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  “Gladly,” Dit breathed, looking more delighted by the moment. “’Bye, girls. Hello, dragon king.”

  Tarn bowed his good night to Ellia and Jancis, who were both laughing again, and let Dit pull him away.

  Dit clearly knew his way around Sethan’s compound, because it only took a few minutes of stumbling along wide corridors before they were tumbling into a dim, crowded little storeroom, where stacked pallets were heaped with canvas and piles of sacking. Dit hooked their lamp on a bracket by the door, casting swaying shadows across the room as he kicked the door shut.

  No sooner had it slammed than Dit was wrapping around him, pushing himself forward until his groin was pressed against Tarn’s. The hard line of his cock was hot through the cloth, throbbing against Tarn’s own erection as he tried to grind close, his hands locked on Tarn’s shoulders for balance.

  Tarn groaned, locking his hands around the man’s ass to pull him nearer. It felt so good to have someone warm against him again, and he smoothed his hands over the firm curves of Dit’s ass with a murmur of appreciation before dipping his head to take his mouth. He hadn’t met with such easy enthusiasm for a long time, and he planned to take advantage of Dit’s hunger until he was utterly satisfied himself.

  He slid his tongue in to plunder, and Dit arched against him, letting him take what he wanted. It wasn’t quite the challenge Tarn would have liked, but it still felt so very good, so he took what was so blithely offered.

  He kissed steadily until Dit was boneless and clinging, little whimpers bursting out of him with every thrust Tarn made against him. Then, as he had no intention of coming in his clothes, Tarn picked the man up, his hands tight on his ass, and began to move away from the door.

  Dit groaned, bringing his legs up to lock around Tarn’s waist. “Don’t stop.”

  “I’m not,” Tarn promised and set him down on top of the sacking. He stepped back and began to peel his clothes off. The air was warm in here, close and muggy, and it was a pleasure to feel it against his skin. When he kicked his hose away and pulled off his breechclout, he groaned with relief as his cock sprung forward, flushed and full.

  A noise from Dit pulled his attention back, and he looked down to see the youth gazing at him with glazed eyes, his breath coming fast as his hand moved between his legs.

  “No,” Tarn growled, leaning in to pull Dit’s hand out. “Strip.”

  Dit moaned protest but then began to scrabble at his clothes. “You going to fuck me if I do?”

  “If it would please you,” Tarn said, and dragged Dit’s breeches down to expose him.

  He had a pretty cock, long and pink, springing out of a cluster of golden curls and topped with a flushed and perfectly rounded head. Tarn knelt down and nuzzled it, sliding his mouth over the top, his eyes closing as he savored the taste and weight of it on his lips. He always liked doing this, enjoying the startled gratitude and joy it won him.

  “Oh,” Dit groaned. “I’ll come. I—oh—”

  Tarn pulled off reluctantly, enjoying the wet pop as Dit’s cock slid free of his mouth. He peered up at Dit and was pleased to see him naked, the whole bare length of him stretched out, all pale skin, pink blushes, and scatters of golden hair across his chest. His eyes were wide, and his pretty mouth slick and red.

  Without breaking his gaze, Tarn slid his fingers into his mouth, wetting them well, and then slid them behind Dit’s balls, searching for his hidden opening. When he found it, he traced his wet fingers around the rim, and Dit arched his back and moaned.

  He sobbed when Tarn worked his fingers inside and found that secret place that he so loved about men, teasing it until Dit quivered around his fingers, his thighs flexing and his breath coming fast. When Tarn pulled his fingers away, Dit gasped, “Oil! In my pocket! Hurry!”

  Tarn had to scrabble through their discarded clothes to find it but was pleased when he did. It was thin, fine stuff, and smelled of musk and flowers. He gladly coated his cock with it, shivering at its cool slick touch. Last time he had done this, all they had to hand was wool grease—smooth, but nowhere near so sweet smelling.

  Dit had turned himself around, thrusting his ass out. Tarn hummed approval and stepped up behind him, then dropped a slow kiss on the nape of his neck, nuzzling through tumbling curls. Then he positioned himself between those spread legs and pushed in slowly, luxuriating in the tightness pressing around his cock.

  He was flushed with heat by the time Dit groaned his name, but he kept up the slow press forward. Tarn eased Dit open even as the man began to rock up against him, until he was buried to the hilt, his hands over Dit’s where they leaned against the crates, Dit’s back pressed to his chest.

  “Move,” Dit groaned, and Tarn obliged him, drawing back and then thrusting in hard, shocking a cry out of Dit. Again and another cry, this one choking on Tarn’s name, and now he had found his rhythm. He fucked Dit steadily and as the man writhed beneath him, his hot passage clutching at Tarn, it reminded Tarn of all the human lovers who had come before—how they had moved beneath him in the same sweet surrender, how much he had loved them all, whether it had been for a night or for the length of their lives.

  The orgasm rose in him unexpectedly, blazing out of his balls in a first warning shimmer of lightning, and he reached around to grasp Dit’s cock, gasping, “Come for me.”

  Dit obliged with a scream, his hole tightening and convulsing, and Tarn roared his delight, emptying himself in one last thrust.

  It took him long moments to catch his breath. Then he turned Dit over gently to see his face.

  Dit blinked up at him lazily, his whole body still slack with bliss. Amused, Tarn nuzzled a kiss to his lips and stood back to survey his conquest—how Dit slumped against the crates, his whole body languid with satisfaction, how his stomach and his thighs were streaked with white trickles, come still dribbling out of his ass.

  “Pretty,” Tarn observed and crouched down to lick him clean.

  By the time he was done, Dit was sighing under his touch again. He lifted himself up on his elbows to smile at Tarn, his eyes hot. “One night, you said?”

  “Just that,” Tarn agreed, running an appreciative finger up the length of Dit’s feebly stirring cock.

  “So how soon before you’re ready to go again?”

  Tarn had been asleep for over a thousand years, and he had slept alone. Standing the rest of the way up, he pumped his cock lazily, stroking a new coating of oil over it and seeing Dit’s eyes widen as he realized that Tarn was hard again.

  “Now?” Tarn asked.

  Dit hitched his legs apart with a happy groan. “As long as you do the hard work. I—oh, yes!”

  Suddenly balls-deep in him once more, Tarn grinned and reached out to tweak one of his nipples. Dit was still slick, open from the teasing of Tarn’s tongue, and it had been so easy to just slide back in.

  “Scream for me again,” he commanded, flexing his hips, and Dit, easy, obliging Dit, did exactly as he was told, time and time again.

  Chapter 6: Scheming

  AS THE caravan set out the next morning, Tarn couldn’t help noticing that Dit was sitting a little uncomfortably in his saddle. He spent the first few miles out of town feeling rather smug, even as he chatted to his assigned traders. They all seemed pleasant enough. Tira and Rita were identical twins, trading for dyes and mineral powders. Their brother, they explained, designed makeup that he sold to theaters and dancers across the green valleys. Barrett was an older man, grizzled and soft-spoken. He was a spice merchant, but his true passion was for traveling. He was writing a book, he admitted bashfully. The third wagon belonged to Jirell and her brother Hireth, instrument designers. Hireth’s lover, Lyson, traveled with them, playing soft music on the lyre as they left the dust and racket of the town behind them.

  They had all traveled together in one of Sethan’s caravans before and were obviously pleased to have each other’s company. They made an effort to include Tarn in their conversation, which he appreciated, but he was still lost
in the rush of names and gossip they exchanged.

  Ia came riding back to meet him midmorning. “Sethan wants to speak with this one, if you can spare him.”

  “We’re fine, Ia. How are you doing?” Jirell’s smile was warm. “I thought you were settled in the life of luxury?”

  Ia spat. “Too much of a good thing.”

  Tarn eased his horse back. “Point me in the right direction, Ia. No need to ride with me.”

  “Wagon with the red trim at the front.” She turned to grin at him. “I won’t ask how you’re settling in, strongman. We’ve all heard how you swing your sword by now.”

  Jirell clapped her hands together. “Fresh gossip? Spill, Ia.”

  Tarn escaped before they could have any more fun at his expense. It was nice to move a little faster, cantering up the slow line of wagons. The horse he was riding was a good creature, no longer young, but responsive and sweet spirited. She was out of Sethan’s stables and meant he was paid less than he would have been with his own mount, but he reckoned he had a good bargain nonetheless.

  It was pretty countryside, with low green hills, lines of dark trees and the occasional vineyard where bare-chested men worked hard between the rows of young vines. The light was warm and golden, spring light in a warm country. The first flowers would only just be in bud back in Amel, where his old hoard lay in eternal sleep.

  Ellia and Jancis both waved as he passed, and Dit blew him a kiss and winked, which made him laugh and sit a little taller in his saddle. He would not think of the dead, not when spring was in the air.

  When he reached the front wagon, it was not Sethan who was driving. Tarn hung back, unsure if he had found the right place.

  The man on the driver’s seat looked like any country farmer. He was leaning back with his hands easy on the rein, chewing on a strand of grass. He was squarely built, not fat, but solid with muscle, and his graying hair curled loosely under a soft, shapeless hat. He looked at ease with the world.

  Then he glanced across at Tarn, and there was something sharp and measuring in his faded blue eyes that made Tarn reassess him. This was no country bumpkin.

  “You’d be Tarn, then,” he said, and even his voice had an easy country drawl. “Nice to put a face to the name.”

  “Aye,” Tarn said cautiously.

  He got a warm chuckle. “My office is above young Dit’s favorite storeroom. Quite a night you had.”

  Tarn had forgotten how it felt to blush. He wouldn’t apologize, not for something that had been such a pleasure, but he could say, “No disturbance was meant.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. It was quite an inspiration.” The slow smile that went with those words definitely wasn’t that of the average bumpkin, unless they’d changed a lot since his day. Tarn was really beginning to wonder who this man was, and what place he had in the caravan, when the man said, “I’m Cayl.”

  He recognized the name, and after a moment remembered where he had heard it. This was flamboyant Sethan’s lover?

  “I’m just a passenger on this run,” Cayl said. “You’ll be wanting the pretty one.” He leaned back and called, “Hoy, Seth. Your northern swordsman’s here.”

  Sethan scrambled out of the back of the wagon a few moments later. He had discarded the flowing robes in favor of tight-fitting breeches and a billowing shirt, all pulled in with rows of polished buttons. His shining hair was clipped up in what was clearly a deliberately artless fall.

  Tarn couldn’t make sense of the two of them. Then Cayl offered his hand to help his lover step forward, and he saw the way Sethan touched him, and the absolute trust with which he let Cayl guide him. Men were strange and wonderful things.

  “And here he is again, complete with mighty sword,” Sethan murmured. “Have you expressed our gratitude, my own?”

  “I have,” Cayl said easily and swung his arm around Sethan’s waist, holding him steady.

  “So,” Sethan said, as Tarn wondered if he was going to be teased for the rest of the journey, “Ia tells me you rode in along the road from Rashamel. If the south continues to grow so frightfully dull and intolerant, I may investigate new routes in that direction. Your observations would be helpful, if you have the time.”

  “I won’t know the names of the towns,” Tarn said. “We have not left the mountains since before their building.”

  “We have a map, dear boy. One does like to include such a thing before one sets out on a long journey.”

  “Be nice,” Cayl chided.

  “Nice is so dull.” Sethan sighed and turned back to Tarn. “So, will you speak, or must I conclude that all your talents lie below your belt?”

  Tarn talked, but he was aware all the while that Cayl was watching him with those assessing eyes.

  HE SLIPPED into the routine of the caravan easily enough. He took Jirell’s advice and slept on the back of Barrett’s wagon. Hireth and Lyson were new lovers and loud enough that he could hear them even from the next wagon, and Jirell herself spent her nights tucked up with the twins. He heard them giggling sometimes, and it made him smile.

  He took an hour-long shift on the night watch each night, a slot just before dawn. He grew used to watching the sky grow bright as his breath steamed in the cold nights, under increasingly cloudless skies.

  He often rode with Ia, indulging her historian’s curiosity by discussing what he pretended were little-known northern records of the Dragon Wars. Ellia and Jancis became good friends too, and Dit was an easy companion, though they never repeated their night together. Indeed, Dit seemed to be flirting more and more with quiet Barrett, the spice merchant, who watched him with dreamy eyes and blushed at his flirting.

  Eventually, Tarn started unslinging his tent and sleeping alone behind the wagons. It wasn’t long before he was woken by the creaking of axles and Dit’s unmistakable moans. Tarn smiled to himself and turned over in his sleep, pulling his blankets a little higher.

  Barrett spent the next few days smiling foolishly, and Dit bounced in his saddle with a high grin. Ia rolled her eyes and muttered at the pair of them.

  “Why you’re complaining, I don’t know,” Tarn told her. “You don’t sleep in earshot.”

  “Don’t you mind?” She was staring at him thoughtfully.

  He shrugged. “A quick relief, it was, for both of us. Not love.”

  “Love,” she sneered. “Love’s just a lie sold to children to make them think that a life of drudgery is a privilege.”

  “And a lie’s what Sethan and Cayl have, is it?”

  She huffed. “Fine. There’s the odd exception. I just don’t see why you’re so unconcerned about it.”

  Laughing, he looked ahead. The land was turning drier with each day they rode, the plants thinning from vines and cypresses to dry grasses and the occasional wild olive. Soon, so soon, they would be in the desert, and he would feel Alagard’s indignant, exuberant energy rush through him again.

  “I’m waiting,” he told Ia, “for something bigger than a lie.”

  BUT ALTHOUGH they were at the edge of the desert now, Alagard did not come.

  The desert did not feel the same. Tarn thought at first it must be his human form, so he crept away from the caravan in the night, walking for an hour until he was well beyond anyone’s view. There, in the shadow of ragged red rocks, he transformed, sliding back into his true form for the first time in months.

  He waited for a furious dust devil to swoop down on him, but the desert stayed still and quiet. It felt cold, far colder than the night merited.

  The sense of love was gone.

  That wasn’t all. As he stood there, lifting his wings into the night winds, he realized the desert was quiet. Where were the small creatures, the lizards, the big-eared fox, and the little mice? They weren’t out and foraging, and all he could sense was a dim and quivering fear.

  He considered taking wing and searching out whatever had changed this place but decided against it. In this form, against the star-bright sky, he was unmissable. Better not alert
every creature and spirit in the desert to his presence.

  Sobered, he turned human and made his way back to the camp. He had plenty of time before his watch, but when he crept back in between the wagons, he found someone waiting for him.

  “With me,” Cayl said. “Quietly.”

  Tarn followed the man back to the red-trimmed wagon. He could see a light, but the canvas walls were thick enough to hide any movement inside. He crawled in after Cayl to find Ia and Sethan waiting.

  The interior surprised him. He would have expected ostentatious luxury from Sethan, but it was plain. There was a simple bed, made up neatly, behind the driver’s seat. The rest of the space held a low wooden table and cushions. The wagon contained no crates of books to be traded, and no obvious place to store them.

  “You were right,” Cayl said to Ia. “He was out in the desert.”

  Sethan, in contrast to his setting, wore a thick embroidered robe, belted with a purple silk sash. His feet were swathed in fur-lined slippers, and he cradled a steaming cup of tea. His voice, however, was unusually sharp and direct. “And what did you find out there, spellsword?”

  “Nothing,” Tarn told him, wondering. He’d once had a command tent that looked like this, with maps scattered across the tables and grim, soft voices conferring over where to face down the Shadow once they drove it out of Eyr.

  “The question needed an honest answer,” Sethan snapped.

  “I answered it,” Tarn said and turned to speak to Cayl. “Where are the desert animals? Where is Alagard himself?”

  “The local elemental?” Ia asked. “He’s right, Sethan—we’ve usually had a visitation by now.”

  “How do you take a resident spirit out of his desert?” Cayl wondered. “Could something be keeping him away? Some attack elsewhere in the desert?”

  “Beloved, it should be,” Tarn said. “It was before. Now the love has gone.”