of Pelisso and I saw this beautiful young man. I couldn't get him out of my head. That's when I knew I didn't want girls at all." The frank admission made Ninion's face burn. He let his eyes fall to his lap. "Did you have sex with him?" "No, I did everything I could to forget about him. When we got back to Ikun I went with a few girls like my friends and tried to be normal, but I didn't enjoy it the way they did." "So when did you first do it? With a man, I mean." Ninion could not believe he was having this conversation. Fascination kept him from ending it and walking away. If the question was inappropriate, Olenwë did not seem to mind. "I was sixteen and a friend of my brother asked if I could go on his boat and help him. He lived alone and we had a big family, so he told my father that he'd share part of the catch if he could get my help. So we fished and swam and went to rest on a little beach, and that's when he touched me." "And you did not mind?" Olenwë did not look like the type of person who could be made to do anything against his will, but things might have been different when he was younger. Olenwë shrugged. "I was terrified at first only because I'd been told it was so shameful, but then he kissed me and told me it was all right. I couldn't believe my good luck," he said. "He had me that afternoon and after that we met whenever we could get away." The choice of verb was baffling. "He had you?" Olenwë leaned back on the bench and frowned. "Ninion, do you know anything at all about sex?" "Of course I do." The truth was that Ninion knew only what had been considered proper for him to know, that women had breasts to nurse babies and a place between their legs where he was supposed to put his member in order to make those babies, and that the act of doing so supposedly felt good. What men did together he had no idea. "I mean, I know a little," he added defensively. "And you're how old?" "I will be nineteen in the spring." Still puzzling over this, Olenwë seemed to have an idea. "There's a book in Madril's office. I think it must be the worst kept secret in the Blue House, but the pictures are worth it." "What book?"

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"It's full of pictures of men making love," said Olenwë. "It's a sex book. Do you want to see it? I think I could steal it for a day if you want." His face burning, Ninion vehemently shook his head no. "Why would Madril keep such a filthy thing?" "Why do you think?" Ninion truly did not know, and a second later wished he had not inquired when Olenwë bluntly asked if he had ever touched himself. He swallowed, biting his tongue to keep from telling the other man that it was none of his business. "Why would you ask about such a shameful thing?" If anything, Olenwë's nonchalance was infuriating. Ninion was tempted to flee and nurse his injured pride, yet part of him also wanted to hear the answer. Olenwë just laughed at him. "Stop pretending that you don't," he said. "All men do it, even the priests. Why do you think there aren't any young priests who come to the Blue House? It's just the eunuchs and the old men. That's part of the Lady's gift, you know, to be so beautiful that men and women forget themselves when they see us. That's why we're locked up here, so they won't be tempted." Now Ninion had images of lascivious priests following him about. As quickly and gracefully as he could, he changed the subject. "Did you love that man, the one who was your brother's friend?" "I liked him," said Olenwë, "but I didn't love him. It didn't take me long to see how selfish he was. He always wanted it the same way and always took more than he gave. After a while I began to feel used, but there wasn't anybody else, so I stayed. The last time I was with him was the day I changed." "What did he say about your becoming a talevé?" asked Ninion. "He was terrified and ashamed, and it killed him." Olenwë sighed, and by the way he hunched his shoulders Ninion knew he had finally asked a question that was difficult for him to answer. "One day after hauling in the nets I tied my boat up by the place where we always met. It's a little cave with a freshwater spring; there's sand and it's very cool on a hot day. I'd been working since before dawn, so I took a nap while I waited for him. When I woke up I felt damp all over, but I didn't think anything of it because the air around the spring is very misty." "Did the Lady come to you?"

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"I didn't know that until later," said Olenwë. "I had light hair already, and in the summer the sun bleached it almost white. In the shade of that place you couldn't really tell anything was different. So he came in and we did it, but it wasn't until we went outside to get the boats that he saw I'd changed. He took one look at me and screamed. Then he ran. I had to take both boats back to the village. By the time I got there it was dark, I was already feeling sick and I still didn't know what was wrong. The village priest had to explain it to me." "What happened after that?" Olenwë stared down at his hands. "Pelhan was so upset by what he'd seen that he confessed he'd been with me. Once they saw me, the village elders dragged him out of his house and stoned him right there for raping a talevé. They didn't even bother with a trial." "And you let him die?" "Weren't you listening? I didn't know what was going on. I was lying in the village priest's house with a fever and throwing up everything he tried to give me. They took Pelhan faraway from the village to kill him," answered Olenwë. "Everybody just assumed he'd been overcome with lust at the sight of a talevé and acted on it. He didn't do or say anything in his own defense; he didn't even tell them that we'd been having sex for three years already, and nobody ever asked me. If they had, I think I would've been too scared to tell anybody the truth. You're not the only one to ever believe making love with a man is shameful or to be terrified by the change." **** Olenwë did not know what to make of Ninion's questions, and revisiting his affair with Pelhan was not the way he wanted to spend an afternoon he had intended to devote to relaxed courtship. It was tempting to think that Ninion was beginning to overcome his revulsion, but there was no telling if he was simply curious about sex or if he really wanted to make love with another man. Not all talevé did. Olveru had been celibate for as long as anyone could remember, and most of the older talevé renounced sex altogether. Celibacy would such a waste. Olenwë knew that if ever there was a beautiful young man who needed and craved affection, even unwittingly, it was Ninion. From the garden, he went upstairs and took out the drawing Ninion had given him. For such a sexual innocent, the young man's artwork was enticingly erotic. Olenwë's lower body remained underwater, but the

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depth of detail in the expression, in the play of muscles and even in the beads of water that clung to hardened nipples, meant the artist had been looking. Olenwë could only wonder what Ninion had been thinking when he rendered the image. He needed to confide in someone. Enedhil, older than he by several years, was by far the most sensible of his friends as well as an excellent listener. Once Olenwë explained the matter, Enedhil wasted no time in assessing the situation. "The first thing you need to do is ask yourself what you really want from Ninion," he said. "If you are just trying to seduce him for the sake of having been the first talevé to take him to bed, I think you are making a mistake." "I can get sex anytime I want," answered Olenwë. "This time I want something more than that." "There are others who would be more willing to entertain a serious relationship with you," said Enedhil. "Alanáro has expressed his interest on several occasions." Olenwë shook his head. "Just because I've slept with him more often than anyone else doesn't mean I'm in love with him. He knows that. We're friends, nothing more." "Do you think Ninion is interested in you?" asked Enedhil. "I might not know him well, but even I can tell he is a virgin." Olenwë showed him the drawing. "Tell me now that he isn't interested." Enedhil took the drawing over to the window where he could study it in better light. "I do not know what to say," he admitted. "He is clearly aware of you as an erotic being, but from everything you have told me he believes sex with another man is wrong." "So did all of us before we came here." Olenwë carefully took back the drawing, smoothing away imaginary creases. No one had ever given him anything so beautiful. "Look, I'm not looking to throw him down and take him. All I want is for him not to turn away from me." "And then what?" asked Enedhil. "You talk about love, but I have never seen you take your relationships seriously." Olenwë tightened his jaw. "Are you telling me I'm not capable of love?" "Do not put words in my mouth that are not there," Enedhil said sharply. "Would love be enough for you? Let us assume that Ninion somehow accepts your suit. It may be a long time before you can bed him, and if you commit to him you would have to give up your other

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partners. Would someone with a sexual appetite like yours be satisfied with waiting?" They both knew the answer. Once he had arrived in the Blue House and his inhibitions were allayed by the permissive attitude of the priests, Olenwë satisfied his passion for intimate physical contact as Pelhan had never been able to do. But while his love for sex remained undiminished, he had renounced his usual trysts ever since Ninion's arrival. "He can learn to enjoy making love with me," he said. "I won't hurt him." "It is not that simple, I think. Have you stopped to consider the differences between you? I am not talking about birth or upbringing, but just your appearance alone." Enedhil gestured toward the mirror that hung beside his clothes chest. "Look at yourself, Olenwë. You have to look down to talk to him, and those hands of yours could snap his neck. Assuming he knows anything about the sex act and how men do it, I doubt he is eager to have you be the first one inside him." Olenwë was not about to point out that not everything about him was big. "He can be on top for all I care. I don't even think he knows how men and women do it, much less men." "My point," said Enedhil, "is that you intimidate him, and he is already uncertain enough." "I'll admit that he's frightened of something, but I don't think it's me." Olenwë looked down at the drawing again. Whatever inspired Ninion's apprehensiveness, it could not possibly be a fear of him, not when he did everything in his power to be gentle and soft-spoken whenever Ninion was near. "You and I were both there when Olveru and the priests brought him in. We both saw how terrified he was. He never says anything about his life before, and he's never told anyone why he was in the water." "You are assuming he remembers," said Enedhil. "I think he remembers a lot more than he's told anyone." **** In that limbo place where time blurred to accommodate his craft, Ninion found himself sketching again. The figure on the page was stripped to the waist to accentuate broad, muscular shoulders. His lower body was encased in tight leggings, his hair blown back as he brought up the staff in a clean, shallow movement. The drawing was nearly finished before he realized the face belonged to Olenwë. All at once, his artistic euphoria fell away from him

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and he stared at the page in horror. His original intention had been to sketch Minias raking leaves in the garden. Flipping through previous drawings, Ninion was aghast to find Olenwë's face doodled in a dozen places. He set down his pad and graphite and went to kneel in front of the little shrine that was part of the furniture in every talevé's room. For one who had grown up praying to the Earth Mother, the daily devotions to the Lady did not come easily. No one had told him how he was supposed to approach a goddess who was not a welcoming maternal figure but an amorous seducer. In the end, he offered his thoughts to the empty air: What does it mean that I keep drawing him? I cannot love him. He bent double, touching his face to the carpet as he wrapped both arms around his middle. A sob welled up in his throat. It is forbidden. It is wrong.

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Chapter Six The moment Olveru came in and shed his outer cloak, the three talevé in the sitting room knew something was wrong. "What is it?" asked Daro. Olveru came over to the fire to warm himself. Rain had fallen during the night, and a thin fog still hung over the grounds at midday. "I am not certain," he said. "I was in Madril's office this morning when a rather curious matter came to his attention. A nobleman came in to see him. He had with him a letter he wanted Madril to read." At this point, Olenwë's interest began to wane. He had been discussing hrill with the other two, who both shared his ki'iri gift, but anything having to do with books or anything similarly dry did not warrant his attention. "What was in the letter?" asked Arion. Olveru rubbed his hands together over the grate before politely evicting Daro from the chair nearest the fire. "It was a letter written by his dead son. As it was not a matter requiring my attention, I was surprised that Madril did not ask me to leave right away." "And what does this have to do with anything?" asked Olenwë. His impatience warranted a glare from the other three. Olveru did not like being interrupted, and Daro and Arion both wanted to hear the fresh news he brought. "The young man was a suicide who threw himself from a fishing boat last spring," said Olveru. "The body never washed up. His father showed the letter to Madril and wanted to speak to him about it. I am not sure why he waited so long to bring the matter to the attention of the House of the Water or why he brought the letter. Madril asked me to leave. They talked alone for some time. I do not know what was said, but Madril looked quite troubled when I saw him again. He would not tell me what was wrong." While Olveru disappeared into the kitchen for some warm tea, the three talevé resumed their conversation; letter and corpse were quickly

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forgotten. It was only when Madril appeared in the doorway with a grim face that they realized something was amiss. Madril's gaze passed over the room and its occupants. "Is Ninion here?" he asked. "I believe he is helping Dyas with his lessons," said Arion. "And where is Olveru? I see his cloak hanging on the peg." Olenwë noticed the folded paper in his hand. "He's getting something to eat." "Daro, go and tell him to bring Ninion in here." While they waited, the priest would answer no questions, but stood by the fire and stared into the grate with a look of intense concentration. Ninion came in, Olveru guiding him with a hand on his arm; whatever the healer had told him left him anxious and uncertain. Madril wasted no breath on courtesies; he held out the paper and asked if Ninion had written the letter before throwing himself into the sea. Dark eyes grew large in a face that slowly lost its color. Ninion stared at the folded paper in horror, but would not speak. With each repeated query, his refusal grew more emphatic. Olenwë, alarmed as well as increasingly irritated, started to go to him; a warning glare from Madril kept him in his seat. At last, pursing his lips together in a thin line, the priest made a dismissive gesture. Ninion immediately went for the door. As he reached the threshold, Madril suddenly called out after him. "Sanadhil!" Ninion visibly flinched. He turned, enough that the others could see the terror in his eyes, and then bolted from the room. Olenwë rose, only to have Madril seize his arm. "Let him go." "Why did you do that to him?" Olenwë pulled free, but stayed where he was. "Why did you call him that?" "Because that is his name: Sanadhil né Kirrion. The man who came to the House of the Water today was his father. He took part in the autumn procession and was close enough to recognize his son among you. These last several weeks he has been making inquiries." Arion explained to the other talevé that the Kirrion family was very wealthy and influential. "They serve as advisors to Prince Carancil," he said. "Madril, what is going to happen to Ninion?" "Beyond answering a few questions, nothing will happen," answered Madril. "He is a talevé and cannot be removed from the Blue House, no matter what his father may wish. Lord Kirrion desires to see him, but given the nature of the letter, I told him that it was not

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permitted." He handed the parchment to Olveru. "However, I do not think this matter is settled with him." Olveru looked over the letter. Folding it again, he started to give it back to Madril. "I do not know that anyone else should see this." His reluctance made the letter irresistible; the others promptly crowded around him for a glimpse. "Whatever is seen or said here," said Madril, "must not leave this room." "Why not?" asked Olenwë. "What does it say?" With a last look at Madril, who did not protest, Olveru reluctantly opened the parchment; the others hovered over his shoulder, anxious for him to begin. "It begins here with a greeting to his parents." "'To my honored—'" began Arion. Giving him a little look of annoyance, Olveru cleared his throat. "Thank you very much but I will read it." "Then hurry up," said Olenwë. Whatever was contained in Ninion's letter, he needed to know. "'To my honored father and mother, may the gods keep you. I am sorry that you have received this. I know that I am not the son you desired. I know that I have shamed you in all that I have done; in this I hope to redeem myself. My consolation is that you still have Faellan to bring you honor. Whoever brings you this letter, hold him blameless in this; no one knew my intent until it was too late. I am—'" Olveru suddenly placed the letter facedown on his lap. "If you want to read the rest, then you may do so by yourselves. I do not need to see more." Olenwë looked toward the door through which Ninion had fled. Nearly a half-hour had passed, enough time for a young man who had attempted his life once already to do so again now that his secret was out. "Where are you going?" Madril asked sharply. The urge that seized him was so sudden that he did not bother taking formal leave. "We've left him alone," he said. All he knew was a need to run, to fly up the stairs and throw Ninion's door open. He did not even want to entertain the possibility it was too late. **** Ninion huddled in the window seat, his face buried in his hands. Olenwë took a step forward, his heavy footfalls prompting Ninion to lift his head. When he saw who was there, Ninion stumbled from the cushioned chest, edging back against the far wall. Through a curtain of disheveled hair, his red-rimmed eyes were wild with terror, but Olenwë

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saw no weapon in his hand or any other sign that he had tried to injure himself. Olenwë held a hand out to him. "It's all right," he said softly, "I'm not going to hurt you." As he circled the bed, carefully advancing, Ninion lifted his arms as if to ward off a blow. "Please, do not let them take me." "Let who take you?" When Ninion lunged forward in an attempt to dart past, Olenwë seized him around the waist and pulled him tight against him. "You're not going anywhere. Stop struggling! Nobody's coming to take you anywhere!" A voice ragged from weeping fired back at him. "My father saw me! He went to the priests and now Madril—" "Madril only wanted to know if you'd written the letter. He's not going to let your father take you away; he's already said so. You're a talevé, do you understand?" He did not want to have to strike Ninion to make him calm down enough to see reason. "This is where you belong!" Sobbing, Ninion began to struggle again, subsiding only when exhaustion forced him to yield to Olenwë's greater strength. Olenwë felt wetness through his tunic where Ninion had buried his face and was now hiccupping into his chest. All he could do for the young man was hold him fast with one arm and try to soothe him with the other. "Why did you jump into the sea? Why did you do that to yourself?" "No, I cannot—" "Tell me!" His voice was much more forceful than he intended, and he felt Ninion—Sanadhil? What am I going to call you—flinch in his arms. Olenwë held onto him, stroking his hair. "Please tell me." "I-I—at the banquet, I was supposed to dance with her." "With who? A girl?" Ninion nodded dumbly. Sniffling, he dragged his sleeve across his face before continuing, "Father wanted me to marry. He said it was time and I was old enough, so he made me go to a party at the house of one of his friends. I had never been before. I had a dance. I tried, but I did not like it. I thought maybe it was because I had never been with a girl before and I did not know her. I-I went to sit in the corner and her brother came to sit with me. We talked and then…. We had not even done anything yet, just touched hands, but Father, he saw and…." Olenwë forgot to be surprised in learning it was a man Ninion had wanted after all. His only thought was how hard Ninion was shaking and how much hurt was in his voice. "What did he do?"

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"He waited until we were home, then he slapped me across the face and shouted so everyone could hear how horrible and unnatural I was. And then he, he…." "Go on, tell me." "He took all of my drawings, everything, and burned them. He said I was too soft, that I was going to forget such foolish things and I-I wanted to—I could not— That was when I wanted to die. He knew how much it meant to me, and still he—" Unable to say more, Ninion's voice dissolved into sobs that shook his entire body. It was all Olenwë could do to get him to sit down and hold him as he poured out his anguish. Once Ninion was quiet again, Olenwë spoke. "When did you remember all of this?" he asked. "It was only a little at a time," murmured Ninion. "The drawings I remembered almost right away, when Olveru gave me the paper, not what my father did but that it was wrong to be doing it." "And what about your name?" asked Olenwë. Ninion hiccupped against his shoulder. "I kept trying to remember. It was only after the ki'iri transformation that I did. I hated the sound of it so I never told anybody." "I like Ninion better, but Sanadhil is a beautiful name, too." "Not when my father says it," said Ninion. "I did not want anyone to know about it. I was afraid." "You have nothing to fear," Olenwë murmured into his hair. "Not while I'm with you." **** Dyas poked his head through the door. "You know what? I have my animal, or I will once I do it for the first time." Ninion looked up from the book he was reading. He had not been able to concentrate and welcomed the distraction. "What is it?" "It's a wolf." A wide grin suffused Dyas' face. "Maybe I can bite Elentur for being so mean." "I would not do that," said Ninion. "He is a wolf also." "I gather you'll be just a cub," said Olenwë, who sat on the bed across from Ninion with the drawing pad across his lap. "I wonder what fourteen is in wolf years." "I'm fifteen now," Dyas said stiffly. "I had a birthday." Olenwë raised an eyebrow. "Oh, did you now? Then I suppose you won't want a doll this year."

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Scowling, the boy huffed off. "You are being mean to him again," said Ninion. "I wish you would not do that." "He doesn't know how to take teasing. My brothers and cousins used to do the same, and there was never any harm in it." Olenwë turned the page to a drawing of two talevé harvesting an apple tree and showed it to Ninion. "Who taught you how to draw?" "No one taught me," said Ninion. "When I was younger, my parents would not let me go out and ride with my brother because I was too frail. They kept me indoors with books and tutors, and then there were long hours when I had nothing to do. My father did not mind my drawing when I was a boy, but he always said that artists were commoners who had to work for their bread." "There's nothing wrong with working for one's bread." Olenwë carefully studied the next drawing, a portrait of Arion in his festival attire, his long hair flowing. He did not fail to notice the sketches of him on several of the pages; his only comment was a smile. That morning, a bundle of items arrived for Ninion, personal belongings that his family had not given away at his supposed death. A note had come with them, but Madril promptly confiscated it and read the contents before tossing it on the brazier. "You are beyond his reproach, Sanadhil," he said, "and you do not owe him an answer." Olenwë had not left his side since yesterday. He stayed well into the night, holding Ninion until sleep came and dozing on the floor at the foot of the bed with his quarterstaff to reassure him that his father would not come with armed guards to snatch him away. Such fierce loyalty embarrassed Ninion. Ordinarily the thought of sharing his room with the intimidating young man who had been trying to court him for months would have been too much to bear. Now he was afraid to send Olenwë away. Even after careful consideration, Ninion decided not to use his birthname in the Blue House except on official documents; he wished Madril would not address him so, but did not have the nerve to correct him. As Olenwë continued to pore over his drawings, he put down the book and went through the box of clothing and jewelry with disinterest. The only thing he would have wanted to bring with him had been reduced to ashes. Being discovered by his father in a tentative embrace with another young man and the anger that followed was something he could have borne, for he knew enough about what was considered proper to show remorse, but no words could convey what it was to have his one passion

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torn away from him. His art was his very soul, its destruction a knife through his heart. He had not lied when he told Olenwë how badly he had wanted to die. He started to close the box when Olenwë spoke. "Wait, let me look." "There is nothing in here worth keeping." Olenwë got up from the mattress and took a seat beside him. His broad hands shuffled through piles of good linen and wool until they found a silver hairclip set with mother-of-pearl. "You're going to keep this, aren't you?" Resting a tentative hand on Ninion's shoulder, he drew back the strands of hair that obscured Ninion's face and secured them with the clip. "There, that's much better." At once, Ninion put up his hands to remove the clip. Olenwë seized them between his larger ones. "You shouldn't hide your face," he said. Their faces were close, within the sphere that demanded greater intimacy. Ninion became aware of an uncomfortable heat that suddenly suffused his body. Olenwë's breath warmed his cheek, and he could have sworn that he could feel the other's heartbeat. He wished Olenwë would let him go, yet at the same time did not fight to break free even though he knew he could easily have done so. Something soft touched his lips, pressing against them with delicious heat. In that moment, his senses returned. Warmth turned to panic, and he found the strength to pull away. "What are you doing?" Olenwë remained undaunted. "I am kissing you, the way you should be kissed." As he leaned forward again, Ninion turned his head so the kiss fell on the corner of his mouth. "It is wrong!" he whispered. "That's your father talking," said Olenwë. "If that were true then the Lady would say something about it." His eyes widened, reflecting a moment's inspiration. Getting to his feet, he urged Ninion up with him. "We should put it to the test." Ninion hesitated. "What do you mean?" "You'll see," said Olenwë. "Here, put on your cloak. It's all right, we're just going to the Lady's garden shrine. You've been there before." Once beyond the downstairs atrium and into the garden, Ninion began to regret trusting Olenwë. The day was cold, pregnant with threatening rain, and the night's sea mist still clung in patches to the ground. He was tempted to stop, pull his hand away and turn around, but some impulse that had nothing to do with logic kept him going.

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At the far end of the garden, Olenwë pulled open one of the doors and ushered him into the shrine. Dim in the gray light that filtered in from above, the pool steamed softly in the cool air. The sea-green image of the Lady watched from its niche beyond the pool. "This is the most sacred place in Shivar," murmured Olenwë. "She can hear everything we say, and if I kiss you now She will see it." Ninion felt Olenwë hold him fast as he tried to pull away. "And if it is a sin, She will strike us dead!" "Why would She punish us for doing something that feels so good?" Fingers slid along the curve of his jaw, gently tilting his head up. The lips that descended on his felt warm and soft, and the powerful arms that slid around him held him upright when the heat turned his limbs to sand. All his resistance fled, for all he knew now were the lips and tongue moving against his, and hands that roamed every part of him. Forbidden it might be, yet he yielded because in this place his shame no longer mattered and he found he did not want it to end. A need for oxygen forced them apart. Ninion was reeling; he could scarcely think. What have I done? "My father—" Some half-remembered objection made him blush and duck his head away. At any moment, he expected his father to come storming around the corner and drag him away in a humiliating scene. But in the shadows there was only the soft ripple of water and the sound of their breathing. Olenwë dropped kisses on his eyelids, as feather-light as the others had been hard and passionate. "It's only the Lady who matters." It was increasingly difficult to think. "But the gods made men and women to be together. They…." His body wanted only to yield, but his mind could not reconcile what he had believed all his life with the burning need that made him wonder how unnatural he truly was. Surely the gods had not meant desire to be like this. Kisses drizzled down his face to slide down his chin and the apple of his throat. "Who are men to say what the gods intended?" murmured Olenwë. "Tell me why you gave yourself to the Lady." Such a question seemed out of place. "I do not understand…." "That's what they call it in the islands when a man drowns himself, a sacrifice to the Lady." Already overcome by emotion, Ninion could not help the tears filling his eyes. "I do not know, only that I was lying on the floor of my room wanting to die. I could see the sea outside my window. I cannot swim, so I thought it would be easy. They would never find me. I did not

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want them to find me. I did not want to be anymore of an embarrassment to my father than I already was." His voice broke on the last syllable, swallowed by the body that muffled his sobs. Olenwë made gentle, shushing noises. "The Lady called to you. She wanted you to come to Her, so She could take you away from those people. It's all right, listen." The rippling of the waters in the pool had become a fluid trickle that filled the chamber like the murmur of a brook, and in it was the lullaby of the goddess.

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Chapter Seven Ninion woke chilled and damp, blindly pawing at a wet coverlet. As awareness slowly returned to him, he realized his hair was also soaked. His body tingled pleasantly when he moved to retrieve a dry robe from the clothes chest. He could not quite remember what had happened, only the rushing of water and liquid caresses. By now, he understood enough to know the Lady had been with him, and though he was disconcerted by the wetness on a cold winter morning when he knew the Lady was more likely to be with Her consort, he was not frightened by it. As the servants changed the bedding, Ninion retreated to a corner of his room with his drawing materials and, in the light and heat of the brazier, quickly sketched the details before they faded from recall. The task he set himself was not an easy one; he was used to rendering tangible objects or people, not abstract impressions. Only when he was satisfied did he comb out his hair, get dressed, and go downstairs for breakfast. The activity upstairs was enough for the entire household to know what had taken place. Dyas, who sat beside Ninion, was ready with half a dozen questions, but the observed etiquette prevented anyone from commenting on the event; someone kicked the boy under the table until he was quiet. Afterward, Ninion found Olveru and Enedhil alone in the sitting room. Knowing they would not laugh, he took out the drawing and showed it to them. He did not tell them what it was, yet he saw that they immediately understood. Weariness dogged him throughout the day. Olveru informed him that such exhaustion was normal for one who had just experienced communion with the Lady; it would pass within a day or two. He was permitted to attend to his duties in the House of the Water, though the priest who supervised him was instructed to release him at the first sign of overexertion.

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After the evening devotions, while the rest of the household went in to supper, Ninion made his excuses and went up to bed. Food did not interest him, and neither Olveru nor the eunuchs who served the meal made any comment about his lack of appetite. Sleep would not come. He lay awake in the curtained bed, watching the early twilight slowly darken the sky outside his window. Cobalt shadows filtered into his room, and a soothing quiet descended upon the house. Below him, he could hear the muffled voices of the other talevé at their evening amusements. Pale moonlight had begun to silver the shadows near the window when a soft knock came at the door. Rather than undertake the effort of answering, Ninion burrowed deeper under the covers and waited for whoever it was to go away. The latch slowly turned and the door edged open. Through the bed curtains, Ninion saw a shadow slip into the room and carefully close the door again. Whoever it was, their presence banished his comfortable solitude. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lay as still as possible. "Ninion," said a voice. The curtains parted and the mattress shifted under the weight of a heavy body. "I know you're awake." Slowly, he opened his eyes to look up at Olenwë. They had been together for the last two weeks, kissing and touching in private corners but no more than that, and Ninion slept alone at night. To have his lover wander in after nightfall indicated a desire for greater intimacy. Ninion had known this was inevitable, and the eagerness that mingled with the concern in Olenwë's voice seemed to confirm this. Olenwë set down the heavy book he was carrying to fish something out of his pocket; it was an apple. "You didn't have any supper. I thought you might be hungry," he said. "I brought something else, too, if you want to look at it." With a sheepish smile he pushed the book forward. "Well, actually, I stole it." Ninion sat up. With his movement, the apple rolled off the bed and into the shadows. "You stole it?" "I'll put it back when I'm done with it." Olenwë fumbled with the bedside lamp and tinder box, lighting the wick before kicking off his house slippers and climbing up onto the bed. Ninion shifted over to make room for him. "This is the book I told you about before, remember?" Worn around the edges, with a splotched leather cover, the book had been passed among the priests for generations. Olenwë carefully turned the pages to the beginning.

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On each page were fading ink drawings of young men in various states of undress, kissing and touching each other. Ninion felt the heat rise to his face. "Who drew this? The lines—" "I bring you a sex book and all you can do is comment on the artwork?" Ninion felt himself blushing. "Well, I-I have never seen such a thing before and I—" When he tried to turn the pages to the middle and back, Olenwë stopped him. "This is just the kissing part. I don't know if you want to see the rest." What was before him was more than enough to make the blood rise to his face. As he studied the images he was suddenly aware of Olenwë's hand on his arm; the other man leaned over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. The proximity was magnetic, and the book became an afterthought. When their lips met, it came as no surprise. Ninion did not even mind that Olenwë might have had an ulterior motive in bringing the book here. But when a large hand slid down the hollow of his throat to undo the laces of his nightshirt, his own hand flew up to prevent it. "Please, no." Olenwë's fingers lingered over the laces, gently teasing the skin he had already bared. "You like it when I kiss you. I just want to look at you and touch you. I won't hurt you." As much as he knew and believed in his lover's sincerity, where love turned to lust it frightened him. He did not know what to do, and did not want Olenwë to find him ugly, never mind that the other man had already seen him in the bath dozens of times before. "I-I do not know—" "No, you're afraid." Olenwë reached up to touch Ninion's mouth with his fingertips before kissing him again. "I'm only going to do what's in the pictures that I showed you, nothing else unless you want me to." And when Olenwë undid his clothing and saw him erect he did not know what he would do. The men in the book were touching each other and themselves between their legs; he wanted that also, but did not know how to ask. I want you to put your hand here—but then what was he to say or do? Perhaps Olenwë would not even want to touch him there. Olenwe's thigh pressed against his groin. Ninion rubbed against him until Olenwë drew back and slid his hand between their bodies. Ninion gasped sharply. "Are you going to—?" "Do you want me to? You get so hard when I kiss you, I think this

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time I ought to do something about it." **** Olenwë did everything he knew to make the experience pleasurable, yet even as his clothing was slowly, gently drawn aside, Ninion apologized for being so ugly. Sweet gods, what are you thinking? Who told you that you were ugly? Olenwë silenced his protests by telling him that he was beautiful, and that there was no such thing as an ugly talevé, compensating with his hands and mouth for his lack of poetry. His original intent had been to show Ninion the book and perhaps coax him out of his shyness, but he had underestimated the power of visual stimulation. In the heat of arousal, it was becoming increasingly difficult to control his passion. When Olenwë had promised to do only what was in the drawings, he meant it, but as they loosened and discarded their clothing he chanced more, telling Ninion exactly what he intended to do as he did it. His talevé lovers had taught him what pleasure sensual language was, where Pelhan had simply told him how badly he wanted to fuck him and left it at that. He readily admitted wanting to sheathe himself in Ninion's body and ride to his own climax; in their three years together, Pelhan had never let him have that pleasure, and toward the end there were days when Olenwë had almost hated the man. If Ninion ever trusted him enough to allow him such intimacy, it would be a gift, but even in his need Olenwë knew and accepted that it would not be tonight. **** It barely registered that he was half-naked and that another was touching him. The hands roaming over his torso and thighs were so firm and warm that all thought stopped. Shame did not enter into it. When his shirt slowly rode up his chest, followed by a hot mouth determined to explore every inch of his torso, Ninion forgot his reluctance. All that existed was the small candlelit circle of his bed, their bodies moving upon it and the words of passion that made him blush. And when those lips closed over his left nipple, nibbling and suckling for a few moments before moving over to its twin, he pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle his outcry. That anyone would be interested in a part of his body he thought useless amazed him. Then those teasing lips and tongue were venturing lower, sliding over his belly to his thighs, licking and swallowing his erection.

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In the darkness of his bed, on many other nights, Ninion had explored the memory of their embraces, imagining his lover's hands on his body. It was hardly the first time he had touched himself, but until now the faces in his daydreams had always been ephemeral. He had fantasized about a lover caressing him, even stroking his cock the way he did when he was alone, yet never imagined what Olenwë was doing now. He could not believe that anyone would think to do this, or that it would feel so good. Hands cupped his buttocks and roamed his flanks, urging him toward a release that did not come. Just short of his orgasm, Olenwë stopped and crawled up to cover him with his body. Their bare skin touched, their erections brushing together. Slowly Olenwë began to thrust, encouraging his partner to match his movements by the grinding of his hips. Ninion twined his legs around him and let instinct take over. He rocked in time to the delicious heat that was swallowing him, meeting his lover's lips and tongue with the same rhythm. Not even the Lady's embrace, what little he could remember of it, had given him such wild pleasure. Yes, the thought was blasphemy, but he was too far gone in orgasm to care. Only when the spasms stopped and he could think again did rational thought return to him. No longer a slave to animal desire, he realized what they had just done and was ashamed. All his father's invectives came flooding back to him. He was unnatural and hideous, and between their bodies was smeared the proof. Clutching at the bedclothes, trying to cover his nakedness, he shrank back. Olenwë immediately began dusting his cheek with kisses. They were both panting, flushed with exertion, and Ninion felt a peculiar lassitude weigh his limbs. "That was good," Olenwë said. "The Lady was watching us, you know." Ninion looked at him in confusion until he indicated the little shrine in the corner. "She does not mind?" "No, I think She enjoys it as much as we do. Wait here, I will come back." Olenwë suddenly rolled away from him, off the bed, and Ninion heard the soft splash of water before his lover returned to his side. A moist cloth swiped across his belly to clean it. Ninion tugged the blanket up over his torso and thighs. The sweat cooling on his body reminded him how cold the room still was. "I should not have done that," he stammered. "I have made a mess."

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His apology elicited soft laughter from Olenwë. "But you're supposed to come when I touch you. If you hadn't, I would've thought something was wrong." Curling up next to Olenwë under the covers, Ninion looked again at the book, which had been pushed off to the side during their lovemaking. He turned it to the back and stared at the image before him. A couple lay in each other's arms, one lover atop the other, whose legs were drawn up to his chest; they were kissing with open mouths, and the one on the bottom did not seem to mind where the other's cock was. "It looks like it hurts." Olenwë nuzzled his ear. "No, he's enjoying it. Look at his face." "Does it hurt?" The arms around him tightened in reassurance. "It feels strange at first, and it can hurt if you're not careful. You can't just jam it in there and do it like you would with a woman, but the gods made a secret place inside a man that feels good when you touch it." Ninion turned the page. A young man with long, flowing hair sat in his lover's lap while being penetrated from below. They were clasping each other, and the one being taken had his head thrown back in ecstasy. "I wonder who posed for these, and who drew them." "The pictures are all talevé. It was probably an artist like you, somebody who knew what it felt like." Olenwë kissed his shoulder, sliding up to his neck. "Would you ever consider letting me do that to you? I don't mean right now, but someday?" The lovers in the drawing were of equal height and weight. Olenwë was taller than he by nearly half a foot and was much broader in the shoulders. Being held by him in the fire of passion was to be overwhelmed by his power. To have a lover like that inside his body would hurt. "Why did you choose me?" he asked. "I am not very interesting." As for being an exciting sex partner, he could not fathom why Olenwë was wasting his time. Olenwë nuzzled his ear. "Do I need to show you again how much I want you? As for why I want you, I could ask you the same question. Why did you draw me like that?" Ninion felt the heat rise to his face. "I do not know," he murmured. "It seemed somehow that I should." They perused the book, studying and commenting on some of the other drawings, until Ninion realized with some consternation that his

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stomach was growling. "Olenwë," he murmured, "where did that apple go? I am hungry."

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Chapter Eight When Madril asked to see his drawings, Ninion did not know what to say. In his mind he saw his father ordering him to bring out his artwork, before instructing the household guards to restrain him so he could tear them to shreds and burn them unchallenged. "They are nothing, truly," he stammered. "I would still like to see them," said Madril. Olenwë appeared in the doorway. "It's all right. Let him see them." Seeing his lover standing with the priest stung more than the request itself. On the night his father destroyed his folios, his mother had stood by and done nothing to help him. "No, I do not have them anymore." "Sanadhil," Madril said gently, "I am not going to destroy your work. I have been hearing from the others what a skilled artist you are. I simply want to see if there is any truth to it." When Ninion was finally persuaded to bring his drawing pad out from under the mattress, Madril sat on the clothes chest to study it. If he could have done so, Ninion would have fled, done anything to avoid being present when Madril finally condemned his meager talent. Even when Olenwë moved in to reassure him with a hand on his arm, he could not bear the scrutiny and turned his eyes away. To his surprise, Madril complimented many of the drawings but seemed most interested in his renderings of the stag. "Sanadhil, if you were taken to see the other sacred animals, could you draw them?" "Why would you want me to do such a thing?" "There is a wall downstairs in the atrium whose decorations are centuries old and too badly worn to restore. An image of the Twelve Sacred Animals might be just the thing to please Her," said Madril. "We have painters for the task, if you would compose and transfer the image." "Are you asking me to draw something for the Blue House?" Ninion was not certain he had heard correctly. When he looked up at Olenwë to see if this was true, he was stunned to find his lover was nodding and

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smiling down at him. "But I do not understand," he told Madril. "Why would you ask me to do such a thing? They are just scribblings." Madril closed the pad and handed it back to him. "Then they are extremely talented scribblings. Many of the murals you see here and in the House of the Water are the work of talevé who came before you. You are not the first artist to enter the service of the Lady." Under escort, Ninion went with his drawing materials to the royal menagerie. Then, with Olenwë in tow, Daro took him down to the beach where he still practiced the senu's art of speaking to the hrill and asked the creatures to show Ninion how they moved. As he sketched, a composition began to take shape in his mind. An artist who worked in frescoes and murals came to show him how to create cartoons of his work, large-scale drawings which could be placed on the wall. Holes were poked along the outlines, through which charcoal dust would be rubbed to transfer the image. The painting would be done by others who were skilled in the medium. Only the composition was his, and he demurred when the others complimented the results. **** Late spring in Sirilon was cool and windy, no more so than on the heights of the temple precinct where the cliffs afforded a majestic vista of the city and harbor below. On a spur of rock thrusting out over the water like a ship's keel was an ancient shrine said to be the oldest in Shivar. For centuries it had withstood wind, sun, and rain, the once brilliantly colored tiles now cracked and fading; if one looked hard enough, one might still make out the Lady's sigil. Votive offerings of shells, clattering in the breeze, hung from its lintel. Behind the shrine, where the edge of the cliff was bounded by a wall of perfectly seamed ashlar, Ninion looked down at the harbor. Only a year ago he had stood at his window in his father's house and contemplated death. Then as now, the blue sea had drawn him, promising freedom from the shadows in which he had lived his life. And he had sought it out, unable to swim but embracing the oblivion of its depths as a supplicant. A solid presence at his back told him he was no longer alone. He turned in Olenwë's embrace and lifted his face to receive his lover's kiss. "I thought I might find you here," said Olenwë. "Dyas has just made his transformation. The darling little wolf puppy is nipping at Elentur's heels."

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Anyone looking up to the heights might have seen them, two figures sharing a lovers' embrace. From on high, Ninion felt so solitary, so removed from the rest of the world that it did not matter what others saw. His father, barred from contacting him, ceased to be a threat months ago. In the months following their first night together, Olenwë had been patient with him. He gradually introduced Ninion to forms of lovemaking he thought they would both enjoy, and made no move to fully consummate their relationship. Whether it happened at all or never, he seemed content. "Is Dyas really nipping Elentur's heels?" asked Ninion. Olenwë chuckled. "Yes, but only after pissing on him first. If that wolf pup is any indication, I think the boy is going to grow up to be quite the firebrand. Why are you all the way out here? You're missing a good show." "I have been working all morning and needed some air. Madril wants me to design more murals for the House of the Water." "You should. The one you did of the animals is beautiful." Olenwë lifted his hand to push aside a windblown strand of hair before letting his fingertips rest on Ninion's lips. "Now come, there's a certain puppy that's waiting for you to throw him a stick."

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About the Author L.E. Bryce was born in Los Angeles, California and has never lived anywhere else. She has a Masters in English Literature from California State University, Northridge, and currently works as an English teacher. Her Jewish mother, two dogs and passel of cats help her keep her sanity. She is a regular contributor to Forbidden Fruit Magazine, and is the author of Dead to the World, My Sun and Stars, Ki'iri, Snake Bite and Other Dark Homoerotic Fantasies and Those Pearls That Were His Eyes. She maintains a blog at http://granamyr.livejournal.com.

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