The Dragon Keeper (49 page)

But he’d never imagined Hest would be harsh with her, or rough. But of course he would be. That was Hest. The man had strong hands, with long fingers and short, well-groomed nails. Sedric didn’t want to think of those hands gripping her shoulders and the nails sinking into her flesh. They’d leave little half-moon dents there that would be small bruises by morning. Sedric knew. Unbidden, his hands left his face to touch and then grip his own shoulders. It had been weeks since Hest had left small bruises on him. He missed them.

He wondered in desolation if Hest missed him at all. Probably not. He’d spurned Sedric relentlessly in their last days together. At the same time, he had been sure that his secretary handled all the details of whom Hest would invite to accompany him on his latest trading venture. Hest wasn’t alone right now, and almost definitely, he wasn’t thinking of Sedric. Redding. That damn Redding, always so obvious in his interest in Hest. Redding with his plump little mouth always quirking, and his little hands always patting his curly hair back into place. Redding was with him.

A thick choking lump rose in his throat. It would have been a comfort to weep, but he couldn’t. What he felt right now went beyond weeping.
Hest. Hest
. “Hest.” He said the man’s name aloud, and it was a comfort that cut like a knife. He was the only one who truly knew Sedric, the only one who understood him. And he’d set him aside, sent him off on this ridiculous errand with the wife he didn’t love. The wife he gripped with his hard hands, the same powerful hands that had held him by the shoulders and pulled him close in that first squirming and desperate embrace.

Sedric hadn’t been much more than a boy, barely shaving, desperately unhappy, at odds with his father, unable to confide in his mother or his sisters anymore. Unable to confide in anyone. Bitterly, he now reflected on how successful Hest had been in returning him to that isolation, the isolation that Hest had once shattered for him. Was that what he’d wanted to prove to Sedric? That he could put him right back where he’d been, all those years ago?

Their first encounter had happened at a Trader gathering, at a winter wedding. The bride had been seventeen, and the young husband-to-be had been his friend Prittus, an older neighbor who had tutored him in the Chalcedean language that his father had insisted he must learn. He had always been kind and patient with Sedric, their lessons much more social and enjoyable than the ciphering and history and basic navigation lessons that he received from his other tutor. The other tutor was a shared master, hired by a group of Trader families to instruct their sons. That man was an ogre, and his fellow students alternated between coarse mockery of one another and sarcastic comments on Sedric’s precise recitations and reports. He hated attending those classes, dreaded the snubbing and mockery of the other pupils. It was a wonder he had learned anything there. But Prittus had been different. He’d been a teacher who cared, one who found readings for his pupil that interested him. He’d treasured his hours with Prittus.

So he’d watched Prittus make his wedding promises in a sullen gloom of disappointment. He’d have no time to tutor Sedric now; he’d be following his father into the spice trade and he’d have all the concerns of a young man with his own household. Sedric’s sole island of company was sinking back into his sea of isolation.

Prittus had stood tall in his simple green Trader robe, the candlelight waking glints in his gleaming black hair. The vows spoken, he turned to the girl at his side and looked down into her face with that smile that Sedric had come to know so well. The girl’s face lit with a rosy blush of joy. He put his hands out and the girl set her small fingers in his; Sedric had to turn aside, choking with jealousy over all he could never hope to possess. The couple turned to face their guests and the applause washed around them like the breaking waves of a gentle sea.

Sedric had not clapped. When the applause ended, he’d finished the glass of sparkling wine he held and set the glass down on the edge of one of the laden feast tables. The room swirled with smiling, talking people, all eager to wish the young couple well. Close to the door, a handful of young men were speaking in deep goodhumored voices to one another. He caught a leering reference to the night that awaited Prittus, and the round of bawdy chuckles that followed it. He’d made an excuse as he pushed past them to the door and left the crowded Traders’ Concourse to go outside for some air. He didn’t even bother with his coat; he wanted to feel the wind on his face. He wanted to be cold. It would match his mood.

A storm was threatening, one that couldn’t make up its mind between icy rain and wet, driven flakes of snow. The wind gusted and died, and then spat sleet again. The thick clouds were making late afternoon into early evening. He didn’t care. He’d left the shelter of the large porch of the Concourse, strolled past the line of waiting carriages and well-bundled drivers. He’d gone walking in the deepening twilight on the meticulously groomed grounds that surrounded the Concourse.

The gardens were desolate and deserted this time of year. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, and the unimpeded wind blew sharply. Fallen leaves littered the gravel paths. There was a stand of evergreens at the edge of an herb garden that had gone to seed. He headed instinctively toward the protection of the grove. In the circle of their shelter, the wind could barely find him. He turned his eyes up to the cold winter sky and tried to find a single star through the overcast. He couldn’t. He lowered his face and wiped rain from his cheeks.

“Weeping at a wedding? What a sentimental fool you are.”

He’d turned in shock. He hadn’t imagined anyone else would be out in this weather. It was even more of a shock to realize that the man was Hest, and that he must have followed him. He’d been a part of the group of men by the door. Sedric knew his name and his reputation, but little more than that. The wealthy and popular young Trader moved in a social circle several notches higher than Sedric’s orbit. He wondered why he had followed him out into the night. His long deep-blue cloak was nearly black in the dimming light. The collar was turned up high, framing his face.

“It’s just rain. I came outside to clear my head of a little too much wine.”

Hest listened to him silently, head cocked mockingly. He raised his sculpted brows in a rebuke for his lie.

“I’m not weeping,” Sedric added defensively.

“Aren’t you?” Hest came toward Sedric through the wet snow. It was definitely snow now. Big flakes of it spangled the tall man’s dark hair. “I saw you watching the happy couple and thought to myself, now there’s a spurned lover, watching his dreams stroll off without him.”

Sedric watched his approach warily. “I hardly know her,” he said. “Prittus was my tutor. I’m just here to wish him well.”

“As we all are,” Hest agreed smoothly. “Our dear friend Prittus enters a new stage of his life now. He takes on the duties of a husbandman. And his loving friends, though we wish him well, will see far less of him now.” The light was waning from the sky, and the shadows of the evergreens made the winter afternoon even darker. The fading light took the colors with it; Hest’s face was a study of planes and shadows. He was smiling. His narrow lips were chiseled into a fine smile as he asked him, “And what did Prittus tutor you in?”

“Chalcedean. My father says that every Trader needs to speak Chalcedean well, without an accent. Prittus speaks it like a native; he had a Chalcedean tutor.”

Hest stopped, not even an arm’s length away. “Chalcedean?” His smile grew wider, baring even teeth. “Yes. I agree with your father. Every Trader should know Chalcedean. Some say they will always be our enemies. I say, that is a good reason to learn as much as we can about them. Not just their language, but their customs. Ancient enemies or not, they will be our partners as we buy and sell goods. They’ll cheat the man who is vulnerable to them. But you’ll need more than just the language. A man can speak the language of a place, but if he lacks knowledge of the customs, he will always betray himself as a foreigner. And thus not be accepted. Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose. Yes.” The tall Trader was drunk, Sedric decided. He had come close enough that Sedric could smell the spirits on his breath.

His dark eyes roved over Sedric’s face in a disconcerting way. He licked his lips and said, “So. Let me hear your accent. Say something in Chalcedean.”

“What?”

“That’s not Chalcedean.” Hest grinned. “Try again.”

“What would you like me to say?” Sedric felt trapped. Was the man mocking him or trying to make his acquaintance? His conversation walked a knife’s edge between taunting and friendliness.

“That would be good. Yes. Say, ‘Please, sir, what would you like?’”

It took him a moment to parse it in his mind. When he spoke, the words came smoothly, but Hest shook his head and made a sad mouth. “Oh, dear. Not like that. You need to open your mouth more. They’re a very voluble people.”

“What?”

“Say it again, but open your mouth more. Purse your lips out.”

It was mockery. Sedric was certain of it now. He made his words brisk. “I’m cold. I’m going back to the Traders’ Concourse now.”

But as he strode past him, Hest’s hand had shot out suddenly and gripped Sedric’s left shoulder. He’d tugged him sharply, spinning the smaller man so that Sedric almost collided with him. “Say it again,” he urged him pleasantly. “In any language you like. Say, ‘Please, sir, what would you like?’ ”

His fingers were biting into Sedric’s shoulder right though the formal Trader’s robe he’d donned for the occasion. He tried to squirm away. “Let go! What do you want?” Sedric demanded, but Hest had responded by seizing his other shoulder. He gave a sudden jerk that nearly pulled Sedric off his feet. They were suddenly chest to chest, with Hest staring down into his face.

“What do I want? Hmm. Not quite the same as asking me what I would
like,
but it will do. You should be asking what you want for yourself, Sedric. I wonder if you’ve ever dared to ask that question, let alone answer it. Because the answer is very plain to me. You want this.” One of his hands suddenly grabbed a fistful of Sedric’s robe right below his throat. The other shifted to a grip on the hair on the top of his head. Hest bent his head, and his mouth was hard on Sedric’s, his lips moving as if he would devour him, his hard hands pulling him closer. Sedric had been too astonished to struggle, even as Hest shifted his grip and pulled Sedric’s body tight against his own. A sudden heat rushed through him, a lust he could not conceal or deny. Hest’s mouth tasted of liquor, and his cheek, though shaven, rasped against Sedric’s when Sedric tried to pull away from him. Sedric gasped for breath, smothered between the kiss and the truth of how badly he wanted this. He put his hands against Hest’s chest and pushed but could put no strength into the rejection. Hest held him easily, and his deep, quiet chuckle at Sedric’s feeble struggle vibrated through them, chest to chest. Hest finally broke the kiss but continued to press himself tightly against Sedric. He spoke by his ear. “Don’t worry. Struggle as much as you think you should, or need to. I won’t let you win. It’s going to happen to you. Just as you always dreamed it would. Someone just needs to take a firm hand with you.”

“Let me go, man! Are you mad or drunk?” Sedric’s voice wavered uncertainly. The wind blew harder, but he scarcely felt it.

Hest effortlessly pinned his arms to his side. He was taller and stronger, and he lifted Sedric, not quite off his feet but in a way that let him know he could. He pressed his body against him and spoke through clenched teeth. “Neither mad nor drunk, Sedric. Just more honest than you are. I don’t have to ask ‘what do you want, please, sir?’ It was written all over your face as you stared at the happy couple. It wasn’t the bride you were lusting after. It was Prittus. Well, who wouldn’t? Such a handsome fellow. But you’ll never have him now and neither will I. So perhaps we should settle for what we can have.”

“I didn’t,” Sedric started to lie. “I don’t know . . .” Then Hest’s mouth descended again, kissing him deeply and roughly, bruising his lips until Sedric gave in and opened them to him. He’d made a small, involuntary noise, and Hest had laughed into his open mouth. Then suddenly, he’d broken the embrace and stepped back from Sedric. He’d nearly fallen then. He’d stumbled back from Hest, and the night grove of trees had seemed to swing around him in a wide circle dance. Sedric had lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, tasted the salt of blood from his stinging lips. “I don’t understand,” he said faintly.

“Don’t you?” Hest had smiled again. “I think you do. All of this will be easier when you admit you do.” He stepped closer to him, and Sedric hadn’t retreated. He reached for Sedric again, and Sedric hadn’t fled. Hest’s hands had been hard and strong and knowing as he seized him and pulled him close.

Sedric had shut his eyes tight then, and again as he recalled it. Every moment of that wild night under the cold and stormy sky was clear in his memory. It was etched into him, defining him. Hest had been right. It had been easier when he’d admitted what he wanted.

Hest had been merciless. He’d teased him, and hurt him, then soothed and smoothed him. He’d been rough and then gentle, harshly demanding and then sweetly urging. The storm swept around them, making the trees bow and dance, but the cold couldn’t reach them. The deep bed of needles in the darkness beneath the low-swooping evergreen branches had smelled sweet when they were crushed beneath their weight. Hest’s cloak had covered them both. Time and family and the expectations of the rest of the world were blown away by the storm’s breath.

Shortly before dawn, Hest had left him at the end of the carriageway to his family home. He’d limped home in muddied and torn garments, his hair wild, his mouth bruised. He’d slept as late as his father would allow him. Later that day, standing before his father in his study, he told a long lie about drunkenness and a tumble down a creek bank in the dark and a long walk home. He’d ached in every muscle, and his lips had been puffy and swollen. For three agonizing days, he’d moved quietly about his father’s house. Mostly he kept to his room, seething with shame whenever he wasn’t staring into the darkness and reliving every moment. Regret and lust warred in him.