Page 81 of Veiled Flames
His face lights up. “Rosshall. I heard you’d survived. Well done!”
“So did you.” I lean onto the table. “I didn’t see your pass through the gauntlet.”
One of the senior servants, a large woman with a stern smile, passes behind Samyull. “No fraternizing with the candidates while at work.”
He lifts the flagon, pours ale into a pewter tankard and hands it to me. “I survived, yes.” He nods. “But I didn’t run the gauntlet. I’m no longer a candidate.”
I assumed he’d turned recreant but didn’t want to say it. “What happened?”
“I’ve known I was done since that pit.” He leans across the table. “You saved my life down there.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” I take a sip of the ale.
“I can’t believe I survived nearly two days.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t want to desert. I still want to serve.” A satisfiedexpression fills his eyes. “My maid told me that if I wanted to remain at camp, I should talk to Master Saxon.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of his name.
“I found the master, just in time to escape the gauntlet, or be forced to desert. The master spoke to the klerick on my behalf, and I’m now an Acolyte of Othrix. I’m forever dedicated to serving the camp’s riders and candidates.” Samyull lifts his chin, looking proud of his choice.
I study my friend’s expression. Not wanting to share details about my own life, I didn’t make many enquiries about what Samyull’s was like before we met. But I do know he was neither a servant, nor particularly religious. And yet he seems proud of his choice, and I don’t want to show any sign of pity, or even a hint that it’s not a choice I’d have made.
In fact, becoming a servant at camp is precisely the choice I was offered by Saxon, although his offer was to devote myself to serving his cock—not Othrix.
I must extinguish all remaining stirrings for Saxon. I must lean into my anger to get past my continued captivation of my master.
A group of senior candidates arrives at the table beside me. “Pour us some ale, boy!”
Samyull quickly fills three more tankards, then he glances quickly at me before heading away to refill his flagon.
I’m glad my friend has found a place here, one where his life won’t be in constant danger. But that leaves me with no allies amongst my fellow recruits.
It’s for the best. Getting close to anyone risks revealing my secret. And I’m well used to keeping my own company.
I take another sip of ale, hoping its effects might ease my aching muscles. The musicians are playing a lively reel, and in the center of the room, a large group of men and women are dancing, holding arms and galloping in a circle to the music. This kind of dancing looks more fun than the formal dances I learned as a child and was forced to perform on command.
I lean against a column adorned with fragrant floral garlands, willing myself to stay awake as I sip on the ale and watch. The music changes to something slower, and some of the men grab partners and glide them over the floor, holding them close against their bodies.
The sight of male and female bodies pressed together reawakens longings inside me. Now that I know how it feels to be with a man, to be held tightly against one, will I ever learn not to react to the sight?
The music stops, and bright lights shine at the front of the room.
A hush falls over the crowd as they drift toward the lighted area. I slowly follow, unable to see the small stage over the much taller people.
“Good eve,” Saxon’s deep voice fills the room and my belly. “Congratulations to the new recruits who survived two days at camp.”
Cheers rise from the crowd and pride fills my chest. No one—certainly not Saxon—expected me to survive even my first day.
“Before you fall into the haze of ale,” Saxon continues, “we masters would like to acknowledge some significant accomplishments.”
The room settles, everyone listening intently. I still can’t see through the crowd, but don’t want to draw attention to myself by pushing through to the front.
“Dragon Rider Alexandre,” Saxon says, “please join your masters on the stage.”
Shifting around the edge of the crowd, I spot a chair in the shadows. I set my half empty tankard below the chair, and then climb atop its seat. A tall man with shortly cropped white hair and dark brown skin steps onto the stage. He stands at attention opposite Saxon and the other dragon masters.
Near the front of the crowd, I spot Prince Tynan, rising a half-span above most other men. Tynan’s jacket is hanging open, as are the top ties of his chemise, revealing the ropey tendons of his neck and the sharp line of his collarbone. I draw in a quick breath. Tynan might be despicable, but he is undeniably beautiful—a wonder to observe, whether he’s demonstrating his athleticism and skills, or simply standing for me to admire. I force my eyes back to the stage.
“Dragon Rider Alexandre,” Saxon booms, “today you demonstrated the highest standards of bravery and combat skills.”
