His clothes were of good quality, though worn; neat, even stitches closing a rent in the sleeve of his shirt. But, when he brought one foot onto the rung of the barstool, he exposed a patch on the sole of his boot.

  Not a wealthy man then.

  Only one table remained unfilled, and by the time work ebbed enough for Peter to return to the bar, the table had filled, but the bar stood empty.

  No stranger.

  “Who was he?” Peter asked aloud.

  “A whole lot of trouble, if you ask me,” Addie said, slapping Peter on the back and cackling. “Them’s the best kind.” She waded into the crowd, exchanging bawdy tales with the patrons.

  She’d return with her pockets full of coins—she swore the patrons surrendered them freely, and she didn’t resort to magery.

  No, she wouldn’t. Too much at stake. Peter missed Mitta on nights like this when the former tavernkeeper who’d taken Peter under his wing would have been holding court by the hearth.

  Mitta, who’d lain on his deathbed, clutching Peter’s hand, declaring him nephew and heir.

  Leaving Peter the owner of the Stone’s Throw. How Peter missed Old Mitta, another who’d taken him in without asking too many questions, basing opinions on a man’s honor and work ethic, not parentage.

  Addie had the main room under control. Peter headed into the kitchen.

  “Good eve,” the kitchen maid said, a girl of nineteen he’d hired to help Addie.

  “Good eve.” Peter helped himself to some pie, perching on a stool in the corner to eat. The scent of burning wood teased his nose, though not from his own hearth fires. He sniffed the pie. Nope. Smelled fine. He stepped out into the main room, stalking straight for the back door and throwing open the wooden panel.

  The smell grew stronger here. He headed toward the scent, picking up his pace. On the streets, people went about their business. Did no one else smell smoke?

  The smell beckoned him away from the safety of the tavern. He searched the rooftops for a telltale orange glow and found nothing.

  Yet.

  Plenty of derelict buildings in this part of the city, some used by pirates to house illegal wares, others used as shelter for those without a home. Deep inside, something urged Peter on. Somewhere, someone needed him.

  He hurried down the wharf at a trot, pausing to consult his senses every few moments. His breath fogged before his face. There! He darted to an abandoned warehouse, throwing open the door. Flames licked at the wooden walls, leaving char in their wake. Soon they’d reach the ceiling.

  Two boys beat at flames with smoldering flour sacks.

  “What are you doing? Go!” Peter ordered them, snatching the bags from their hands.

  “We can’t, mister. Toby’s in there,” the larger of the two wailed.

  From a room behind them came a whine. Peter’s heart stuttered. A child? “Go! I’ll get him.”

  “Promise?”

  Peter tried to keep his voice confident for the children’s sake. “Promise. Wait for me at the docks.”

  The boys ran off on bare feet. Peter faced a wall of flames and heat. Where to begin? How could he…

  Resuming the boys’ task, he beat at the flames with the flour sacks. Instead of quelling the fire, the fanning sent it higher. Though he couldn’t see to the second floor, he heard the rush of flames as something caught. Orange glowed through the boards overhead. No, no, no, no, no!

  Now! He must stop the flames now before the warehouse collapsed! Thick, black smoke obscured his vision, stinging his nostrils, and clogging his throat. Heat battered his skin. Tears leaked from his eyes. Peter doubled over in a coughing fit. The wall between him and the child burned hot, orange, red, and blue. A child! He must save the child!

  “Toby? Toby!” he cried.

  A whimper answered him. Was there another way into the next room? Father, help me!

  Like the day with the woman in labor, power sizzled through him. Heat still scorched his skin, but not from the flames. Peter raised his hands.

  The flames shrank back, as though in fear of his touch. The air around him grew cooler, easier to breathe. He lowered his hands. The fire raged once more. Arms lifted, he chanted in some unknown tongue, commanding the fire to obey his will. I am stronger than you. You must do my bidding.

  The flames shot upward once more. For one brief moment, Peter imagined a raging inferno crashing down on him and the child.

  Then the flames wavered, growing smaller. His arms ached, muscles trembling. Still, he held his hands aloft. Slowly, slowly, the flames calmed, going from inferno to small fire, to embers.

  In the center of the dirt floor sat a ring of stones filled with charred rags. Two stacks of smoldering flour sacks sat nearby, side by side. Had the boys tried to start a fire to warm themselves, using the flour sacks as blankets to sleep?

  “Toby?” Peter called, advancing on the door, now a blackened ruin hanging from one hinge. Nothing. Oh, gods, no! Peter yanked at the door, ignoring the heat and soot on his hands. Once, twice. The door came free, falling to the floor.

  “Toby?”

  A matted ball of white fur huddled under a splintered wooden chair, whining and too afraid to approach. A dog. Not a child. Peter snatched the grubby creature by the scruff of the neck and inspected for injury. Nothing visible. He’d get Addie to perform a more thorough examination—on the dog and the boys.

  The boys hadn’t heeded his instructions, waiting by the back door instead of heading for the safety of the docks, shivering in their too-thin clothes. If the fire hadn’t gone out…

  Peter wouldn’t take the time to consider what he’d done. Had the boys seen? Had any of the Chosen been close enough to feel his use of power? Best to leave quickly. “Come with me,” he told the boys, handing over the dog to the older boy.

  The boys, nearly as scruffy as the dog, bore a resemblance, the oldest maybe ten and the younger possibly six. “Do you have a home?”

  The older boy glanced back at the warehouse.

  Oh. Despite exhaustion and trembling from earlier fear, Peter put on a friendly face. “Come with me. There’s food aplenty at the tavern. I know someone who’ll want to meet you.”

  The older boy gave off a faint whiff of power, but the younger was too young to detect. “Where are your parents?”

  “They… they’re… gone,” the older boy replied, eyes wary. He passed the dog to his younger brother, who’d been reaching, carefully keeping himself between the smaller boy and Peter.

  “How?” The twisting of his insides said Peter already knew the answer.

  “They got taken to the temple and never came back.”

  Peter would take them to Addie, who’d likely find someone with a ship to carry them far away from here, where they’d be given a home.

  E’Skaara was no place for the mage-born.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Martin ran his mouth over smooth skin, exploring a chest generously spattered with hair. A moan vibrated against his tongue. Farther and farther, he explored until his mouth hit roughness. What?

  He pulled back, staring at a puckered scar… and a face that haunted his dreams.

  Martin awoke with a start, breath coming in heavy pants. A dream. Only a dream. Of a man with a scar on his shoulder.

  He lay on his bed, pulling in air while his heart calmed. Hints of light peeked through the wooden shutters. Time to start his day. In a minute. First, he closed his eyes, imagining the man from his dreams once more, slowly stroking his cock with one hand while clutching beneath his balls with the other.

  Oh, to have continued the dream, buried himself inside his fantasy’s body. It had been too long since he’d plunged his cock into a willing hole.

  Memories came back: a rocking ship, two fumbling young men, his first kisses…

  The heat, the pressure.

  Oh! He came, spurting across his furred belly.

  Only a dream, but a good one.

  “Are you sure you won’t come to dinner?” Commander Enys asked as he and Martin took midday meal in the commander’s office.

  “Who is she?” Martin asked, picking at his roast chicken. One thing to be said for officers—they ate better than the men in the barracks.

  Enys gave a sheepish smile. “My mate’s cousin, so a brunette this time, for variety.”

  Exactly as Martin feared. Now to be diplomatic. “While your mate is a wonderful woman, I’m sure her cousin could only be a pale shadow in comparison.”

  “Yes, true, but how will you know if you don’t meet her?” Enys shoved a bite of bread into his mouth, the touch of pleading in his eyes nearly comical.

  Martin laughed, shaking his head. “You’re never going to believe that I don’t need a bond mate, are you?”

  ”As my Esmerla tells me often, men have no idea what they want, so they need mates to tell them.”

  Something had been on Martin’s mind. Now that he held rank, he felt more at ease talking to Enys as a friend. They’d also known each other long enough that, no matter what he said, Enys wouldn’t take offense or become suspicious.

  “What do you know of the Father and the Lady?”

  Enys stopped, a forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth. “Now, that’s an abrupt change of subject. Yes, I get it. No more talking about the never-ending line of unattached women in my family. What do you want to know? Esmerla attends the Father’s temple and spends some morns helping the poor.”

  “What about the Lady?”

  Enys barked a laugh. “Worshipping through pleasure? Let some stranger fuck you till you’re divine?”

  Wow. Enys was even less reserved than Martin hoped. “You’re against it?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, the temple brings a lot of visitors to our city, who in turn bring coin they leave behind. If they’re going to the Lady’s house, they bring lots of coin.” Enys leaned in and whispered, “And also their bodies.”

  “So, you do object. I never took you as a follower of the Father.”

  “I’m not, but don’t tell my mate. She might question why a man of my rank always seems to be working during worship services.”

  Now came Martin’s turn to laugh. “You do use your position to full advantage.”

  Enys sobered. “My great-grandfather lived here when something changed.”

  “What changed?”

  “Until then, the Father and the Lady were worshipped together, though most called her the Mother then.”

  “Did anyone see her? What does she look like?”

  “No one has seen her. One day, the hill began to glow. Every day changes came. All the powerful mages seemed drawn there.” Enys paused a long moment. “Like my great-grandfather. He went up the hill and never returned. The Lady’s followers said she’d instructed them to build a great temple. The larger the temple grew, the more mages disappeared.”

  Prickles of unease trailed across Martin’s skin. Had the Lady used the mages’ power? “Are there any more mages?” He held his breath.

  Enys shook his grizzled head. “None with any great power. Occasionally the Chosen will come into the city and drag some poor soul back, usually someone they were paid to make disappear.” He sighed. “You have no idea how many reports we’ve received. The reward you collected from finding that lady’s father? None were more shocked than me that he hadn’t been forced into the temple.”

  “If they kill people there, what happens to the bodies?” Surely someone would notice. Why wouldn’t the city guard intervene?

  “My great-grandfather said that some high priests can conjure fire that destroys them. I think he drank too much.” Enys returned his attention to his meal.

  Conjuring fire.

  Not so farfetched after all.

  “Why is this allowed? What about laws against killing?”

  Enys sighed. “They don’t apply to mages.”

  “What happens to the mages that are brought here?” Martin asked Cere as they lounged on a bench. Butterflies rode gardenia-scented breezes, and fountains burbled in the background. In the lower city, the air grew cool, the meager plants turning brown. Here?

  Eternal summer.

  “Why, they’re punished, of course.” Cere leaned back, showing his lean muscles to full advantage. He never merely sat—he posed, artfully arranging himself on the bench.

  Martin ignored the none-too-subtle advance from seasons of practice. “Why? What have they done wrong?”

  Cere shifted his gaze, first right, then left, and lowered his voice. “It’s blasphemy to ask these questions.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just… curious.”

  Cere stretched his long legs out in front of him, scowl giving way to his customary grin. “That’s okay. You’re not from here, so you can’t know. Power belongs to the Lady. The mages steal it and use it for evil. They must be punished.”

  Interesting. Martin’s parents hadn’t stolen anything. He certainly hadn’t. “What does the Lady do with the power?”

  “Why, everything. Without her, the sun wouldn’t rise or set. Crops wouldn’t grow, or babes be born.”

  What? “But hasn’t the Lady only existed without the Father for a few generations?”

  “Blasphemy!” Cere shouted, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “That’s what some would have you believe, but she’s always been here. She merely chose to make E’Skaara her home a few generations ago. You have to admit, she picked a wonderful spot.”

  “What about the Father and his teachings?”

  Cere huffed. “He would condemn me for taking a man to my bed.”

  “Doesn’t the Lady forbid that too?”

  “She forbids mages from forming such bonds, but if pleasure is to be had with a man“—Cere rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug— “then why not?”

  Why not indeed. “Have you ever heard of creatures who roam the night, killing innocents?”

  “Could never happen. The Lady protects the innocent.” Soft chiming sounded from the temple. Cere jumped from his bench. “I have lessons. Come visit me again?”

  “Of course, whenever my rounds bring me this way.”

  Cere darted off a few paces, stopped, and returned, rising up on his toes and brushing a kiss over Martin’s lips.

  Martin stood in the garden, fingers against his tingling lips, long after Cere rounded the building and disappeared from sight.

  What a long day. All Martin wanted to do was kick his boots off and relax in his favorite chair.

  A fire blazed in the hearth of his rented rooms, and he held his hands before the heat. His home for the past three summers smelled of sweet herbs and held a bed, a desk and chair, and a trunk for his clothes in one room. Four comfortable chairs, a table, bookcases, and a refurbished settee occupied the other room. He’d built the bookcases himself with wood leftover from a renovated mansion. The wealthy threw away things of value as inconsequential.

  Very few furnishings in his home had he purchased, save for his clothes and the candles. Even the books he forced himself to read had been salvaged and repaired. The more he knew of the world, the better. Many were religious tomes about the Father and the Mother. He’d found some on the Lady, all newer volumes. Know your enemy. Also, know your possible ally, though he’d never dealt much with the Father’s devout. Interesting how different some of the texts were from Cere’s beliefs.

  At least Martin’s magery allowed him to pick up reading and writing easily, with help from Cere and Esmerla Enys. After all, she wouldn’t want her relative’s future mate to be illiterate, would she, should she and Commander Enys finally wear down Martin’s defenses?

  Stone walls, stone floor. Martin’s abilities afforded him lodgings in the oldest reaches of the city, rife with residual magic practiced over the centuries.

  Before mages were hunted down like vermin. But the mages had their purpose, even if the general population didn’t understand. Without them, the city might one day fall to ruin.

  Several books he’d scrounged told of when ships traveled the seas by magic, not sails, and how mages actually owned shops based on their particular talents, like healing or divination.

  Oddly, nowhere in the city thrummed with magical energy quite like the temple and surrounding hill. Why build your fortress among so much magic if you despised those who practiced?

  Then again, Cere claimed all magic belonged to the Lady, making a hill filled with power ideal. Plus, it afforded an unparalleled view of the city. No matter how wealthy a person or grand a house, they’d never compare to the opulence of the Lady’s abode. Approaching visitors, either by land or sea, saw the temple before anything else.

  Martin returned his book to the shelf and retired to his bedchamber. His gaze fell to the bed. An image came unbidden to mind: the tavernkeeper, naked and splayed on the mattress. Martin dreamed of the image often, to the point where he’d like to ask to see the man’s shoulder to ensure the scar was real and not a product of a dream.

  Until recently, Martin hadn’t been aware his fantasy man actually existed. The more he considered, the more likenesses he found.

  He laughed at himself. Really. As if the fates would send him images of a lover.

  Martin wouldn’t mind being wanted by a certain tavernkeeper. What was it about the man? Another image came to mind: a smiling face, gold-streaked brown hair in the matted style of the pirates, sun-bronzed skin.

  Petran. Martin’s heart ached. The man he’d met last night reminded him of Petran. Only the tavernkeeper was fair and with dark brown hair.

  What had the patrons called him? Peter?

  Those eyes. Those intense, dark eyes. By whatever power reigned over the universe, Martin wished the pirate boy had lived. When Martin met other mages, he’d ask who their deity was and pray to them for Petran’s eternal peace.

  Once more, his thoughts dissipated in a thousand directions. What had he been thinking? Something about Petran?

  Martin had worked hard today, training with the sentries, patrolling the streets, and he’d love to go to the Stone’s Throw for dinner and ale. Perhaps he’d speak to the tavernkeeper tonight.

  No, first Martin must perform the duty he’d taken upon himself, to keep the people of this city safe. People who’d never know what he did for them.

 

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