Caledonia Fae 05 - Elder Druid (15 page)

Petroc nodded, helping Tràth on with his day robe. He took the prince’s clothes and lay them in an adjoining room where he would tend them later.

Tràth slumped onto the bed, sitting on its edge. It swayed gently with his weight.

“You seem tired, if you don’t mind me saying so, Your Highness.”

“I am. In more ways than one.”

Petroc stood, watching him for a moment. When Tràth glanced up, Petroc stepped closer and looked into Tràth’s eyes. “Is there any comfort I can give you? I would do anything you needed. Anything, Your Highness.”

Petroc had made such suggestions before. He’d maintained a subtle and correct manner, but the offer was clear. Tràth had always gently avoided the proposals, despite feeling tempted at times. At home, the prince had any number of bed mates, and displaying such expectations of a servant would be a betrayal of the trust between them. Tràth smiled, feeling touched, but weary. “You are too good to me, Petroc.” He’d never addressed the suggestions, but he felt he must nip temptation in the bud. “I can’t demean you by treating you like a slave or plaything. I would never take advantage of your kindness.”

Petroc gazed at Tràth with sincere warmth. “I feel no obligation. You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me, Your Highness.” His soft, grey eyes swirled, infused with his magic. Tràth had been sober and calm for days, thanks to Eilidh and now Alyssa. He’d taken no one to his bed since they left Caledonia. But, suddenly, he felt vulnerable and exposed. Petroc had seen through him. He’d cared for Tràth when his mind was dulled with drink and
gahn-seh
. He’d wrapped him in a soft blanket when the prince wept over Douglas. He’d bathed and dressed Tràth daily, and when he was at his lowest, Petroc would make the subtle offer to hold him and comfort him.

“You would hate me if I revealed my thoughts,” Tràth said and looked away.

“Tell me,” Petroc whispered. “Nothing you say will change my regard for you.”

“I’m thinking,” Tràth said with a lump in his throat as he met his attendant’s gaze, “how much you look like Douglas. Not your build or the shape of your face. It’s your eyes. They remind me of him. I’m afraid I may have chosen you from all the candidates for your position because of that, but I swear I didn’t realise the resemblance at the time.”

Petroc reached down and caressed Tràth’s face. “I’m honoured I remind you of one whom you hold in such high esteem.”

Tràth put his own fingers over Petroc’s and closed his eyes, relishing the faerie’s strong hands on his skin. “Does it not disgust you that when you touch me, I think of Douglas? You deserve better. You tolerate so much from me. I fear I have broken trust by merely giving words to my weakness.”

Petroc knelt in front of Tràth and took his hand and kissed it as one might do when pledging service. Tràth watched him, amazed that this strong, proud faerie did not object to Tràth’s confession.

The servant spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Watchers are your eyes and your strength. These diplomats are your voice. The druid lord is your soul and heart but also your burden. Allow me to be your comfort.” He touched the prince’s bare chest, pushing back the sheer robe from his shoulders.

Petroc would go no further without an explicit invitation. Nothing that had passed between them was beyond the point of no return. Petroc dressed and undressed the prince every day. He washed and dried him. But these touches were different. The servant’s words hung in the air.

After a long, silent moment between the two, Tràth looked into those warm, grey eyes and could offer no resistance. Even if his desire to be touched and held was wrong, he wanted the comfort Petroc willingly offered. His last morsel of self-control broke, and he leaned forward and kissed Petroc with fierce need. He devoured the other man’s lips, unable to suppress his groans of desire. “Come to my bed,” he said hoarsely.

Petroc required no further encouragement. He climbed up beside Tràth and spent the next hours offering pleasure and comfort. The attendant’s manner was tender and even submissive, but he responded to the gentlest of prompting.

The morning wore on, and something within Tràth changed. These stolen hours with Petroc provided more than physical release. Tràth allowed himself to be loved, even worshipped, in a way he’d never before experienced. By noon, Tràth was sated and spent. As the sun moved across the Zalian sky, Petroc gave him a final soft kiss. He climbed out of bed and returned to his own room, leaving his prince to sleep.

Ewain stared through the black mists, observing Munro, or, to be more precise, Munro’s corpse. It lay in a heap near the opaque stone orb. Like everything in this strange, in-between realm, the human’s body had a shadow-like quality.

The events of that night had turned out unexpectedly. But Ewain was a resourceful person, and he had ideas how to make the best of this twist of fate. If Ewain’s plan was going to work, he needed the druid to be slightly less dead, but exhaustion bore down. He’d been hoarding bare trickles of power for months. What remained scarcely seemed enough.

Whispers sounded all around him. Their visitor’s presence excited even the twisted, blackened trees. Ewain approached the druid with caution. Although Quinton Munro was most certainly not living, a trickle of fear crawled up Ewain’s spine.

The scent of the Otherworld wafted from the body, and Ewain took in the heady aroma. He didn’t have much time. He understood that better than anyone. If only he weren’t so old.

Finally, necessity overrode his hesitation, and Ewain trailed his almost-skeletal fingers up and down Munro’s body, searching for the last flicker of life. He found none. Ewain cursed under his breath. He didn’t like having to use even a particle of his own spirit, but after being alone so long, merely hearing another voice would be worth the cost.

He reached for a bone hanging from a leather thong amongst several around his neck. Speaking an incantation that sounded like the rustle of dry leaves, he cast the last of his stored power into the talisman and touched the flows. The essence which emerged was dim and thin but would serve his purpose. With a whispered command, he sent the strand in search of Munro’s soul. It wouldn’t have gone too far. Not yet.

Within moments, Ewain heard a light pop on the other side of the immense granite orb. The essence was spent but had done its job. Ewain reached for another item that hung around his neck, this one not a talisman, but a small, wooden tube. He lifted the piece to his lips and inhaled. From around the orb, a strangely fractured flicker of light was drawn toward Ewain. He was tempted to consume the light, but he stopped himself. A moment of pleasure would not outweigh his first real opportunity in countless years.

Instead, with a long finger, he guided the light toward Munro. It resisted, wanting to return from whence it came. Ewain sympathised. He wanted the same thing. Finally, the flicker obeyed his command and hovered over Munro’s chest. He directed it like a conductor savouring a sweet melody. It sunk down, coming to rest within the lifeless druid.

Instantly, the druid opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, and Ewain watched, retreating with caution now that he’d finished his work.

Munro seemed to move by sheer force of will. The strength required impressed Ewain. When he’d come to this place, he’d laid inert for weeks, if not longer. But then, no one had been here to help him. The human twitched a finger first, then his hand, then he moved his arm. He patted himself as though checking for injuries. When he found none, he sat up. With a certain method to his search, he took in his surroundings, his eyes widening when at last he noticed his observer. The oversight did not surprise Ewain. In this odd place, light was rare, and the dark mists had a mind of their own.

“Where am I?” Munro rasped. He struggled as though to stand but had little strength. He heaved himself over to lean against one of the twisted, black trees.

Ewain glanced around. He had named this place once but had long since forgotten the word he conjured in those early days. A new name would be required, otherwise Munro would obsess over the question as Ewain had. “Shadow Wood,” he said. His voice sounded like a grindstone. When had he last spoken? He couldn’t recall. He used to talk to the trees.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ewain.”

A cloud of confusion descended on the druid’s face. “I know that name.”

Ewain waited while the other man considered. Finally, he decided recognition would not come. How disappointing. “When I walked the Otherworld, I was draoidh. My people called me Father of the Sky.”

“Shit,” Munro muttered. “Am I dead?”

An interesting question. It had taken Ewain some time to ponder such things. “Yes,” Ewain replied. “But you have your soul, and that’s enough.”

Munro took the news surprisingly well. He nodded, then closed his eyes. Within moments, he was asleep, or what Ewain insisted on calling sleep. The dead didn’t rest, but they did, as Ewain learned over many thousands of years, go dormant.

He wouldn’t let Munro stay in that state too long. They had work to do. But for now, he needed to recover the strength he expended keeping Munro’s soul from going
beyond
. Ewain thought about that for a moment, but decided not to let himself ponder existence beyond this place. He had spent too many years on that. For once, he had something to look forward to. The unfamiliar sensation brought a smile to his withered lips.

∞

When Tràth awoke at dusk, he spent a few minutes staring out the window, watching the brilliant oranges and purples of the sunset fade into twilight. He felt strong, calm, and what he supposed must be
normal
to everyone else. How strange to not experience dread of his own magical flows and self-loathing for his inability to control them.

While he lay in bed, Petroc entered and lay out the prince’s evening clothing. His manner was in no way different than on any other day. The attendant was bright, cheerful, and remorseless in the way he scolded Tràth. “Shall I send word to the princess you can’t be bothered to get out of bed on the first night of your negotiations? I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“I’m getting up,” Tràth grumbled, heaving himself to a sitting position at the side of the bed.

Petroc approached with the prince’s day robe, but as he so often did, Tràth waved it away.

It struck Tràth as strange the attendant behaved as though nothing had passed between them the previous day. Tràth would like to ignore the incident as easily, regarding Petroc as a random bed mate. Still, as poor a royal as Tràth considered himself, he knew one didn’t do anything to disrespect someone who served faithfully. The fae were a proud race, and none prouder than the serving class. To breach a servant’s trust was not something Tràth had intended to do. “Petroc,” he said softly.

The attendant’s manner stiffened at Tràth’s tone. He shot the prince a warning glance. “We must hurry,” he said. “You’re expected to take the first evening meal with your advisors. Alyssa has already been enquiring as to when you’ll be ready for your meditation.” He moved about the room, finishing preparations as Tràth watched him.

“Are you angry?” Tràth asked him.

Petroc stopped and rolled his eyes. Tràth stifled a smile at the almost human-like expression. “I will be if you don’t get moving.”

Tràth stood and tilted his head, at a loss for what he should do or say. “I’d understand if you want to leave. The princess will no doubt provide an attendant if I tell her I’ve sent you back to Caledonia.”

In mid-stride, Petroc froze. He turned to Tràth and sighed. “May I speak candidly?”

It seemed an odd request after the previous day’s closeness. “Of course,” Tràth said.

“First, I ask you to promise that we speak of this one time and never again.”

“As you wish,” Tràth said.

“Do you believe I’m the first attendant who’s tended to his master’s intimate needs? We who serve see everything. Much more than you realise and possibly more than you royals do.” He paused. “The experience last morning caused me no trouble nor shame. You did not take advantage of me nor break your faith to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Tràth said, cringing as though he endured a lecture from an elder.

Petroc smiled. “I serve out of love for my queen and for Caledonia. Over the time I have been part of your household, I have come to love you in the same way. I do not deny I took personal pleasure in the service I rendered to you last morning. If you need or want such treatment again, I will accommodate you, as I do in everything else. You may ask, and I will take no insult. You are a faerie of honour who would never abuse my trust. Other times I may offer, if I believe you would benefit from such an experience. And, as long as I’m speaking candidly, Your Highness, I believe you did benefit.”

“Indeed,” Tràth said with a wry chuckle, then considered Petroc’s words. Something had changed, but it didn’t have anything to do with Petroc. Tràth felt more centred, as though he’d been holding his breath before. His confidence surged. Why a sexual encounter with someone who admittedly offered out of duty would have such an impact, Tràth didn’t understand. Maybe it was that in every other relationship, he felt unworthy of the affection given by the other party. Petroc made him believe that weren’t even a question. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

“We’ll never speak of this again.” The statement left no room for argument.

“I give you my word,” Tràth said.

“Good. Now come to the bathing chamber. I can’t send you to your first day as a Queen Eilidh’s delegate smelling like sweat and sex.” His mouth twitched in a smile that quickly disappeared. “Come on. Move,” he said and clapped his hands.

“Dear Father of the Sky,” Tràth said as he stretched. “You are annoying. Have I ever told you that?”

“Only once a night, Your Highness.”

In the bathing chamber, Petroc held out his hand and helped Tràth step into the water. Outside, the heavy door to the corridor opened. Petroc went to see who it was, and Tràth lay back in the immense tub. He heard Alyssa chiding Petroc in the next room, saying Tràth should have been ready long before. Petroc stood his ground, but did so with sympathy.