Dynasty of Ghosts - Sample

Illya sighted down the length of the arrow, his fingers rock steady on the bowstring as he followed the passage of four Guntharian soldiers through the leafy foliage. They were making little effort to be stealthy, three on foot and armored with thick leather, the last on horseback and wearing chainmail under a surcoat with a black lion on the breast. They were confident this territory was theirs, Guntharian forces having driven back the Prince Knight’s army two days past and taken this vital strip of forest for their own. The river ran through these woods and whoever controlled that, controlled the easy passage of supplies and men.

If the Guntharians had control of these lands, then the least the prince’s forces could do was make it unpleasant for them. His rangers, who were more adept at blending into the wilderness than any of his other forces, were given that task. This forest at the border of Seganny and Kroth was older and thicker than most. Its secrets were shrouded in thick-boled trees and creeping vines that spilled blooms and fragrance throughout the wood. It was a place where a man who knew woodcraft could easily camouflage himself.

Illya knew it. His fellow foresters knew it. The patrols that the Guntharians sent into these woods were crashing invaders within the quiet realm of woodland. There was the whistle of a thernlark. The only birdsong that broke the stunned silence had come over the forest at the passage of the men below. The signal to let arrows fly.

Illya released his shaft. It flew straight and true, lodging in the throat of the mounted knight. The man gurgled, half screaming, clutching ineffectually at the bolt that had killed him. His men hardly had time to register the attack before they too had bolts in them. Someone mis-aimed – an arrow grazed a man’s arm instead of a more vital part and the soldier ran screaming bloody murder into the foliage, right under the limb where Illya perched. Illya cursed under his breath, drew an arrow out of his quiver and tried to target the escaping foot soldier. There were too many branches between him and his mark.

He clambered down the tree, bow in one hand, the other grasping limbs in his descent. He hit the ground running, hoping he would have enough room to aim and shoot, because if it came down to hand to hand, he would be at a disadvantage with an armored opponent. He wore nothing more cumbersome than bracers to protect his forearms against the whip of a bowstring. It was hard to move stealthily about the wood weighted down with heavy leather and mail.

The back of the fleeing man wove in and out of sight before him. The trees were too thick to get off a proper shot. The man looked back, white-faced with fear after seeing his companions cut down. Illya loosed a shot and it lodged in the trunk of a tree. Where were Vanthuval and Kenthy? They knew damned well they’d lost a target and must have seen Illya give chase. If he had to run this man to ground, he would need their aid. He was not equipped to take down a man at arms.

Almost as if the thought had occurred to the fleeing soldier the moment it had to Illya, the man skidded to a halt and whirled, drawing his sword and roaring out an incoherent challenge. A veteran fighting man, from the scars on his face and the worn, used look to his armor. Everything that Illya was not. Illya was neither a veteran, despite his year’s service in the Aldanian army, nor a fighter. He was a second son of a second son who’d been brought up to be a minor functionary in his grandfather’s holdings. His esteemed grandfather had bought him a commission in the army because that was what nobles of minor blood did with their various offspring. Either got them places in the priesthood, or sent them off to gain glory and recognition in the king’s army. What else was there to do with them, other than marry them off and hope some minor alliance might be achieved, which with a second son of a second son, would not be a great one.

So Illya was in the army under the standard of the royal prince Talisar, whom he’d never met and only seen at a distance. When they’d found out he was adept at forest craft, they’d put him in the rangers. Rangers weren’t expected to fight in the front lines, so they weren’t armored or heavily armed. He had a dagger and a bow, the former at the moment being not of much use. He was beginning to regret having given chase.

The Guntharian charged at him, swinging. In his armor, he was slow. Illya slipped under the swipe and swung the bow two handed into the back of the soldier’s legs. It was rather like hitting a tree. The man was solid and the impact numbed Illya’s fingers. Wide-eyed, he scrambled backwards as the soldier swung around and stabbed at him. The sword point cut through dirt and bounced off rock not far under the earth. Illya’s backwards flight brought him up against a great, fallen slab of stone. It was cold as death against his back. Colder than stone had a right to be in the midst of a warm summer day. The sword sliced into the stone by his head and chips flew, hitting his neck. He kicked out, catching the swordsman’s ankles, off balancing the man enough that he windmilled his arms trying to keep his balance. Illya dropped his bow and drew his dagger, lunging forward and slicing at the unprotected area below the leather tunic between groin and belly button. An unpleasant place to strike, but desperation did not leave room for honor.

Blood spurted, catching Illya on the side of the face, matting hair pulled back into a braid that trailed between his shoulders. The injured man cried out, doubling over, hands seeking to stop the flow of blood. He looked up at Illya, his eyes pain filled and horrified.

“You’ve gelded me,” he choked. “You’ve killed me.”

The words and the look made Illya cringe back. It was one thing to kill from a distance, but to look into the eyes of a victim made him want to retch. He clutched the dagger, holding it threateningly, but the man had dropped his sword and fallen to his knees moaning, blood seeping into the mulch and rich dirt of the forest floor. It was not a wound that would quickly kill. A slow, torturous death was all the soldier had to look forward to. The honorable thing to do would be to kill him quick. Slice his throat and end the suffering. Illya couldn’t move.

The stone at his back was so cold he felt his flesh going numb from it. Something fluttered at the side of Illya’s vision. Something vague and drifting that made him start and fling his head about like a startled animal. There was a shape, a faintly glowing, human-formed specter that skirted about the dying man. It was predatory and intensely focused in its movements, seeming to have no more care for Illya than for the leaves on the ground. It was drawn to the dying. To the blood seeping into the ground. It circled and finally settled down, its ghostly membrane interposing with the flesh of a living man. Or a dying one. The soldier seemed not to notice it, even as it enveloped him. Illya did. Illya stared aghast as the shimmering form pulsed, bleeding life-force out of a man who could afford to lose none until it was all gone and the soldier slumped bonelessly to the ground.

Illya let out a little sound of misery, turning about to look at the stone his back rested against. It had faded, time worn markings. There were the signs of other, vine-covered relics scattered nearby. A sacred place. He had stumbled upon one of the sacred places. One of the old places where antediluvian powers still lurked, waiting endlessly for those weak enough to succumb to their thirsts. Ghosts that no one ever saw, that very few ever suspected existed, that were all that remained of a time long past. Only Illya could see them. Illya had always been able to see them and their ilk, had always had a feel for the things of yore, the powers they radiated, the presences that had enlivened them. A family trait, perhaps. His great grandfather had supposedly talked to ghosts. Had had a long running acquaintance, in fact, with the spirits who lived in the family crypt. Those selfsame spirits had never made themselves known to Illya and he avoided the crypts like the plague. But he saw things in the forests that made up the majority of his great grandfather’s holdings. There were ruins there too, that were infused with the restless spirits of beings long dead. He’d had nightmares for years about them, after the first time he’d seen them and his brothers and friends had not. They had teased him mercilessly. They still did. But it didn’t change the fact that he saw spirits, or that he could hear them.

The ones at home were not malevolent. This one was. It thirsted for a taste of life. He felt it when its attention shifted to him, gauging if he were weak enough to feed upon. Carefully he picked up his bow, sheathed his dagger and inched his way up the stone to his feet. In his experience, there was always a boundary that determined how far such spirits could roam. It was probably the extent of these ruins. He moved back the way he’d come, keeping the indistinct shape in his sight. It flowed with him, very much man shaped, the ghost of someone who’d had the power to cling to this realm after they’d died a very long time ago. It seemed to recognize, finally, the fact that he was aware of it and if such a thing could register shock, it did. It reached out towards him curiously.

You see? the words whispered in his head. He was never certain whether he heard them, or merely sensed them. You see?

“Forgive the intrusion. I did not mean to disturb your slumber.”

You see. It wailed the phrase in his head and he winced. You see!!

It almost eclipsed him, but did not have the strength to invade a healthy man. It still felt strange to have it brush so close.

Illya backed away, past the boundary of stone. The spirit wailed, beyond sanity. So long to be trapped in solitude, no wonder the thing was mad and murderous.

Pounding feet behind him and Illya whirled. Two foresters in brown and green caught up to him, blades drawn, eyes searching for enemies. They looked right past him, saw the downed form of the Guntharian and never perceived the thing floating above it.

“Got him. Good boy, Illya.” His immediate superior, Vanthuval, clapped a callused hand on his shoulder. Kenthy made to go and check the body. Illya started to hold out a hand and stop him, but Vanthuval drew him aside.

“Do you know who that knight was? The duke of Merivale himself. The prince will be mightily pleased to hear of his demise and you’ll get credit. It was your bolt that took him.”

Illya blinked, distracted by Kenthy walking right through the shrieking spirit without even batting an eye. The spirit hovered over corpse and forester. Kenthy, satisfied with the state of the body, and having garnered what items of worth there were, strode back to Illya and Vanthuval.

Illya tried not to look back, for fear they would ask him what drew his attention. He did not care to tell them what he saw. He hated the look in people’s eyes, the scorn, the disbelief, the careful neutrality that sane folk got when they thought they were speaking to a not quite sane one. He had lived too long with those looks at home to start them here, where men had to rely on the trust of their comrades to keep them alive.

Pretend it’s not back there, he told himself. Pretend you can’t hear it shrieking to wake the dead – he almost laughed at the term. Just don’t look back.

Talisar Ashe-Vri Endarian, heir to the throne of Aldania, Prince Knight of the first army of his father Herval Endarian, King of Aldania, slammed a fist into his open palm and stalked the length of his command post. That command post was a tent in the midst of a sea of tents on the plains outside the forests of Seganny, where his forces had been driven after a fierce battle at the shores of the Danath river. It had been an unexpected coup on the Guntharians’ part. They had secreted forces on this side of the river and come at the prince’s men from three sides. The damned Segannys had been of little help, their foot soldiers crumbling under the rush of Guntharian heavy cavalry from the north. Seganny never had had much in the way of a standing army, which was why the prince was here in the first place, trying to keep Drane of Gunthar from taking over the weak country of Seganny. Seganny was a buffer between Aldania and Gunthar that no one wished to see in enemy hands.

If it happened under Prince Ashe’s first command, it would be unbearable. The fact that his father had given him command of the first army when he’d reached his majority was an honor that the prince strove to live up to. He was gallant in battle, respected for his prowess with horse and sword, but he had little real command experience. He had advisors here who did, and he was not so foolish as to ignore their sage advice, but none of it had helped them two days past when the damned Guntharians had routed their forces and driven them back from the river.

“Damn it, Ven, if the Seganny can’t supply us with decent soldiers, then the least they can do is keep the army in rations.”

Ven Amvers kept polishing armor, his expression, as always, neutral and calm. Ven never overreacted. He was calm to his young lord’s torrential emotional outbursts. He had taken care of the prince since Ashe was out of the nursery and probably would for as long as he was able. Ashe trusted no one so much as Ven.

“I would not be surprised, Lord Ashe, if the Seganny were not contemplating a surrender with King Drane in hopes of preventing the sacking and pillaging of their Eastern cities. They’ve never shown particular fortitude under pressure. And an alliance with Drane might work well politically if they could manage to keep relations with us. They always were better at politics than warfare.”

The prince sniffed disdainfully. “We should have taken them long ago. This land can’t fall into Guntharian control.”

“The whole idea is that Seganny is to be a buffer between Aldania and Gunthar,” Ven reminded him. “If we took Seganny then we’d be sharing a border with a country that has a blood feud with your family going back generations.”

“We don’t want a war with Gunthar ourselves,” Ashe finished, automatically repeating lessons learned and lectures recited. “But we will aid our neighbors to keep them from invading. If only our neighbors were more helpful in defending themselves,” he muttered as an afterthought.

He was tired of fighting to keep his allies in line. He was tired of the tug of war he was playing with the Guntharians over this little stretch of land. Six months he’d been playing cat and mouse with Drane’s forces. Six months of skirmishes that led to nothing, and slowly giving up ground inch by inch to the Guntharians. He hesitated to call for reinforcements. He did not wish to seem as if he’d squandered the resources he had and need send home for more. He did not like losing men. He’d rather be home with the comfort of castle and servants than dying bit by bit on this dirty battlefield. It had seemed such a great honor when his father had given him this command. Had placed older and wiser generals under him, had given him Aldania’s honor to uphold. Six months ago it had been a grand adventure. Now it just seemed a useless waste of energy and lives.

He wouldn’t back down, though, even though his enemy seemed to have the upper hand. The Guntharians were determined, fueled by the hatred of their monarch. Drane of Gunthar, just as his father and his grandfather had, sworn to the destruction of the Endarian line. All over a blood feud that had started well over a century ago. Bloodshed and failed betrothal, suicide and murder that had driven two kingdoms to a war that seemed never destined to end.

The only good news he’d had was the death of the Guntharian Duke Merivale, who had been a brilliant strategist and a leading force in the armies facing them. That would hurt Drane and badly. It would affect morale and perhaps give Ashe back a little of the edge he’d lost when they’d been driven back from the shores of the river.

A knock on the tent pole and one of General Avahine’s aides came in with a field report. Nothing pressing or new. Ashe glanced at it and discarded it. Ven would look at it and scan it more thoroughly. Quiet today. Both armies were encamped and stagnant. Something would give soon. He expected retaliation for Merivale.

Ven brought him his supper. Two of his ranking commanders took it with him in his tent, discussing tactics, the disposition of rations, the sluggishness of the Seganny to send supplies when it was their duty to do so and with alacrity. They lingered over wine, speaking of more casual things, taking a small portion of time to relax and let stress and tension drain away.

Ven pushed the tent flap open and held it, ushering in a trio of rangers in forester colors. “My lord Prince, the rangers who are responsible for ridding us of the Duke of Merivale.”

His commanders lifted their glasses in salute. The rangers shuffled nervously in the presence of prince and high commanders.

“Who commands?” Ashe asked.

A short, weathered man stepped forward. “I, milord. Vanthuval of Kerris.”

“You are commended for a job well done. Luck was surely guiding your hand.”

“Not mine, milord,” the ranger said, and gestured back to one of the others. “Young Illya’s bolt took the Duke.”

Ashe looked past him to the indicated youth. A slender young man, with long hair of undetermined color braided at his back. He stared at the floor in embarrassment, refusing to look up boldly into the faces of his superiors.

“Then he is to be commended. Illya? From where do you hail?”

Forced to respond to a direct question the boy looked up. “From Grunthal Forest Reach, my lord,” he said quietly. His eyes met Ashe’s momentarily and the prince drew breath at the utter clear depth of blue within them. Even dirty from weeks in the field, the young man was arresting. Delicate bone structure made him seem waif-like and fragile. His voice did not hold the rough accent of an uneducated man, so Ashe assumed he was connected with the Grunthal aristocracy.

“Are you blood with old Willam?”

“My grandfather, my lord.”

“Ah.” Ashe sipped his wine, interest pricked. Noble blood then, even if not in the direct line of inheritance. “How old are you? You seem young for a commission.”

Illya of Grunthal Forest Reach tightened his lips in a moment of reflexive pride. “I’m eighteen, my lord.”

Old enough to find a place in the army by two years, with his father’s permission, but not yet reached his majority.

“You look younger,” Ashe said off-handedly and turned his attention back to his commanders, a clear indication for Ven to usher the rangers out. Ashe and his companions finished the bottle of wine, then the commanders went to seek out their own bunks. Ven busied himself cleaning up.

“Shall I arrange something, Lord Ashe? With the young ranger?” Ven asked, in the midst of laying out Ashe’s bed clothing. Ashe lifted a dark brow at his aide’s presumption. The man thought he knew Ashe better than Ashe knew himself.

“What makes you think I’ve an interest?” he asked coolly.

Ven didn’t smile. He didn’t hold any expression at all, which was the only thing that salved Ashe’s temper. “Was I mistaken, my lord?”

No. He had not been. The boy had been fetching, and it had been an uncomfortably long time since Ashe had taken a lover. Another reason to wish this little border dispute was over so he could be home, where Lady Lurene or Lord Davad, or any of his other less regular bed companions would be available. Ashe was not comfortable with abstinence, but his standards were understandably high, considering his status as heir apparent, and there were damn few worthy bed companions for a prince in the field of battle. He ran long fingers that had not held sword calluses until this last half year, through hair cut unfashionably short. Fashion be damned when one had to wear a helm into battle and long hair only made it hotter and tended to get in one’s eyes and stick to one’s face with sweat. Hair could be regrown, a life could not if he fell to an enemy thrust because he was blinded by stray hair.

Just another frustration this ongoing struggle laid upon his shoulders. It would be nice to have a little physical relief. He still hesitated. It was not the notion of taking a young man to his bed, for what other choice was there in the field of battle with no comforting female arms available? It was done on a daily basis in the camp within the privacy of tents. No one thought anything of it. Regardless, Ashe’s tastes had always been varied and he’d made little effort to conceal it at home in Rhu. Father only frowned when he was too indiscreet. No, he only wavered because he did not wish his reputation to be marred by taking a common soldier to bed. Princes had a certain criterion to adhere to after all. The boy had had lovely eyes, though.

He drummed his fingers on his empty glass while Ven went about his business.

“All right. Arrange something. I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

Illya sat on the hill overlooking the vast sea of tents that was the Aldanian army’s camp. Beyond the camp in the distance was the dark line of forest which hid the snaking form of the river that was in such dispute. And the old burial stones. The presence in the forest worried at his subconscious. Its misery, its sheer loneliness. He felt pity for it, being alone so long with no route to the afterlife. That’s what the spirits were, after all, souls who for some reason or another could not progress to the next level. Trapped by misery or grief, or passion, or hatred. It didn’t matter, they were all, he thought, to be pitied, if for no other reason than the rest of the world went on, blithely unaware that they remained. Ignored, abandoned, lost.

Sometimes over the past six months he’d seen the faint shades of presences over a decimated battlefield. Lingering over newly dead bodies, lost and confused. But the freshly made spirits were weak and featureless, little more than indications of thick air. Not like the older ones. The ones that dwelled in places like the one in the forest, or in old crypts or ancient cemeteries. Illya never went to such places.

Kenthy sat beside him, drinking from a dented canteen filled with potent, freshly brewed liquor. Kenthy was career army. He’d been a ranger in Aldania’s service for twenty years. He was common as mud, and loyal, and had taken a novice under his wing without a second thought.

“Still can’t fathom why the Duke would’ve been out there with such a small guard,” Kenthy was saying. “Maybe it were luck smiling down ‘pon us, to put us in that position when he happened by. The higher ups were pleased enough, though. Two days free time. Too bad we’re not close enough to a settlement to make use of it. All thanks to you, lad.”

“You would have gotten him, if I hadn’t,” Illya said.

“No, I messed up. Missed my own target by a long shot. Damned branches tangled with my bow. Vanthuval had the wrong angle.”

Illya shrugged, picking absently at clover in the midst of the grass. At least he could go home and tell his father and his brothers he had met the crown prince. Had received royal thanks for a job well done. They all thought he was lackadaisical, a dreamer. Father had been shocked when he’d chosen the army over the church when the choice had been offered. Father thought he’d far rather dwell in a cloister someplace where he could daydream all day long and actually be praised for talking to unseen presences. His older brother had laughed when he’d found out, saying that Illya was no more cut out for the army than he was for the gold mines that made Grunthal Forest Reach so profitable. His younger ones had picked up on that and teased him mercilessly up until the very day he’d left with his commission in hand to join the king’s forces.

It might have set better with him, those tales to take home, if the prince had not looked at him with much the same expression his older brother had, disbelieving that he was capable of a thing. Thinking he was too young, or too weak to accomplish the tasks that needed doing. Was it his fault he looked years younger than his age? Trantul, two years younger than Illya, already looked older.

Vanthuval trudged up the hill from the camp, squinting against the afternoon sun. “Damned hot out here. I’d rather be in the forest than out here with no shade,” the man complained.

“Dodging Guntharian patrols and the like.” Kenthy grinned, holding out the canteen to his superior.

Gratefully Vanthuval took a swig, grimaced and handed it back. “You’ll burn your gut out drinking that poison.”

“You find out what the Duke was doing out by his lonesome, yet?”

Vanthuval shrugged. “If they know, they’re not spreading it about. Maybe the lad can find out for us.”

Illya looked up, surprised.

“His lordship is extending his gratitude for the duke’s head and has invited Illya to join him and his at supper tonight.”

Kenthy lifted both brows, impressed. Illya felt a knot of fear form in his stomach. He most definitely did not want to be thrown into a gathering of his commanding officers.

“Tonight? But they already thanked us.”

“Guess they were more pleased than we thought. His lordship’s aide came by with the request.”

“Are you going?”

“Didn’t invite me. Guess my blood’s not blue enough. Go change into clean colors – you do have clean colors, don’t you? And wash up. The commanders are funny like that. And don’t keep them waiting. Prince takes his supper at the sixth bell.”

Illya groaned, looking to Kenthy for advice. The grizzled ranger shrugged.

“It’s probably better fare than what we’re getting tonight. Take cheer.”

Take cheer. Humph. They didn’t have to sit under inspection by the prince and the camp commanders. He trudged down to the stream that supplied the whole of the camp with water. Between the banks where they gathered water for cooking and drinking and where they dumped their waste, was the sandy shore they used for laundry and bathing. He shucked his clothing and waded into the waters. A few others made use of the languidly flowing stream. There was little bit of laughter and splashing a ways down. Someone’s aide knelt at the stream side washing a uniform. Illya untied the tail of his hair and loosened the braid. It was stringy with grime and dirt, having gone a good long while between washings. He dunked his head and scrubbed, knelt, and kept all but his face underwater hoping any fleas or worse he had picked up in the forests would abandon ship and swim free. He was as clean as he was going to get without the benefit of soap and a real bath. He dried off with his dirty tunic and donned the clean one he’d fetched from the tent he shared with Kenthy. He wrung out his hair and finger combed it as he walked back into camp, settling for pulling it back into a tail rather than the impossible task of neatly braiding it while it was wet.

The sixth bell rang while he was still a good distance from the center of camp where the commanders had their tents. He cursed and began to trot between the neat rows of tents. Main mess had already been called and most of the army was either in line for supper or back at their tents consuming it. He got to Prince Talisar’s tent a little out of breath, a little damp and more than a bit nervous. The prince’s aide stepped outside before Illya could raise his hand to rap at the tent pole. The man gave him a once over, faintly disapproving look in his eyes over Illya’s rapid breathing and his wet hair.

“Promptness must not be a priority in the rangers,” the man said, before stepping aside and ushering Illya into the tent. Illya blushed furiously and moved past him, expecting to see a room full of commanders and finding only the crown prince standing over a folding table which held an array of maps and papers. The prince did not move to turn or greet him. Illya groaned, thinking Vanthuval had mistaken when the prince took supper. That he was more than a few minutes late, had missed the whole thing, in fact, and now would feel the sting of castigation for his tardiness.

“Milord, forgive me. I hadn’t realized the time –”

“No harm done.” Prince Talisar turned lazily, a slight smile lingering on his lips. He wore a loose caftan of some fine, light material, over flowing trousers of the same material. He was – imposing. That was the word Illya thought suited him best. Tall and broad shouldered, subtle power in way he moved, in the way his dark eyes moved over a room. Regal and strikingly handsome. He had his father’s royal nose. Long, narrow, with just a hint of a hook at the bridge. High strong cheeks and a narrow lean jaw. His hair was black as night, with shiny, bluish highlights, neatly combed and cut short as so many knights were wont to do. Impeccable and royal. Illya felt the wretched urchin, half wet and disorderly in the face of his prince’s finery.

The prince’s man began to set covered dishes on the small camp table. Talisar waved Illya towards it, taking the single high backed chair with arms that sat before it. The other seat was a collapsible stool. Illya took it, nervously wondering where the commanders who usually took supper with the prince were. He was afraid to ask. It would be rude. Oh, but he wanted to.

The prince must have seen it in his expression, for he smiled dryly and said. “It’s just you tonight. My usual companions have the odious task of running an army. They are not always free company. Ven, some wine for my guest.”

The prince’s man, Ven, dutifully filled both their glasses – actual glass goblets instead of tin cups – with a dark red wine. Very fine wine of a caliber Illya hadn’t tasted since he’d left home. Probably, ironically enough, of Guntharian vintage. Illya swallowed half of it in a gulp while the prince stared at him, smiling as though he found Illya’s nervousness amusing.

“Did Lord Willam buy you a commission in the army?”

“No. My father did – with Grandfather’s permission.”

“Yes, if I recall Lord Willam always was a tyrant. His heir is who – Johan?”

Illya nodded, surprised the prince was making an effort to speak about his family. “Yes, my father’s older brother.”

“Ah, and what will you do, when your time in the army is up? Or will you make a career out of it?”

Illya blinked, not having particularly thought that far into his future. He honestly had no notion what he wanted to accomplish with his life. A professional soldier was not a thing he thought himself suited for – not even to spite his siblings. He found the death unappealing.

“Perhaps I will become a forester in Grunthal Forest Reach.”

“An unassuming profession,” the prince said. “Have you no other skills?”

Illya half smiled. “I read and have a fine penmanship – according to my tutors. My father rather thought I would take up a priestly vocation.”

The prince lifted a dark brow. “Oh. That would be supremely boring. The chastity and all that.”

The prince actually shuddered at the thought and Illya almost laughed. Prince Talisar had a somewhat theatrical bent. It lessened Illya’s nervousness.

It made him bold enough to inquire, “Forgive me for asking, Prince Talisar, but my comrades were curious if we knew why a man of Duke Merivale’s status was riding so lightly protected in the forest.”

“I wish we did know. I can only be supremely grateful that we were lucky enough to bag him. If only I could be a spider on the wall when Drane hears of his demise. It would almost make all this worthwhile. And Ashe, no one calls me Talisar unless it’s official.” He grinned, strong white teeth flashing against sun browned skin. He was charismatic, his easy manner, his smooth, confident speech, his striking appearance. A man could form a distant admiration for the prince separated by rank and position, but on closer personal interchange he was like a flame to moths. Illya was seduced by the prince’s conversation, drawn out of his own uncertainty by the inborn talent of a man born to sway the masses.

Ven uncovered a dish laden with roasted fowl and potatoes. The smell was unbearable after months of gruel, thin soup and dried rations. There was fresh bread, and a dish of wild mushrooms in a savory gravy. Illya’s eyes must have bugged because the prince laughed and gestured to the feast.

“It’s not much, I know. The damned Seganny are balking with their supplies. But I get the impression you’re more than impressed.”

“My lord – you can’t imagine how bad the cook is. Someone should put a bolt in him.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Illya.”

Illya’s stomach rebelled, but he waited for the prince to break bread first, before tearing into his own meal. It was as good as it looked. Better.

Kenthy would be squirming with envy. Prince Ashe ate slowly, watching Illya with what might have been amusement. Illya was too enraptured by the meal to care. Ven kept the glasses full, standing unobtrusively to the side, waiting to be of service.

When the prince finished, the man quickly swept his plate away. Illya finished the last of the mushrooms and soaked the gravy up with the remaining bread. Then Ven took his plate away, topped off his glass and went about stacking the dirty dishes in a tray that he took from the tent. Which left Illya and Prince Ashe alone. Illya’s head was fuzzy from the wine, he was distant and relaxed. You just didn’t get heady wine in the field. The most that were available to the common man were the homemade brews that Kenthy fancied and Illya couldn’t stomach them.

Ashe sat back, holding his glass between the fingers of both hands, and watched Illya. His eyes were unreadable, half hidden by his lashes. The observation played at Illya’s nerves, eroding away at the wine-induced mellowness. It was like the prince was gauging him, or judging him, and he hated to be judged. He always came up wanting.

“So, you learned your woodcraft in the northern mountains then? Fighting Berbars and all that?”

Illya stifled a laugh. “You hardly ever see the Berbars, much less fight them, my lord. They’re sly as snakes and as unpredictable. My grandfather says it’s because they let women rule their clans and no self-respecting man can understand how a woman thinks.”

“Ah, a bit of wisdom from old Lord Willam. I agree. Fickle creatures, women.”

They talked a bit about hunting, the prince never having seen one of the great long-toothed tigers that roamed the upper reaches of the northern mountains and only having seen the stuffed remains of Hothrabear, the lumbering, highly fierce giant that even the mountain tigers gave way before. Illya had seen both on numerous occasions, though had only hunted them sparingly and then in the company of a large hunt. The mountain tigers only became prey when they ventured down from the heights and threatened man or man’s domesticated beasts. The Hothrabear even less so, being far more dangerous. Grandfather declared a bear hunt to impress visiting dignitaries and made a grand occasion of it. More often than not though, dogs, horses and even men were victims of such an undertaking. Hothrabears did not go down easily.

The prince seemed intrigued with the thought of tackling such a fearsome beast. His eyes glinted with the prospect. He was a man, Illya thought, who savored a challenge most men would quail at.

Another bottle of wine was opened. Illya began to blink and to lose the thread of conversation. He misjudged the lip of his glass and a trail of wine dribbled down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his sleeve, embarrassed. He thought he ought to excuse himself before he made a fool of himself in the presence of his prince. He did not wish the man to think him a country bumpkin not able to hold his wine. The prince was staring at him, a lazy, amused smile on his face.

Illya’s face went hot. He struggled to enunciate his words clearly. “My lord. I cannot thank you enough for your generosity. You did not have to offer it.”

“I know that.” Prince Ashe wasn’t smiling now. He sipped his wine, still staring.

Illya swallowed the rest of his in a gulp, managing to spill none. “I – I should not infringe on your privacy longer.”

“You have the oddest colored hair when it is clean.”

Illya blinked, caught off guard by such a comment. He was suddenly uneasy. The Prince put his glass down, rose and stepped around the table. Illya froze like a cornered rabbit when Ashe reached down to finger the long, loose strands of his ponytail. It had dried over the course of the meal. The summer sun had made it multihued, a half dozen different shades of gold glinting within the darker hues of auburn and russet.

“So many shades,” the prince marveled.

Illya blushed, drawing shaky breath. He sat, afraid to move while the heir to the crown stroked his hair. “They – they say – at home –” he had to say something to break the nerve shattering silence that had come over his own tongue, “– so many colors – that it’s the mark of fey blood.”

Prince Ashe chuckled. “They would. No offense, but Grunthal Forest Reach is a backwoods province at best. I find it quite, quite lovely.”

“Th–thank you, my lord,” Illya muttered, not knowing what else to say. His heart beat so hard in his chest it was a wonder the prince didn’t hear it and comment. Ashe touched his chin, tilting his face upwards. He stared up, wide-eyed.

“Your eyes are also quite unusual.”

Illya couldn’t find the breath to answer. It was all he could do to try not to hyperventilate as fear and confusion beat at him. The prince’s hands moved down to his shoulders, stroking the skin of his neck, strong fingers testing the muscles, then softening to gently massage away the tenseness.

Illya sat straight, hardly daring to move, confusion swirling behind his eyes. He was afraid. Fear came upon him out of the shadows and took him in its jaws. He trembled and the hands on him continued to stroke, the prince continued to stand close behind him, his body almost touching Illya’s back.

It did feel – good. The insistent, gentle caress. With no word spoken, or other movement made, his shoulders relaxed against his will, his head bowed forward, heavy on his neck. He shut his eyes. What does he want? What is this?

“Better?” the prince murmured, close to his ear. Illya could not quite answer. The prince put a hand under his elbow and drew him to his feet. A moment’s dizziness assaulted him. Too much wine and too much oxygen from rapidly drawn breaths. The prince’s strong fingers on his arms kept him steady. One hand went to the small of his back, pulling him a little closer.

Dim alarm rushed through him being so intimately close to another man. Prince Ashe backed him deeper into the tent towards the corner which held the royal bunk.

“My lord – I don’t understand–” he strained to get it out. Gods, he couldn’t see straight, his head was reeling so badly.

“You’re sloshed. A little young for so much strong wine, hummm?”

“I’m not.” Illya was tired of being taken for a lad. Everyone treated him like a child. Was the prince merely being solicitous?

“Sloshed or too young?” Prince Ashe backed him another step. His knees hit the back of the bunk and he hadn’t the grace at the moment to keep from going down.

“Sit,” the prince ordered, after the fact. He sat down next to Illya, close enough so that their thighs touched. Illya made to scoot away and one of the prince’s long arms went around his shoulder. The rough embrace of a comrade – or perhaps something else. “Let your head clear.”

“I – I – thank you, my lord,” he murmured, at a loss.

“Do you have a lover in camp?” Whispered question, as smooth as cream in a bowl.

Illya blinked, flabbergasted, his mind doing little panicked flip flops. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Did he have a lover in camp? He hadn’t even one at home. The girls his age were all after his brother, or uncle Johan’s get, who would stand to inherit more. And the ones that weren’t were bold enough to drive a shy boy away, when they weren’t teasing him about his imaginary ghosts.

Illya shook his head in answer to the prince’s question, too drunk for anything but blatant honesty.

“Are you shy or just not inclined?”

“I’ve never –” Illya started to say and couldn’t finish it. I’ve never even bedded a girl and you want me to bed you, was what he wanted to fling desperately into the prince’s intense face. But Ashe’s dark eyes caught him and snared him and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’s like a wolf, Illya thought helplessly, who’ll stare down a victim before he rips its throat out. An unnervingly attractive predator, who held worlds of power and rank above a common ranger.

The prince’s lips curved up in a smile, his arm tightened around Illya’s shoulders a moment before he swooped down and kissed the younger man. One of the prince’s hands tangled in Illya’s hair, pulling his head back. Prince Ashe sought to deepen the kiss and Illya was too dazed to prevent it. He had never kissed anyone that way before. It was unsettling and not completely distasteful. It made his head spin more cruelly.

His back touched the bunk without him realizing the prince had pushed him down. There were pillows and fine, soft sheets. The prince straddled him, doing things with his hands and mouth that were not unpleasant. Illya shut his eyes, lying there passively. What do I do? Do I push him off? He’s the prince. He’s the prince. Can I tell him to stop? He won’t have to, if he doesn’t want to, will he? Gods, I’m scared.

Ashe let off a moment, sitting up, hands working at the lacing of Illya’s tunic, fingers trailing along the skin underneath. “You’re beautiful,” the prince whispered in his ear when he bent close to pull it over Illya’s head. Then his hands and his mouth returned to Illya’s body. Despite the fear and the distaste, his body responded to the prince’s well-versed hands. Between the wine and the sensation, he was lost.

In the back of his mind though, a bit of indignation kindled and burned. Not of his choice, these things that were being done to him. Not of his own volition did he occupy the silken bunk of a prince. Summoned and wined and seduced, so that his head spun with the smooth rapidity of it. The fact that they spoke of home and familiar, friendly things beforehand, that the prince’s callused hands were gentle and encouraging on his untrained body, the fact that he was sworn to serve this man before all others save the king himself – all of that and it still was no better than a rape.

Ven came back after an appropriate interval of time. Ashe was almost annoyed at his aide’s sense of propriety. Ven would protect the royal reputation whether the royal in question wanted it or not. Although he did have to thank Ven for this divertissement. The young ranger had been fully satisfying. Naive and ignorant in the ways of pleasure, but easily led. When the boy had said he had no lovers in camp, Ashe had not expected that to mean he’d had no lovers ever. But if he had ever seen a virgin, Illya was one. A breathtakingly beautiful one, lying with one knee tucked up to cover his modesty, his multi-hued hair spread out about him, a becoming blush staining his smooth cheeks. Ashe had hurt him a little, even with the scented grease Ven had left for his use. There had been a little blood, as if he had taken a virgin girl instead of a boy. It stained his sheets now, along with other things. Ven would see them changed after Illya left.

“My lord prince,” Ven announced himself, business-like as he entered, and Illya made a little sound of dismay and snatched for a sheet to cover himself. He buried his face in his arm, profoundly embarrassed. Ashe had the burgeoning urge to have him again, but he’d already dallied the night away and it was growing close to dawn. He waved Ven away with a stern look and a motion of the hand. His aide lifted a brow, then shrugged and slipped outside the tent. Ashe could hear him standing just outside, waiting.

“Illya? It’s time to go before the camp rouses.” He leaned over his new lover, ran a thumb across soft lips. The young man flinched, and reluctantly moved his arm. His lashes glinted with tears. Ashe frowned. “Do you still hurt?”

Illya blushed and shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“Then what? Did you not find pleasure?” People did not generally cry after his lovemaking. He had been a little overeager with Illya, having gone so long without, but he had not been rough. He had tried to be particularly gentle when he discovered just how much of an innocent Illya was.

“Yes, My lord. It was pleasurable.” Dully, a little guiltily said.

Ah, Ashe thought. It was his sense of morals that was offended. Lord Willam of Grunthal Forest Reach was notoriously closed-minded. He ran his holdings like a deacon ran his church, strictly and virtuously. A man whose views of taking undue pleasure of one’s wife were dim, much less taking it from a bedmate of the same sex. He leaned close, brushing hair back from Illya’s face.

“We are striving to keep our country safe, risking our very lives for it – is it so wrong for a man to find pleasure where he can, when he may not live to see the next day?”

Which was not exactly a whole truth as far as Ashe was concerned. He saw little wrong with taking pleasure from an attractive young man, whether he was confined to the battle field or not. But he did not believe Illya was quite ready to hear that admission.

“No, my lord.” Very agreeable. Very submissive. It irked Ashe for some reason. He sat back up and snapped peevishly.

“In bed, you have my leave to call me by my given name.”

Illya blinked up at him, wide-eyed, a little wary. “Will we – be doing this again, my lor – Ashe?”

Ashe mulled it over, and came to the conclusion that he’d already decided that yes, he would very much like to have Illya in his bed again. “Yes, I believe we will. Now up with you unless you want the whole camp talking about it.”

Illya drew a startled, dismayed breath and scrambled up, looking for his discarded clothing. Ashe took pleasure in watching him. He was graceful, even in his haste. Lean, with very little body hair, his skin turned a golden hue by the light of the brazier. His hair was a wild mass about his shoulders. Ashe beckoned him over and he came hesitantly to stand before the prince.

“Sit down,” Ashe commanded, and took his own comb from the table by the bunk and smoothed the silky stuff into obedience. He separated it and braided it, then tied it off with one of his own clasps, since the leather thong Illya had used to bind it was lost in the tangle of sheets. Illya looked at him oddly when he’d finished, then awkwardly bowed and almost tripped over the table and chair in his haste to escape.

Ven came back in when he was gone. Ashe donned his robe and stood while his manservant stripped the soiled sheets from the bunk and replaced them with clean ones.

“Was your evening gratifying, my lord?”

“Quite gratifying, nosy one. And thank you. I trust you will be able to arrange something in the future.”

Ven paused, looking up at him and said carefully. “My lord, I hope you’re not contemplating a regular assignation with a common soldier. It would be unseemly.”

Ashe waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t be more hypocritical than you have to be, Ven. And I don’t know if regular is a term I would use and he’s of noble birth.”

“Ah, and very, very pretty,” Ven surmised. “You’re smitten again, my lord.”

“I’m not and I resent you saying it. I merely see no reason that I have to go on being chaste as well as miserable out here.”

Ven made no further comment. He finished with the bed, put out the low burning brazier and settled into his own blankets in the corner of the tent.

Ashe plopped back down onto his bunk, mind drifting back to Illya. A satisfied grin crossed his lips as he lay down, hands laced behind his head.

A good night. A very good night.

Dynasty of Ghosts is now available as a download for $12.86 and in print for $24.00

Dynasty of Ghosts

Illya has always been different - fey, quiet, and cursed with the ability to see the lingering spirits of the dead. A younger son of a younger son from a backwater mountain province, he is a nobody in the king's army until he comes to the notice of the Prince Knight himself, the spoiled, stubborn heir to the kingdom of Aldania. Caught up in a war that has raged for generations between Aldania and a neighboring kingdom, captured and imprisoned by a mad king, Illya and Prince Ashe discover a history of lies, betrayal and assassination, and the ghostly truth beneath it all. Opposites in every way, they forge a common bond that pain, war and betrayal will test to the very limit of their strength. To end a dynasty of madness and suffering, Illya must embrace the ability he has always hated, and look to the dead for answers. Price: $24.00 Download: $12.86