Already a bird had flown in from High Court with a message from Berendil, and the very sight of it instilled Freyrík with dread. Surely the Aegis could not have forced a call to arms through the Council of Eight so quickly? Reluctantly he unfurled the small note, crammed end to end with his brother's jagged scrawl. Why Berendil hadn't asked his quill hand to write it for him, Freyrík could not guess; no part of it spoke of private things.

Freyrík laughed, wondering if that were the Aegis's joke or Berendil's, even as a sick hollowness spread through his guts at the numbers.

'Twas two battalions short of Freyrík's hopes, half the reinforcements he'd trusted the Aegis to raise. Damn the midland provinces and their foolish release laws; it seemed half their able-bodied men paid their way free of conscription each year, and even more cravens paid free of reserve duty. Of course, their coin made possible the spare food and kit, but what good were provisions for an entire battalion if he had only a contingent to feed?

Still, any reinforcement was welcome. He would make do with what he was given.

. . . Or perhaps not. Four hours later, he conceded that no amount of inventive repositioning could reduplicate two battalions. Each Surge seemed to grow vaster and more violent than the last, while their own resources dwindled.

Well, they would fight with what they had, and even so they would endure. There was simply no other option. He would pass the news along to the Council and meet with them two days hence; let twelve wiser heads ponder on this challenge for a time.

As for himself, he'd had enough of hopeless puzzles for one day. Lunch in the Great Hall had come and gone without him some two hours past; his rumbling belly and the throbbing ache behind his eyes were becoming fierce distractions. 'Twas time to lay his planning to rest for a while and take tea in the gardens, perhaps watch his middle sons spar. Both were too young to take the battlefield of yet, gods be thanked, as was his eldest, away at the Aegis's academy. They would not die in this Surge, or likely the next; but what of the one after that, and after that, and after that . . .

Freyrík shook his head. Such were dangerous thoughts in the face of his duties. Yet he wondered if his father had thought the same, and his grandfather, and—

Sometimes he wondered at how hopeless it all seemed.

But there would be one bright spot in his day, at least. Tonight, he told himself—tonight he would lay with Ayden, and share with him all the pleasures he knew how to give.

Ayden spent his day staring out the window, watching the sun crawl across the sky and fair torturing himself by envisioning over and over what would happen when the prince at last returned. He hoped to whittle away the horror of it by constant thought of those cold, possessive fingers on his skin, unwanted lips pressing to his own, the weight of that muscled body atop him, the burn of the prince's cock in his arse and the baying of lust in his ears. He could endure it, at least he thought he could, if the prince would only take his pleasure and be done with it.

But he doubted 'twould be that simple.

Though he'd met the prince only yesterday, already the man had surprised him too many times. His candid concern for his people. His knowledge of the Behn Thakka and his talk of elven poetry. He didn't strike Ayden as the kind to enjoy an indifferent partner. No, the human might well expect him to be willing, if not eager. And Ayden had promised to obey his every demand.

But he'd not meant that. Not that. How could he ever . . .

Perhaps if he closed his eyes and ears and pretended hard enough, he could trick his body into thinking the prince were Leifi or ֱstir, and dwell not on memories of the one dead on the battlefield and the other parted with harsh words. He'd not lain with a male in nearly two hundred years, but one scarce forgets such pleasures, and the prince's body would surely feel the same beneath his hands: smooth skin and thick muscle, hard cock and firm arse. Cooler, though; humans burned dull, barely kindled and quickly extinguished. Could he bring himself to pretend at eagerness for such a touch?

He would find a way. To protect Ella—anything to protect Ella.

By the time the prince returned to his bedroom, the sun had nearly set, and Ayden was ready for him. He stepped away from the window and forced himself to bow his head. "Prince," he said. It was the first word he'd spoken since morning, and it came out rough.

"Ayden," the prince returned, a soft smile quirking his lips.

He looked tired, sounded fretful to Ayden's inner ear. But beneath that—of course—was a high, thin thread of desire, curling round Ayden's skin like fingers. He ground his teeth and swallowed, forcing a smile.

Neither of them spoke or moved.

The silence grew painful.

"I trust you're well?" the prince asked at last, as if Ayden were some visiting dignitary, and not a prisoner he'd tortured just the day before.

"Oh, yes," Ayden said, smiling sharply. "'Tis my favorite pastime: being locked in a human's rooms."

The prince winced, and so did he. He'd not meant to be sarcastic; he could not afford to drive the man away, not when "away" amounted to Ella. And crack his tongue for not finding the words to undo the damage . . .

"Well, at least 'tis a nice bedroom," the prince said with a desperate smile.

Ayden forced his lips to twitch up. "That it is."

Relief chimed like bells all round him, as if the prince thought some silly banter could possibly mend what ailed them. He waved in Ayden's general direction and said, "I see you found my shirts?"

"'Twas cold," Ayden lied. "I hope you don't—"

"Quite all right, 'tis proper to be dressed for dinner anyway. I had some sent up. Won't you join me in the drawing room?"

And that, fallen gods be blessed, was one request he could indulge eagerly enough.

Except that of course the prince insisted on hand-feeding him, and of course the prince's fingers found need to explore past his lips with every bite he took. At least the food was decent this time—better than decent, in fact, despite being spiced with human. Ayden cleaned his plate and some of the prince's as well, once the prince had declared himself sated. Dessert was a rich chocolate cake the likes of which Ayden hadn't tasted since before the war, for the cocoa bean did not grow in elven lands. He thought he could be excused, then, for licking frosting from the prince's finger with such enthusiasm.

Once the last bite was gone, the prince's hand, no longer occupied with food, draped itself across Ayden's shoulder and began to stroke. "I have seen many an elf," the prince said softly near his ear, "but never one so compelling as you."

Ayden barely refrained from asking, "Truly? Is that the best you can do?" But he had only to think of the prince speaking thus to Ella, and his resolve to see this through was hardened. Besides, he sensed neither deceit nor empty flattery from the prince—only desire, lust, cautious delight. The man, oddly enough, was telling true.

The hand on his shoulder slid to his chest, skimmed across the exposed skin of his throat. He swallowed hard beneath the prince's roving fingers.

"You're so warm," the prince whispered. "Is that . . . normal?"

"I feel normal," Ayden replied, mirroring the prince's touch. His heartbeat quickened and he bit his lower lip to stifle his desire—let the prince notice that, and not that his desire was to squeeze his fingers round the man's throat.

The prince leaned into Ayden's hand and closed his eyes, laid his cheek upon Ayden's shoulder and pressed his nose and lips to Ayden's neck, sniffing deeply. Ayden froze, every muscle in his body locked against this unwanted intimacy; even his hand stilled where it lay between the man's collarbones.

At last Ayden could stand it no longer and leaned away, covering his retreat by taking the prince's face in both hands, as if to study or perhaps to kiss him. The man's stubble scraped against his palms.

The prince licked his lips, caught one between his teeth and let it slowly pull free. "Would you . . ." He curled his fingers round Ayden's, gently freed his head—not that Ayden resisted—and stood from his chair, still holding Ayden's hand. "Would you come with me now?"

To bed, he meant, Ayden could tell. He nodded, wondering at the prince's timidity. Certainly there was no call—nor any hope—for the man to woo him. Why, then, was he trying so hard? 'Twas doubly frustrating for the time it took; Ayden wanted nothing more than to get this over and done with.

It seemed, then, that he would have to make it happen himself.

He walked them both the short distance to the bed, then freed his hand from the prince's and began to strip himself of his human clothes. The breeches first, for he found them stiff and uncomfortable, the cut too confining and the fabric too heavy for the summer heat. Then the shirt, riddled with buttons at the cuffs and all down the front that made removing it a cumbersome nuisance. At least his wound was finally healing; he felt only the slightest twinge of pain when he pulled his left arm from the sleeve.

Yet the twinge of embarrassment, even shame, that came with the loss of the shirt was far from slight. He fisted his fingers in the material, clinging to it for another moment; then he tossed it aside, beyond temptation. 'Twas not as if he'd never been naked before others, even if they had been lovers or fellow soldiers and not—

No, think nothing of that. Do what you must.

He lifted his feet one at a time to peel off finely-woven socks and a silk undergarment. Bare now as the forest in wintertime, he kept his gaze to his feet for a moment, schooling his face into careful blankness before looking back to the prince.

The prince's expression was equally frozen but certainly not blank, his eyes traversing Ayden's skin as if a dream he feared to lose upon waking. "By the gods," he whispered, reaching out with an unsteady hand to trace his fingers across the ridges and planes of Ayden's stomach, rather more pronounced now than they had been at the start of this accursed week.

Ayden's breath caught at the touch and his muscles contracted away from the prince's fingers, but he forced his feet to remain in place. He sucked in a deep breath, then another, praying the prince would construe his aversion for nervous desire. Though if he kept balking . . . He tried to step into the prince's caress, yet when those cold fingers trailed low across his hip, toward his thigh, his traitorous feet lurched backward, carrying him out of reach.

"Ayden?" the prince asked, and the way he looked up at him then, with wide and tremulous eyes, reminded Ayden of nothing more than Ella as a child, her heart at his feet, handing him some craftwork and waiting, just waiting for his praise.

Crack the man anyway for being so gentle. Why could he not simply take what he wanted, force Ayden's hand so that Ayden would not have to extend it freely? 'Twould have been more bearable that way. More compassionate.

The irony of that did not escape him.

The prince let his hand fall to his side. "Am I not pleasing to your eye?"

His confusion was so genuine that for a moment Ayden felt sorry for him, despite his galling assumption that all the world would bed him at the first opportunity.

"You are," Ayden said with an ease born of honesty, taking in the prince's bright blue eyes, his wavy hair the color of cattails that grew by the Loekr River, his robust warrior's frame. But looks were by no means the beginning and the end, and slavery could bring ugliness upon the fallen gods themselves.

Still the prince stared up at him with imploring eyes. "Is this not done among your people then—to bed man with man?"

"We take no mind of gender," Ayden said. "When you live as long as we do, you cannot always be and do the same without going mad."

The prince nodded, sat heavily on the bed, pulled his eyes away from Ayden's bared flesh and dropped them to his own lap. "Perhaps 'twould be better," he muttered, "if I found you some nightclothes."

"No," Ayden said quickly, wrangling his feet back under control and forcing them to shuffle forward. "No, I want—" He cut off short, wondering at the power of words to choke as surely as smoke.

The prince's song sharpened, desire now shadowed by something deeper that Ayden couldn't place but hoped was merely lust. "You want . . . what?"

"This," Ayden said desperately, accenting the word with a forward step, then another. "You. Isn't that what all your subjects wish? To bed the handsome prince?"

The question faded from the prince's eyes, and the deeper notes in his song—not lust, crack it, but wariness and disappointment—swelled to drown his keening desire. "You are not one of my subjects. And have I not proven already that I can see through your lies?"

"No, I wasn't—!"

"You despise me still," the prince said, "though your fate here is hardly my fault, though I've shown you such mercy and kindness as I could, treated you as equal when I could. I'd hoped— I hope to change your feelings in time, but do not insult me by pandering to mine. Rest easy, Ayden; I will take my pleasures elsewhere tonight."

"No!" Ayden planted a firm hand on the prince's shoulder as he tried to stand. The prince looked surprised—half wry, half murderous; he was clearly unaccustomed to commanding hands on his person—but remained on the bed. "No," Ayden said again. "You are wrong. I don't take well to slavery, 'tis true. But in absence of my freedom, I would take whatever . . . pleasure . . . you are gracious enough to offer. Please," he said, caring not at all that he was begging.

He felt the prince's resolve begin to waver and pressed upon it harder yet, caressing the prince's cheek with his thumb and adding, "If I must be your slave, then I beg of you, Prince: permit me this small respite."

The prince closed his eyes, leaned into Ayden's touch. But then something shifted within him, and he slapped Ayden's hand away and demanded, "What manner of teasing is this?"

'Twas no coincidence, Ayden thought, that he had chosen to spit Ayden's own words back into his face.

The prince stood, and this time Ayden daren't press him down again. "You do not want this!"

"I do!" Ayden shouted, throwing his arms wide before the prince, shamelessly displaying his nakedness. "I do! Here I am—do with me what you will!"

"What I will? What I will? My will is clearly beyond your comprehension!" The prince stared at him, breathing hard for a long moment. Ayden dared not break the silence, not even as the prince pushed past him and strode toward the doors. "As I said, elf, I shall take my pleasures elsewhere."

"Wait!" Ayden shouted, finding his tongue at last and rushing after the prince. He gave hardly any mind to his nakedness as he burst into the hall, and remembered the guards only when their arms blocked his way, restraining him. Even in his panic he could not help but notice a hand squeezing his naked arse, or the powerful wave of lust and the backbeat of smugness that accompanied the violating touch.

"Prince, please!" he cried, straining against the guards' grips until he felt something tear in his healing wound. "You promised you wouldn't hurt her! I've kept my word! You promised!"

The prince froze mid-step, his song growing cold and fierce in the space of a heartbeat. When he whirled round and marched back toward Ayden, the force of his . . . fury? indignation? outrage? . . . was so overpowering that Ayden staggered back from the guards' grips and braced himself for the blows to come.

The prince planted his hand in Ayden's chest and shoved him so hard he went sprawling to the carpet. He heard the doors slam shut; then the prince was dragging him by the arm, off the floor and into the bedroom, where he spun him round and pushed him again. Ayden slammed back against the edge of the bed and landed on his arse once more, but at least this time his fall was cushioned.

"How dare you!" the prince shouted, shaking Ayden by twin iron grips on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry!" Ayden cried out. "I tried to give you what you wanted! And 'twas not my place to question you before your men, I know, but please, please don't hurt Ella!"

The prince's face scrunched up in disgust and he gave Ayden another hard shake. "You . . . You . . ."

Gods help him, he'd angered the man speechless.

"What kind of man do you take me for!" the prince demanded. "You think that I would— that I'd— Gah!" Another hard shake, and yet strangely, when Ayden flinched, the prince's grip on his shoulders loosened. "Is it easier for you to hate me, if you can think me a raper? Must you hold onto your hate so tightly to survive here? Am I truly so cruel?"

Ayden said nothing, altogether too stunned by this turn this of events to form a reply.

The prince released him, scrubbed both hands across his face and let out a tired sigh. "I did not take you against your will, even as you claimed to want me. I would certainly not take Ella. Despite what you clearly wish to think, I am no dark beast."

Ayden looked up at the prince and opened his mouth to speak, but still no words would form; relief had clogged his throat.

"Nor do I lack for eager company," the prince added with a pointed stare. "There are as we speak three Lady Consorts most anxious to bear me sons. I will go to one of them, as I was doing, and shan't trouble you again."

Ayden swallowed round an errant urge to apologize and nodded mutely.

"But you must listen," the prince said, dropping to one knee before Ayden and gripping his forearms. 'Twas profoundly uncomfortable to have the prince's face so close to his naked lap, even if the human looked only into his eyes.

"There is much hatred here for you," the prince said, his voice low and urgent. "Nobody must know of this kindness, do you understand? For if there is any hearing of it, I shall have no choice but to disprove it with a contrary demonstration."

Ayden nodded once more, wondering where his tongue—typically his weapon of first resort—had gone off to.

The prince stood and stepped away, a small, sly grin twitching at his lips. "Now I must stay awhile, for appearance's sake." He retrieved Ayden's breeches and shirt and handed them over. "I will find you some nightclothes. Meanwhile," he added, his smile growing wider, "feel free to shout whatever obscenities may rage upon your tongue."

"For appearance's sake?" Ayden asked, gratefully shrugging into the unbuttoned shirt.

"But of course." And then, "I don't suppose you play chess?"

Ayden felt his lips flap soundlessly once again. What in the name of the fallen gods had happened here? All the world seemed suddenly a dream, for in what waking world would a prince deceive his own people for the benefit of a slave?

Yet dream or no, he'd be a fool to pass this mercy by; he would play for as long as the prince allowed it. 'Twas a simple thing to do—he need only picture the prince with Ella, undressing her, touching her . . . "NO!" he screamed, loud enough to carry halfway across the castle. Then he added, considerably softer, "for no one has ever taught me how."

The prince had startled, but now he laughed and waved Ayden through the double doors to the drawing room, where a large marble chess board sat upon a table in one corner.

"Do sit, then," he said. "I'll even let you play the darkers; they strike first."

And last, Ayden thought, taking his seat at the board and shaking off his confoundment, gathering his wits to trounce the human at whatever game he offered.