Blackthorn - 1. Amaranath

Flurries floating through the air glinted in the moonlight as if the gods were sprinkling diamond dusted blessings on each passerby ahead of the Moon’s Day, magically disappearing before it ever reached the ground. The street lights were dimmed on the busy streets to add to the magic of the season and let the Moon shine on her people. Children ran after the flurries, trying to catch them as their parents either watched them fondly or dashed off, calling to them, as they hurried off for last minute errands.

Dyaus, unlike most countries on the continent, was blessed with temperate weather that made it easier for her people to enjoy the Moon’s Day in fashionable coats and jackets instead of layers of fur or umbrellas. This season everyone seemed to favor fashionably cut knee or calf length coats with a line of fur adorning the collars.

The smell of spiced wine rose in the air mixing with smell of burning pine wood from the fireplace Michael was sitting in front of, waiting for his wayward friends to show up. Despite how hard Tara tried, nobody could make Zhen be on time. He would not have been surprised if he were to find Elena Still standing in front of her wardrobe.

Michael had recently returned from Taurus, after five years of working with the Royal Steward of Taurus, so everything felt novel to him just as they were when he first arrived at Tamar as a fresh student at the Imperial Academy. Whenever he had travelled to the Estate of Helwar to see his family while he was in the employ of Taurus, he had not ventured to Tamar again, always eager to go back to the joys of Tauran Court. The last time he had been in Tamar was the day he graduated from the Imperial Academy. Tamar, had changed yet not at all, in true Tamar fashion.

“You, my friend, are too early,” someone said behind him.

Michael turned away from the window towards the voice and was greeted with the lovely vision, the Earl of Kardia, Lady Elena Nwadike of Easternlands. She was wrapped in a knee length winter coat in tan cashmere that flowed over the curves and panes of her long body. She had the telltale features of the Dyausan royal line with rich mahogany skin with honey brown eyes and soft caramel curls that framed her heart shaped face.

Elena shrugged off her coat and dropped it over the back of a chair before she reached out to kiss him on the cheek.

“Are the royal duties done with?”

Michael knew he did not keep the mirth off his tone when she shot him a look that would have poisoned a lesser man.

“Finally! Don’t look so gleeful. This is going to be your life from next week.” Elena scoffed.

He made a face, making Elena laugh.

“Adhrit and Irene wanted me to stay the whole time giving out gifts with them. My sister isn’t here yet and of course even Irene can’t make her wayward brother help her so I get targeted as the scapegoat. They are lucky I don’t hate them enough to ditch them.” She said.

And Michael knew his friend enough to know that despite the complaining she adored her cousin and his wife, the High King of Dyausan Empire and his Queen.

They settled into cozy arm chairs and watched the patrons drifting into the pub after the Moon’s Day service at the temple. The royals attended the service, inadvertently drawing the largest crowd of the year to the Temple. King Adhrit and Queen Irene had made their own Moon’s Day tradition by choosing to stay and give gifts to the less fortunate. The royals simply gave the token gifts, often to children, while the rest of the nobles were tasked with the more sensible gifts.

Of course, the people loved their young King and his Queen who walked among them and spoke to their children and listened to their blessings, woes and suggestions. It was the highlight of people’s entire year at times, for which they prepared and brought tokens to give their beloved monarchs. The Queen would smell flowers given to her by children and have them place the blossoms in her hair making it look as if she were a nymph that stepped out of her woods at the end of the night as the King would fawn over a scabbard and promise the gift giver that he had just the dagger that would fit it. Every year they wore tokens from the previous year – artfully blended with their precious jewels and fancy clothing - making their subjects fall in love with them all over again; a magnificent sight he witnessed during his years in Tamar.

A server brought a fragrant mug of spiced wine over for Elena which she accepted with thanks and wrapped her hands around reverently.

“Where are Zhen and Tara?” He asked.

“Their parents had them stop to chat with Adhrit and Irene as I escaped.”

She rolled her eyes at the implication that anyone went out of their way to interact with the royals seemed ridiculous to her.

“Stop pretending that you hate how mushy the royals are, because I know you adore them.”

“I do adore how Adrit and Irene want to reach out to their people. I simply don’t like the spectacle rest of the court is making this to be.”

“It’s helping more poor people at the end of the day, isn’t it?”

“It is. However, the stress that comes along is not worth it at the end of the day. Every year we fight and every year they get their way.”

Elena sighed and tucked her feet under her thighs and settled in her chair with her spiced wine. Michael hummed in reply, letting her vent her frustration.

“None of us want them to stop, just to limit the number of the court that attends. But the donations keep climbing and they don’t want to risk losing any of that extra help that they can give the people. Iain was ready to roll heads by the time I left, so I’m sure they would leave soon.”

Lord Iain, the Imperial Commander, was an imposing figure who had amassed a reputation that seemed surreal at times. The toughest soldiers of the Imperial Army disappeared at the blink of an eye when they caught the wind of the Imperial Commander coming their way. He had never witnessed the man’s sunny disposition himself, and he tried to keep his judgement curbed until he could have a more complete picture. Elena was a terrible source of information when it came to his future employer for she religiously maintained a love/hate relationship with the man.

“Kill me, Tara. Kill me before our parents embarrass me in front of the Queen ever again.” Michael heard Zhen’s whine, coming towards them.

“Your crush on the Queen is rather particular, Zhen. No amount of impressing is going to make you noticeable to her the way you want. She is happily married in case you hadn’t noticed. Besides, I’m not allowed to kill my brother.” Tara reasoned.

“I’m sure Michael or Elena will sympathize with me. You are a bitch, Tara.”

“Oh, I love you back.”

Nobody could make a statement that short drip with derision yet sound entirely plain as Tara did, her tongue as sharp as the swords that she carried with pride.

Michael and Elena locked eyes, laughter ready to burst.

∞

“I saw his soulful eyes and I couldn’t stop my boisterous passion seeking to be one with him. Oh, how my heart aches for my one true love.” Michael quoted.

The bar almost drowned Elena’s answer with its raucous patrons welcoming the Moon’s Day. It was ideal that Elena laughed and laughed instead of answering as Zhen pounded his chest to ward off the beer that went down the wrong way and Tara rolled her eyes and threatened to pour her beer over all of them.

“I can’t believe you read that poor man’s journal.” Said Tara.

“I didn’t. He talks to himself while writing his journal! I have some morals despite what you believe, Tara!” Michael complained.

On a night of conquests and unsolicitous decisions, he had woken from a nap after a long few hours of love making and heard his bed partner’s soft voice and thought that he must have been reading out of a book only to open his eyes and roll over to realize that the man was writing in his journal while he narrated. He had immediately pretended to still be a sleep before stretching out quite obviously to alert his bed partner.

Michael had mysteriously started to attract very peculiar bedfellows recently.

“Let the man have his fun, Tara,” Zhen said before turning to Michael. “Unfortunately, when you accept the job at Northernlands, you are going to have to clean up your act, Michael. I’ve heard that Lord Khatri suffers no fools.” Zhen warned him.

“He suffers nobody. Nobody, you hear that Michael? Nobody. You don’t have to be a fool to make Iain mad. You sometimes just have to exist. You are doomed anyway. So, go ahead and have your fun.” Elena said.

Unlike many who would have falsely claimed Elena, as the younger sister of the Duchess of Easternlands, did have a right to comment on what the Duke of Nothernlands was like or not given that the Duke and the Duchess were close friends, practically family.

“Ladies and gentleman, I am a free man tonight and definitely not in employment with a certain nobleman. And I’m going to enjoy that freedom to its fullest. Don’t try to stop me.”

Michael declared.

“Haloa forbid that we stop you from getting your next lay, you whore. Go, victimize some poor man. Just, don’t read his journal.” Tara grumbled.

For someone who had grown up with Michael, unlike Elena whom they had made friends with six months ago while they all were in Taurus, Tara was unbelievably unhappy with Michael’s promiscuity. Tara was a proper noble woman in the eyes of Dyausan society; well bred, well-educated and well betrothed to a viscount from Tlemecene ever since they were children. Also, she was a Master of Sword while her twin brother, Zhen, was an herbalist poet and vehemently refused to adhere to the norms of the Dyausan nobility and hopped from bed to bed as much as Michael did.

Michael chuckled at his friend’s disgruntled look and turned to Elena as a lull of silence fell on group.

“All the teasing aside, do you think the Duke will eat me alive?” He asked Elena.

She swallowed the pitted olive she was munching on before answering.

“Iain isn’t bad, per say. He is an exemplary employee. Always very polite. Too polite for my taste, if you ask me. Also, more formal than the King himself. He is the less enjoyable version of Tara.” She giggled at her own joke before continuing. “Definitely a lot more bothersome and nosy than my sister, my brother-in-law or my cousins all put together and that’s saying something.”

Michael mulled over the information for a moment. He could see how Elena, being a free spirit, could get frustrated with someone hovering over her. He could also argue in the Duke’s defense, even though he did not know the man, because Elena excelled at getting into trouble for the royal brat she was.

He raised his mug to his lips and paused when he felt eyes boring into his skin. He glanced around and caught the culprit in the periphery. A pair of dark eyes stared at him and a tingle ran through his spine at the intensity of the gaze. He drowned the last of his drink, rest of the night shaping itself into the sinfully tantalizing shape of the man with heat that could set the pub on fire.

“Would anyone like a drink?” He asked.

All three of his companions declined his offer, freeing him to pursue his interest for the second half of the night.

“I will see you tomorrow, in that case, ladies and gentleman.”

He bowed a little at the waist before walking away from his friends amid their chuckles and walked towards the bar, towards the man who seemed to promise a long night of pleasure.

As he walked, he took in the form that held his focus. Intricately twined muscles and the cocky stance man held himself in and the confidence that oozed off of him told Michael that he must have been a soldier, and of a considerable rank for the establishment they were in required membership, unlike other bars where anybody could walk in with no hassle. The hair that curled and grazed the man’s cheekbones spoke of being away from the nation for a long enough time to grow the dark tresses.

Michael walked up to the man and leaned on the counter next to him.

“Aren’t you a bit too shy for a soldier, soldier. All the staring but no action at all.”

He cringed at his words. He had definitely had one drink too many.

“Oh, I’m not shy at all, my Lord. I’ve been admiring the fine sight in front of me and making a list of things I’d like to do to you, should you agree.”

The words momentarily intensified the electric buzz that the alcohol had bought on. Michael reached out and ran his fingers up the man’s arm and traced it down to his chest before he stretched on his toes, closing the last inch or two between them and murmured in the man’s ear.

“Are you all talk, or are you going to take me to bed and make good on that delicious promise, soldier?”

The man rested his hand on his hip and squeezed.

“Well, in that case, your wish is my command, my Lord.”

The hand travelled higher and slipped under Michael’s tunic and traced the warm skin above his waistband. The man reached out and grazed his lips before delving into his mouth for barely a moment and let go. He was intoxicating. Michael licked his lips, trying to favor the taste he left behind, oddly tasting of blackthorn. Fittingly poisonous, Michael thought for he could die happily drowning in the man.

The man turned to his companions and told them something that Michael barely heard above the rushing in his ears.

“… Grace.”

Michael tried to focus but the man turned around and smiled at him wickedly, making him want to do things to that smile that probably did not belong in company.

He knew he should have asked the man perhaps his name, or something, but could not remember the reason. He let his hands run over what promised to be a lovely specimen of a human body and briefly thought that Tara would check in to make sure that Michael was alive.

∞

The Receiving Chamber was smothered in gaudy drapes and over-stuffed armchairs fitting the moniker the Duke of Nothernlands seem to carry with pride by all accounts, “Spirit of Death.” Michael used to scoff at the ridiculous title, “Spirit of Death,” being quite popular in a kingdom where peace has lasted for over two hundred years.

Now, however, he was less amused after seeing this suffocating room, which could have been a good way to kill people in a time of peace. Perhaps not where the origin of the title came from, yet very fitting at the same time.

One would think the second richest man in the kingdom would spend a substantial sum to restore this desolate corner of the imperial Offices. The man had chasms full of money, coming from iron and steel from mines and the main ports on Hyrcanian Ocean, yet his receiving hall had not one portrait of its master or any trace of being of any personal importance to its owner. Ducal secretary, Master Bernard, walked up to him as he was running out of things to be offended by in the chamber.

“Master Helvig, the Duke will see you now,” he said.

Michael surreptitiously wiped his hands on the breeches, right where the deep blue brocade jacket fell over his hips and, hopefully, covered any handprints. He regretted his outfit choice the moment he entered this chamber with its gloom in full glory. The suit was supposed to set off his warm olive skin and blue eyes, not make him a dismembered head floating head that he now probably looked like set against the dark blue decor. He straightened the black hollyhock boutonniere and nodded his thanks to Master Bernard as he channeled years’ worth of practiced calm and posture before striding towards the looming doors. He took in a steeling breath just before he passed the threshold into a room lit with its broad windows, sunlight streaming in, shattering off tastefully placed swords, daggers and helmets from bygone eras and painting patterns all over the chamber.

He reached the paper strewn desk set, stamping hard on the desire to simply absorb this room– all the while making sure to keep his eyes off the imposing figure nestled in half a circle of desks.

“Your Grace.” Michael called to the Duke with a slight bow at the waist.

“Master Michael Helvig, I presume.”

The tone was as dark as the man, yet awfully familiar.

“At your service your Grace.”

“Sit.”

He kept his eyes on his fingers, clasped on his lap. Picture of a well-bred minor lord in the presence of a royal, or in this case someone of equal position. The Duke ruffled a few papers before he spoke again.

“What makes you think that you can manage business of somewhere as big as duchy? You only have experience looking into the matters of the rather unsurprising estate of your family, I’m sure. What am I to do with some bumbling colt overseeing my affairs, Master Helvig? How am I to trust a man that’s happy to run off to bed with the first stranger that they lay eyes on?”

Michael’s head shot up, breaking the picture of perfection only to be greeted with the lovely dark eyes that he took to bed at the inn a few days ago. He breathed in through his nose and cursed his fairer skin that probably screamed his embarrassment at the Duke’s face. Desire briefly shot through his spine at the recollections of those plump lips tracing trails down his skin, but he violently ripped his mind off the memories of a night that had burned into his mind. Despite the knowledge that he definitely would not be given the job, he could not refrain from answering, for the Duke seemed to expect one.

“You are accurate in your initial assumption about my family background, your Grace. However, may I add that I have achieved highest scores throughout my years at the Imperial Institute? Also my Lord, I’ve been trained under the Royal Steward of the Taurus for over two years. I’m assured that you must have been presented with the recommendation she wrote on my behalf.”

The Duke said nothing for a few moments and he squashed down his need to lift his eyes to see what the man was thinking. He was starting to regret his over ambition. Did he have to pick the Northernlands? Why couldn’t he go to any other? Right. He couldn’t resist the siren call of the most powerful duchy in Dyaus.

“You are again accurate that I come from humble backgrounds that will never equal in grandeur and wealth to your estates. If your Grace allows me to demonstrate my skills before turning me away, I’d prove that those praises are not unfounded.”

He was surely not answering the last question, or more of the accusation, even though he had never really done anything to warrant the Duke’s accusation. He hardly ever shared pleasantries, let alone personal or official matters, with people he shared a bed with which was obvious given the fact that he had not even asked the Duke’s name. However, he knew that he could not say a thing to change the Duke’s mind. The Duke straightened. Michael prepared for the felling blow.

Just as the Duke went to answer him the heavy wooden door banged open startling both of them.

“Iain…”

The newcomer trailed off as Michael tried to slow his racing heart.

“Ruslan!” The Duke greeted the newcomer without missing a beat.

Ruslan de Luca. The Duke Consort of Easternlands.

“Is this an important appointment?” The Duke Consort asked.

The Duke Consort was flushed and panting as if he ran a distance coming to the Imperial Commander’s offices.

“I was simply speaking to my future Chief Steward, I believe.”

Michael could not help his eyes snapping to the Duke’s. The man looked ready to kill contrasting his own words. He tried to speak, failing to form a coherent reply.

“Well, Master Helvig, what are you waiting for? I do not handle the paperwork. Master Bernard does. You would do since I have no time to interview more idiots. Welcome, Chief Steward of Northernlands.” The Duke snapped.

Michael fled the room in a jumble of emotions, finally deciding to be disgusted at the Duke’s behavior, regardless how he felt drawn to the man.