Black Magic (16 page)

When Cerant fumbled with his tunic, Neikirk drew back just enough to discard it, then went right back to being pressed up against Cerant kissing him hungrily. "Bedroom," Cerant managed to get out eventually, though by that point Neikirk was more than happy simply to use the floor. But Cerant pulled away and tugged Neikirk across the wide front room to his bedroom.

He pushed Neikirk on the bed and then slowly climbed on top of him, mouth and teeth leaving a trail of fire as he worked his way slowly up Neikirk's legs, lingering at his ass to give it a firm bite before nibbling and sucking his way up Neikirk's spine. He finished with a sucking kiss to the side of Neikirk's neck, then pulled back enough to turn Neikirk over and begin all over again on the front.

Neikirk tried to do his own touching, but Cerant seemed determined to leave him too desperate and distracted to do anything except enjoy everything Cerant did to him. His fingers moved aimlessly over Cerant's skin as he was able, feeling the many scars that covered it—some Neikirk knew well, others were a mystery.

"Beautiful," Cerant murmured against his lips, licking them slowly before taking a proper kiss, ending it only when Neikirk was breathless and his lips throbbed.

By the time Cerant left off the teasing and pushed slick fingers into him, Neikirk was trembling with need and nearly ready to kill Cerant and take care of things himself. Cerant kissed his nose and snickered. "So patient when binding an incantation, but a total brat when you are in want of a fuck."

Neikirk glared at him and rolled his hips, taking Cerant's fingers deeper, satisfied with the look that put on Cerant's face. Mercifully, Cerant took the hint, removing his fingers and replacing them with his cock. "Better," Neikirk said, raking his nails along Cerant's arms. "Continue to improve."

Laughing, Cerant gripped Neikirk's hips and obeyed, fucking Neikirk so hard Cerant's old, rickety bed seemed in danger of finally collapsing. Neikirk ate at Cerant's mouth, held him close as Cerant just pushed harder, deeper, and finally came in his arms. Neikirk followed in his wake, feeding his cry into Cerant's mouth. As they slowly calmed, breaths evening out, Neikirk savored the weight and feel of Cerant at last in his arms. "Master …"

Cerant groaned, burying his head in the hollow of Neikirk's throat. "Do not call me that in bed, Neikirk."

Hiding his smile in Cerant's hair, Neikirk said nothing. Cerant might constantly protest the formal address, but Neikirk saw the way his eyes flared—and had definitely felt his cock twitch.

"So can we remain here the rest of the day?" Cerant asked.

"You have never asked if you might behave lazily before," Neikirk replied. "Anyway, you should be resting. No more exertion for you, Master."

Cerant finally rolled off Neikirk, though he stayed close, running a hand possessively along Neikirk's skin.

Neikirk pinched him. Hard. "Rest," he said, then relented, "I promise you can thoroughly exert yourself after supper, if you rest until then."

"As you wish, my dear," Cerant replied.

Neikirk was not at all surprised when only a few minutes later, Cerant's soft snores filled the room. Squirming free, he kissed Cerant's brows and then went to go see about tea and food. When he had eaten a light meal of bread and cheese and fixed a second cup of tea, he carried it to his workroom to begin the laborious task of gathering energies to meld and bind them as incantations in his jewels.

He was thankfully spared the work of testing the energy levels of various components because of his Alchemist Eye. It was useless for normal vision, but it allowed him to see the energies of whatever he looked at, as well as the strength of those energies. Not many alchemists possessed the Eye—obtaining it required old-fashioned magic, which was outlawed save for a small handful of spells. It was a long, difficult, and extremely painful process. Neikirk had never encountered anyone else who possessed one, though he knew there were others.

Neikirk had just begun to prepare the components to bind his earthquake incantation when he heard horses thundering up the lane. Frowning because horses could only mean soldiers, Neikirk headed for the front door and opened it before any of the assembled soldiers had to dismount to knock. "Greetings," he said cautiously. "Welcome to the home of my Master. May I be of service to you?"

"Well, now. You've quite the Eye," the man in the lead said, sounding genuinely impressed. Then he shook himself. "Pardon. I am Captain Thrane. Our alchemists are depleted and we've three men in need of healing."

Neikirk stepped back and opened the door wide. "Come in. I will fetch my jewels at once." He did not wait for their reply, simply went to workroom and fetched the small box that held all of his healing jewels. Carrying it back to the main room, he immediately set to work on the three men laid out on the floor.

He had just started working on the second man when Cerant came out of his bedroom. "What happened?" Cerant asked, looking over the injured men and the battered state of those still standing.

"Demons," Thrane said. "Two of them, white as bleached bone. You could practically see through them, their skin was so pale." He shuddered. "I started with thirty men. There are only twelve of us left."

"We fought something similar yesterday," Cerant said. "It was gray, not white. Four wings, green eyes?" Thrane nodded and Cerant continued. "Neikirk is the only reason I am still alive. If not for him, it would have turned me to little more than dust."

Thrane looked at Neikirk, and he hastily bent back to his work, eager to avoid the speculative gleam to Thrane's eyes. "He has an Alchemist's Eye of a level I have never actually seen. I've only ever seen two others who survived that spell and their eyes were pale, weak. His Eye is of exceptional clarity and strength; he must be able to see a truly astounding range of energies and power levels."

"I would wager my fortune that Neikirk is one of the best alchemists in the country," Cerant said.

"He is wasted here in this little village, serving your whims," Thrane said curtly. "The army would pay you handsomely to have him. I am astonished he was not sold straight to us."

Cerant sneered at that. "Alchemists of his caliber are always sold at public auction, as well you know. They are best suited to furthering alchemy and creating new incantations. I appreciate why you are interested, Captain, but he is not for sale."

"The crown would easily offer you three times his worth, and you've hardly need for his level of skill all the way out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Two marks from the border with Vindeia is not the middle of nowhere, and as I said before: he saved my life. He has also been with me for the past nine years, Captain. I am not inclined to part with him. He is not for sale and that is the end of the matter."

Thrane sneered. "Three times his worth."

"I would not sell him for an entire kingdom," Cerant said. "Do not make the matter into a source of contention, Captain. It will not end well for you."

Though clearly furious, Thrane gave a nod and said nothing further about it. Neikirk finished healing the last of the wounded soldiers, but his attention was mostly on Cerant's words, the absolute certainty in his voice when he had said he would not trade Neikirk for an entire kingdom. Obviously it was just exaggeration to make a point, but Neikirk liked hearing it.

He stood up and folded his hands together behind his back, head respectfully bowed. "Your men are healing, Captain. They should be well enough to travel by morning. Would you and the rest of your men care to join us for supper?"

Thrane grunted, ignoring Neikirk to turn to Cerant. "Your alchemist is forward. Do you always let him speak so directly?"

"He is certainly more polite than I," Cerant said, tone idle but eyes hard. "He is not a dog and if you cannot treat him as an equal, Captain, then you and your men can find your supper elsewhere."

Brows shooting up, Thrane looked Cerant up and down before snorting and saying, "Oh, I see. I knew there was something odd about your accent. It's very good, but no accent can hide Vindeia's peculiar views on magic. You're not Navath-born."

"No, thank the Goddess."

Thrane sneered, as most in Navath would and did—the way Neikirk had before he had spent time with Cerant and seen and come to appreciate the depth of his faith. "Goddess. An alchemist is an alchemist, my lord. They're so lost in their heads and incantations, it is best not to trust them to themselves. There's a long history of tragedies when they were left to govern themselves. I know you foreigners are uncomfortable with the idea that they must be controlled, but magic was outlawed for a reason. Alchemists are a danger to themselves and others. It's for the best they're controlled; you should not feel bad for being that control."

Cerant gave Thrane a brittle smile. "Please, join me in the kitchen. There is food and drink aplenty." When the soldiers had all vanished into the kitchen, leaving Cerant and Neikirk alone, he tugged Neikirk close and said, "I wish I could leave right now and take you with me; I am tired of this place."

Neikirk nodded in agreement, not trusting himself to speak.

"Come on," Cerant replied, kissing him softly. "I think I can smell that tea of yours and desperately want some. The sooner we feed those idiots, the sooner we are rid of them."

As they all sat around Cerant's large kitchen table, Thrane asked, "Have you spoken to anyone back home lately, my lord? I would be curious to know the veracity of the rumors I have heard lately."

Cerant snorted. "What rumors?"

"There is one about necromancers moving into the royal castle. I heard tell there's even one they have taken to calling High Necromancer. Some say it is only because he warms the bed of the high paladin you lot worship so much."

"I've never heard anything more ridiculous in my life," Cerant said with a laugh. "Necromancers in the royal castle! And one buggered by the high paladin? I suppose next you will say the high priest is buggering a demon?"

"They say the High Priest and the king are dead and that is why the high paladin has gone mad and let necromancers run amuck through the castle," Thrane replied.

The cup Cerant had just picked up slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor, splashing wine all over the pale tiles. Neikirk stared, taken aback by the way all of the color had abruptly leeched from Cerant's skin. "What do you mean, the king and high priest are dead?" Cerant asked. "You must be mistaken."

Shaking his head, Thrane replied, "Now that I am certain is fact rather than rumor. A formal letter was sent, though it contained little information from what I heard. The king and the high priest are dead. That is why I asked if you had heard from home. I apologize for breaking it to you so callously."

Cerant said nothing, just stood and fled the room. Neikirk went after him, unsurprised to find Cerant amongst his roses in the garden. "Master …" Cerant did not reply, did not turn around, but Neikirk did not press him. He simply wrapped his arms around Cerant's waist from behind and held him.

What he wanted to do was bind a new lightning incantation and then cast it on Thrane, the heartless, thoughtless bastard. He should have realized that, if unaware, the news would strike Cerant hard. To be told in one blow that his king and high priest were dead … as fiercely loyal and devout as Cerant was, the words must have torn him apart. "I'm sorry, Master," he said softly.

"There's something I need to tell you," Cerant said quietly, voice rough with tears. "When the soldiers are gone. I—I should have told you earlier, at the hot springs, but … the reasons for my exile, that I was exiled at all, has always been a constant source of shame to me. There are things I prefer to forget, or at least ignore."

"Yes, Master," Neikirk replied, voice just as soft, keeping back his concern because Cerant seemed troubled enough.

Eventually, they returned to the house, where the soldiers had already bedded down, clearly sensing they should leave Cerant alone the rest of the night. Neikirk and Cerant made quick work of cleaning the kitchen, and Cerant followed Neikirk into his workroom when they were done, carrying two cups of fresh-brewed tea. He handed one to Neikirk and sipped his own.

"You are the only man I know, Master, who enjoys watching me work," Neikirk said as he moved to the table he had abandoned when the soldiers arrived.

Cerant smiled and shrugged. "Watching you is soothing, though I also brought a book. Don’t think, however, that I have forgotten I was promised exertion."

Neikirk smiled ever so faintly and set his tea aside before crossing the workroom to where Cerant sat in an old armchair Neikirk kept there just for him. It was clear Cerant sought distraction, rather than exertion, but either way Neikirk was happy to provide it. "I think I can give you a little bit of exertion, Master," he said as he sank gracefully to his knees, settling between Cerant's thighs.

In a matter of moments, he had Cerant's hose and tunic out of the way and Cerant's cock in his mouth. Fingers slid over his short hair, Cerant making a noise of frustration that there was not enough of it to grip. Neikirk laughed ever so briefly, but at the heated look Cerant gave him, he resumed his task. It was not something he had done in a long time, but to judge by every noise Cerant made, the restless hands that slid over him, he had lost none of his skill.

Cerant came hot and bitter down his throat, and Neikirk swallowed all that he could, idly wiping away what dripped onto his chin after he pulled back. He went easily when Cerant tugged him up, returning the hungry kiss, lost in the way Cerant moaned for him and pulled impatiently at Neikirk's clothes.

They both jumped as the door burst open, and stared at Thrane. "A foreign rider approaches, my lord, though I guess he would not be foreign to you."

Cerant swore loudly as Thrane left again—after giving Cerant a look that could only be described as approving in regards to what he was clearly doing with Neikirk. Cerant sighed. "I hope you will let me finish this later, my dear."

"Of course," Neikirk said, stifling a sigh of his own.