The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (14 page)
Ehandar was admiring the contrast between the almost hairless body and the teasing happy trail, leading to the lush, blond pubic hair, glistening with drops of water.
“It’s good for you,” he mumbled, concentrating on his task.
“Scrapes off old skin and gets the blood flowing. See, you’re beginning to look all rosy.”
His brother growled doubtfully.
“Lift your left foot,” Ehandar said, kneeling down, “so I can dry it between your toes.”
Anaxantis obeyed muttering. Seeing his brother kneeling down, familiar feelings of excitement resurfaced. He shook his head backwards and stared at the ceiling, his long golden hair fanning down on his back, before arousal could overtake him.
After he had let himself be dried, Anaxantis put the damp towel around his hips and remained standing on the rug before the fireplace, basking in the warm glow of the flames. Ehandar looked admiringly at the slender, yet tough body. Standing still like that, his hands stretched out towards the flames, he looked so strong, so calm and self-assured. And yet, at times, he could be playful as a child, inquisitive as a boy. He looked the part again as well, now that most of the deep wrinkles were gone. His hands had become softer too.
“How is it that you can make me love you so much, so completely,”
he wondered silently.
Anaxantis turned around and smiled at him. He felt the gray-blue
eyes resting on him and wondered no more.
“Why is there a rusty pot on our table?” Anaxantis asked, after he had put on pants and a shirt.
“It’s a helmet. I found it in the armory. It’s part of a complete harness.”
“It’s an antique,” Anaxantis said uncertainly, after having looked at it from nearby.
“Look how thick the steel is. And those narrow eye-slits. Magnificent,” his brother said excitedly. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“They don’t make them like that anymore, mainly because they’re to heavy to move around in. This one may very well have belonged to Prince Pie.”
“Prince Pie?”
“That’s Berimar the Fair to you. He was lord governor here, oh, more than a hundred years ago.”
He winced, remembering the grueling story Hrenwick, the dungeon master and executioner, had told him. And what it almost had made him do.
Ehandar didn’t notice.
“Really?” he said enthusiastically. “How exciting. I’m going to clean it up, part by part.”
“Love, if you want a harness, why not order the smithy to make you one to measure. We’re not exactly paupers.”
“It’s not for me. It’s not to wear. I thought to mount it and put it beside the fireplace. It will give the room cachet.”
Anaxantis looked doubtful.
“You don’t like it,” Ehandar said, almost tonelessly, disappointed.
“Ah… well, difficult to tell in this condition,” his brother said, trying to repair his mistake. “I’m sure it will look splendid once you restored it to its former glory. Yes, this room is a bit bare, isn’t it? It could definitely use some decoration. And ours is a warrior House, isn’t it?”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Ehandar said, with renewed confidence. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No, not at all. What could be more fitting for our room than the armor of one of our predecessors? Just put something on the tabletop before you start working on it, or you’ll make horrible scratches.”
“Right. An old blanket will do the trick nicely, I think.”
He went over to the wardrobe. Anaxantis smiled at the obvious zest for his new project his brother displayed. He himself went over to the big chair by the fire and sat down. From the little table beside it he took the parchment he had been looking at, on and off, all afternoon.
He as good as knew it by heart now, yet he kept reading it again, as if the few sentences had some secret that they would only divulge if he kept staring at them.
“What does it mean? Should I take it at face value? A matter-of-fact statement of how things are, or is there a hidden message? I
would have thought—”
His uneasy speculations were interrupted by the loud scraping sounds of the iron brush Ehandar was using to clean the rusty helmet.
From merely annoying, the grating noise soon became intolerably nerve wrecking.
Irritated he turned around in his seat.
“In heaven’s name, Ehandar, stop that infernal racket immediately,” he shouted in an irritated voice. “I can’t hear myself think.”
He turned back around. The noise stopped at once, except for one, hard, reverberating bang. The silence that followed it was eerie enough for Anaxantis to turn around once again.
The helmet had fallen to the floor, and Ehandar stood before the table, motionless, his hands most probably in exactly the same position as when he had dropped it.
“What’s happening,”
Anaxantis thought, at first more surprised than worried.
“He looks frozen, almost paralyzed.”
Then he realized something was seriously wrong. He jumped upright and ran over to where his brother stood, his eyes unfocused, vacant.
Very lightly he put his arms on his brothers hips.
“Ehandar,“ he whispered insistently, “Ehandar, love, put your arms around me.”
Mechanically his brother embraced him. Anaxantis stroked his back with one hand, while gently prodding his head, making it rest on his shoulder.
“What happened?” he asked, whispering in his ear.
There came no answer for a while.
“You… you said stop. So I stopped,” Ehandar finally responded, haltingly.
“You didn’t just stop,”
Anaxantis thought desperately.
“You came to
a complete standstill. You were petrified. Gods, what have I done?”
“You were mad at me,” his brother said, almost inaudible.
Anaxantis pressed himself against him.
“Ehandar, listen and listen carefully. I love you. I love you more
than anything. I am not mad at you. I could not be mad at you. I was…
distracted, preoccupied. I’ve had news that’s not altogether good. I was on edge. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m an asshole. An asshole who loves you. Who loves you very much.”
“I’m so sorry,” he added when there came no answer. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Sometimes we do things we don’t mean to do,” Ehandar answered softly.
“Yes, we do, don’t we? And in most cases we can’t take them back,”
Anaxantis thought, bitterly.
He felt an intense pity for his strong, yet so vulnerable lover. He held him in his arms, as if to protect him against all and everything that could hurt him. Then the irony struck him, that he himself was probably the one who could hurt Ehandar the most.
He heard his brother sigh and felt his hands groping, exploring, and his body rubbing against his, as if seeking reassurance and warmth. A strange kind of haziness took hold of Anaxantis, a drunken— ness of sorts and also, to his dismay, excitement. The mere fact of holding this emotionally wounded, beautiful boy in his arms, shielding him, covering him, almost made him delirious. He felt intoxicated with both compassion and lust.
When he thought Ehandar felt more at ease again, he broke the embrace, just in time before his brother could feel his arousal.
“Come sit with me by the fire,” he said, taking him by the hand.
“My hands are dirty. From the rust.”
“Never mind. Come.”
“What is wrong with me?”
he thought, disgusted with himself.
“Is
it power? Even the power to grant or withhold comfort? Why does it
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thrill me this much? Why does it set my loins afire? Am I addicted to
it? Is it the curse of the Devil’s Crown?”
“I really must arrange for a broader chair,”
Anaxantis thought, with his brother sitting half upon his lap.
He caressed him, hoping that the physical contact would convey his affection better than words. Ehandar seemed to slowly return, the numbness fading away.
“I love you,” Anaxantis whispered.
Ehandar kissed him on the cheek.
“It’s true. I really do,”
Anaxantis thought.
“You are my love, my
only love. And I know you love me too. But how do I make you my
friend?”
“What was the news?” Ehandar asked after they had sat silently for nearly half an hour.
“Oh… a letter from Mother.”
“A letter from your mother?”
“Yes, here, read for yourself and tell me what you make of it,” Anaxantis said, making to hand him the parchment.
“No, my love, it’s from your mother. It’s private.”
“She wouldn’t like it,”
Ehandar thought.
“You can read all my stuff, Ehandar. All of it,” Anaxantis said, looking him in the eyes.
“Later maybe, after I’ve washed my hands. What does it say? Is she coming for the Midwinter revels?”
“Well, that’s what’s so strange. I can’t tell for sure.”
He looked at the letter, although he knew what it said.
“I’m anxious to see you after all this time, Anaxantis, and so is Sobrathi, but I don’t know if we can make it in time. We have a pressing, prior engagement.”
THE WINDS OF OPPORTUNITY
It was still early in the evening, but Rullio decided to call it a day when he saw an idyllic tavern at the side of the Northern Highway. It was getting cold.
After having taken his horse to the stables, he entered the inn, arranged for a room and inquired after the meals they served. He decided on smoked pork ribs, from a pig slaughtered recently, which, Rullio knew, could mean anything from a day to two weeks. It came with plenty of gravy, a side dish of carrots and mushrooms and three loaves of gray bread. He thanked the Gods he could eat what he wanted without gaining weight.
Not trusting the wine of the house, he settled for a pitcher of dark ale. Soon he saw a group of six young farmers enter the tavern and sit down at a round table nearby. One in particular caught his interest. A young man with straw blond hair, pale skin and rosy cheeks, muscular and with a naughty twinkle in his eyes. In passing him they had lingered a fraction of a second too long on the young count, and Rullio had noticed. He also saw that the young farmer — or maybe he was a
farmhand — had carefully chosen a place at the table from which he
could keep those naughty eyes on Rullio. Patiently, as a cat, Rullio settled down until the right moment would come along for him to pounce upon this delectable prey. He sat near enough and they were talking more than loud enough for him to understand every word they said.
With half an eye on the group, his thoughts, phasing out the surrounding noise, wandered off to his immediate problem. How to walk the fine line between his duty to the High King, his loyalty to Ehandar and his own interests? The little warlord was of far less concern to him.
“Ehandar may be in love, but I'm not. Little brother is playing at
being monarch in all but name, without risking severing all ties with
his father. Should worse come to worst, there is always his dragon of
a mother and the second-rate throne of Zyntrea, kept warm for him
by his uncle. For Ehandar there is nothing much but two older brothers who probably celebrated when he went missing, were very disappointed when he reappeared, and wouldn't think twice about killing
him if they would ever think he stands between them and the Devil's
Crown. There is of course also his younger brother who, whatever
Ehandar may think, still keeps him prisoner. And Gorth and myself.
“I have nothing to expect from my own family. My title of count of
Brenx-Aldemon, and the Aldemon demesne itself, I owe to the good
graces of the high king. Which means I'd better keep on his good
side… I can't contradict what he may know already from other
sources, so I must keep as near as possible to the truth. I should be
able to give him something that he doesn't know already. At least a
tidbit of information that he could only have gotten from me. Just to
prove my value to him. But what?”
Annoyingly enough his thoughts were interrupted by a robust young man in his early twenties. He introduced himself to the group of