KINGSBORO
From the Haute Tower which stood separate from the rest of the great mountain of the Kingsboro, Teryn Wesley watched as, all in white and gold, the retinue of Queen Isobel came up the road. The palace and indeed, all palaces and towers in the city, raised their white banners at the return of the Queen. She had come into the city with celebration enough, and her winter wedding had been the event of the year. She had traveled with the King to Rheged to visit the new qurrn there, her sister by marriage, and then had headed south on business of her own. Most supposed she’d gone to visit family.
Teryn’s eyesight was keen, and he saw King Cedd, handsome, all in white, dismount his horse and stretch a hand to his wife, the black haired king kissing the black haired queen, he white as milk, she the color of caramel and sunlight. People loved her because they already knew that, young as she was, she was wise unlike any Queen they’d had in a long time, and good hearted. They needed wisdom. In the north King Edmund fought an enemy that all whispered he had done his best to murder. One Wulfstan had escaped his executions, a nephew, now called King Osric. Another had been in plain sight all along, the one they called Queen Myrne. Apparently she had known Anson and even been in this palace, unseen. Though white, she bore Royan blood and had been trained on the Rootless Isle. Fierce she was, they said, and she led armies to war like the battle maidens, the Valkyrian in the ancient myths. It was said that in the north, since the Dayne had returned, the Hale had begun worshiping the old gods and old Sendic magic moved freely.
But Rufus, the new King of Daumany, had crossed the sea to help his kinsman, Edmund, and his soldiers were encamped in Inglad and on the Essail border. He and his armies were in southern Hale. There was no reason any of the Ayl Kingdoms would have come to his aid. Indeed many still remembered that, truthfully, though it had long been ruled by Wulfstans, Inglad itself was originally Ayl. However, some said, when Edmund was gone—and the King had no heir—Rufus would take over, and as he had fiercely united Daumany, so he would crush this Osric and his witch wife. When he held the North in one hand and Daumany in the other, he would look to the Ayl kingdoms and fall upon the people his father had unsuccessfully fought not long ago.
As Isobel and Cedd’s parties combined and rode back into the city in the midst of spring and the blowing of joyful trumpets, Teryn reminded himself that all of those things were so far off it hardly stood to think of them, but as soon as he thought that, the sky went grey, and he looked up to see a cloud passing over the sun. The gloom lasted just long enough to remind him, “But we celebrate right now because we are preparing for that future.”
Indeed, the Ayl Kingdoms which still remained were Westrial, Sussail, Senach and Essail. Morgellyn, with Rufus’ troops most uncomfortably on her northern and western borders, had betrotheed her daughter to Bohemond of Sussail. Cedd had wed his sister, their very Queen. Sussail’s importance lay in its connection to Armor and Solahn and to Queen, Hermudis being a cousin of Rufus. Even little Senach had ancient ties to Armor, and King Duncan had Armorian and tribal blood while his wife, Queen Bereneice, was the sister to Tourmaline, the mother of Morgellyn, Hilda and the newly made Queen Imogen.
Of course, Teryn realized from his own family, a family of nobodies that he had preferred to sell his body on the street rather than live with, blood could mean very little. As the crowds cheered far below, and the King and Queen rode through the Oster Gate, Teryn thought, My Queen! for he had great love for her and always called her this, My Queen is only the first cousin to Edmund once removed…. What would stop him from descending on us?
Then he thought, I will survive. I always survive.
He was only eighteen year old, but it had been a long seventeen years.
“I will survive,” he said again, but, looking down on the great city of brass tiles, copper tiles, red tiles and slate tiles, of high towers and long bridges, wagon loads trundling through wide avenues and crowds passing through narrow streets, he knew this was not simply about him, not anymore.
When Teryn was a boy, his favorite uncle was Edwin, whom everyone called Ned. He was a farmer. The whole family farmed, and he wore a checked shirt and Teryn remembered a long red nose, hidden by the hat he wore as a shield from the sun.
His whole childhood, at family celebrations, he was passed from grown up to grown up and like an eel he slid through them to Uncle Ned, climbing on him, sitting on his lap, often held and caressed by him, squirming about to get good purchase on his lap.
One day he nearly accidentally elbowed him.
“Sorry, Ned.”
“Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about.” Ned sat him firmly down, and he felt his uncle’s stiffness poking his bottom. He knew what it was for the same firmness happened to him as a little boy. He wanted to apologize to his uncle move away, but the older man with the strong hands just sat him firmly on his lap, and Teryn felt the firmness of his uncle against his buttocks. He felt like he should tell him, like it was some sort of intrusion on the world of grown folk. And how thick it was and how stiff it was, and why did his uncle seem to not know, indeed, to rock him into it?
In the next year, it seemed that all the accidental bumps he had with his uncle, now his uncle had with him, often pressing up against him, often sliding a hand over his bottom. Asking him to sit on his lap. Then Aunt Enn said, “Can’t you tell he’s growing up? He’s not a little boy anymore, Edwin.”
When, in his twelfth year, the harvest came early and the fields were heavy with ripe wheat, Uncle Ned asked his mother if Teryn could come and help for the day.
“Not even the harvesting yet. You know it’s not quite time, But help me oil the plows and ricks. A boy should know.”
“A boy should know,” his mother agreed.
Early one morning, Teryn came, and they worked all till noon, Uncle Ned with his shirt off, the sun glistening on his reddened chest, and he told Teryn, “Take yours off too. That’s a boy. Don’t sweat through a good shirt. Good shirts aren’t even needed here.”
They laughed and, still early in the morning, Uncle Ned gave him his first taste of beer. It fizzed and bubbled and it tasted like earth and water.
“That’s what summer tastes like,” Uncle Ned said.
Teryn was thinking about the sacrifice at the end of harvest, when beer was spilled before the Belledames, the Mother and Her Daughter. His Uncle said, “Go into the tool house and bring out the old saw, would you?
Teryn nodded and went in.
Rummaging through the dark shed, he began to wonder if maybe his uncle was wrong, if maybe what he was looking for wasn’t some place else when he heard, behind him, the footsteps of his uncle, and then he heard the door close and they were in darkness.
“That won’t help me find it,” Teryn began. “And I don’t think it’s here, anyway.”
Ned pressed his large hands to Teryn’s back. He groaned and said, “You know how I feel. How you make me feel!”
Ned breathed loudly through his nostrils, his strong hands kneading Teryn’s back so that the boy relaxed even as he shuddered, not sure what was going on.
“I try not to. I try not to. Ah, gods. Just don’t move. Don’t move. It’ll be over soon.”
Teryn didn’t know what was going to be over. He heard the rustle of fabric, turned to see, dimly, his uncle pulling down his trousers. He felt Ned yank down his own, felt his own underwear being pulled down.
“Terry.”
Ned’s hands were strong and they pressed him down, and in a moment he understood without really seeing, a darker shape in the darkness, Ned’s penis, hard and thick. Ned spitting on his hand, spitting on his penis, before he turned the boy around, sat Teryn down, squarely on hands and knees in the dirt and sawdust of the shed, and knelt behind him, opening Teryn, pushing himself inside of him. It didn’t happen quickly. It was slow and Ned staggered as Teryn cried out.
“Oh, God! Terry! Oh… Oh!” he cried. And then he began slowly, slowly, slowly, quickly. “It’s almost over. It’s almost done. It’s—”
Neither one of them moved. Ned reeled back. He opened his mouth and half screamed, once, twice, three times. The power in his hands was gone. There was a space, a ripping, and emptiness where Ned had been. And then Ned said, “Oh, God. Oh, my God, there’s bl—”
He stopped talking and said. “You stay right there. Don’t sit. Don’t do anything. No, go in the house. Let me clean you up. I swear you’ll be alright. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
It did hurt, though. It burned, and in a place Teryn didn’t know you could burn. Ned helped him put his pants on, and led him into the empty house.
“I’ll get cold water. But not soap. That won’t be good. I’d clean you but it’s probably better if you clean yourself. I don’t think I’d be gentle enough.”
Ned sounded nervous and afraid and talked over his words. He walked up and down the living room, tucking his shirt in while water ran in the wash house, and then he said, “Go clean yourself, Terry. Tell me if you need anything.”
The rest of that afternoon, Uncle Ned looked terrified and kept taking his hands through his straw colored hair. He didn’t look at Teryn. He just kept asking, “Can I get you something to drink? Do you need another blanket.”
He didn’t ask if Teryn was alright. Or if he hurt. He knew the answers to both. All day Teryn hurt down there, deep inside, and he dreaded going to the bathroom. It was another day before that felt alright. Even when there was no pain, he always felt the entrance of his uncle Ned. Ned was always inside of him.
As an older boy, not even quite a man, so many things were filled in, how he ought to have felt strange at Ned’s touch, how being pressed down on Ned’s lap, feeling the hardness of his erection, should have made him feel odd, how Ned’s hands on his shoulders should have been a cause of displeasure. And why had no adult noticed? Or had Ned been subtle? And how could he have gone to Ned’s farm that day? Certainly any sensible boy would have known better. That day of the rape, for rape was what it was, Ned cried into his hands and wept, but all the time he healed, Teryn was never angry at his Uncle, and while it happened, though he was in great pain, he wasn’t afraid. It was as if Ned’s assurance that he would never hurt him actually meant something. And when it was over, how strange, he wanted to comfort Ned, who seemed far more out of control and lost than Teryn, laid up on the couch, did.
But the truth was he had loved the feel of Ned’s hands, and he had cherished being on his lap,. He had leaned into his uncle’s erection and treasured hands sliding across his bottom, the hands that, when they touched him, and made him shiver, made him aware of how firm and round his buttocks were, of how he was growing into a beautiful creature, and he enjoyed how his uncle looked at him, for when he looked at him he felt special and loved.
When the pain was gone, Teryn still felt Ned inside of him, remembered his uncle’s strong hands on his shoulders. Remembered how there was no roughness, no attempt to hurt, just desire he could no longer pin back. Teryn remembered the defeated sound of Ned’s orgasm, and when he remembered it, it aroused him. In his dreams he was not running from Ned, but turning around and touching his hair, comforting him.
They sat together in her chambers high above the city, as they did most nights, and Isobel said, “Teryn, what is it?”
“Nothing,” he said, but he frowned and uncrossed one leg from over the other, putting his tea cup down.
“Lady, it is just sometimes I forget, you are only five years older than me.”
Isobel raised her eyebrows and counted on her fingers as if to work out math she already knew.
“That is the truth,” she said.
“But you carry so much more than me,” he said.
“We carry what we must,” Isobel said.
She was in her satin dressing gown, dark blue like the night. Now, late as it was, the jeweled tiara was not on her hair which was twisted into one long black braid hanging down her front to her lap.
“At any road,” she said, “by now I know the things you carry, the memories you’ve told so few.”
“Yes.”
“You have counted me a friend, Teryn, and that means much.”
When Teryn nodded, the Queen of Westrial touched him and said, “I mean that.”
Teryn colored and said, “Our friendship means much to me too, Lady.”
“The two of us are odd ducks in this castle,” Isobel said, “though for different reasons. I am not sure I would have been as glad to return home if I did not know you would be here.
“You say I carry much, but I would have you carry a few things for me.”
“Yes?” Teryn looked at her.
“As much as I need you here, as my friend and a support, Teryn, I need you to travel to Essail on a goodwill trip, to see how the new Regent is doing in her time of mourning, to convey the sorrow of the Queen of Westrial for King Stephen who died last year. Let Morgellyn know I will come to her as soon as I can and that… you are my right hand.”
Here Teryn smiled, and Isobel said, “If she knows this she will never try to harm you, and I do not trust her.”
“Which causes me to ask,” Teryn asked, “what is the real reason you want me to see her?”
“I want to know if she killed her husband or not,” Isobel said quickly. “I must have the measure of her.”
“I can find that out and then ride a few days into Inglad to see what else you should know. I might even set up a network of spies.”
“A network of spies!”
“Yes, Lady. Or do you think I would not succeed? The life I led before required wiles.”
“No doubt,” Isobel said. “But I did not ask you to endanger your life. I would not. I do not.”
“Let me see determine what is danger or no,” Teryn said.
Isobel sighed and shook her head.
“Teryn!”
“My Queen.”
“Very well,” Isobel said, at last, “but take care and avoid risks I cannot save you from. I need you here, Teryn. I need you alive.”
“I promise,” Teryn said.
“Tonight,” Isobel said, “I must go to the King. Tomorrow night you and Anthony may have him again.”
Teryn winced at this, put so baldly.
“Do you mind it, Lady?” he said.
“I love Cedd,” Isobel said, “but as a Queen loves a King. I go to him so that he might have a son.”
“Lady,” Teryn said, simply, “pleasure was my first business. I am stepping ahead of myself when I say it is your duty to give Westrial a legitimate heir but, beyond that… We should all have our pleasure.”
The Queen, who had been looking reflective, almost distant, came back to herself, laughing.
“That is why I love you, Teryn,” she said, standing up, “and sooner and not later there will indeed be pleasure.
Pleasure for us all.”
