Chapter 2 #3
“Vylenor, my home, is on Ulla. …” Perl pauses from his work, straightening.
“And the way they treat mortals is not kind. It is quite common for the fae of Ulla to take mortals for their beds. And it would be impossible to take you there because this is the only reason mortals are permitted into the Ice Court of Vylenor. As thralls.”
“Thralls?”
“Playthings.”
“Bed chamber toys.” Kerik says it lightly, but there are old stories that men are taken from Ismagaar by faeries who bring them to their frozen isles across the Starlight Sea and make them into their whores. “But you do not wish to use me so?”
“Absolutely not. And if you spent even a moment considering it you would understand that. I have kept you for five years without touching you.”
Kerik leans forward as far as his magical binding will allow. He drops his voice low. “Really? And how could I know that you have not? I don’t remember anything about the last five years. For all I know you have already used me. Perhaps you use me nightly and then remove my memory of it.”
Perl’s pale cheeks seem to flush slightly. He stammers a little as he says, “That is not the case.”
“And do you regret such restraint?” Kerik has a mocking note in his voice.
It’s interesting that this creature seems flustered just from the suggestion of debauchery.
In the tales Kerik has heard, faeries were always quite wanton.
And he is not adverse to using his body if it means avoiding torture and exile at the hands of the Rose Court.
Perhaps they’d even execute him in the Punishment Square.
He says, “It’s not too late, however. You have me at your mercy.
How do you most wish to take me? On my knees? Over this table?”
A pained look crosses Perl’s face. “I told you that is not why you are here. Your purpose is nothing so tawdry, I assure you.”
Kerik makes a scoffing noise. “So that’s why you are sending me to Ceruleum? You must go to Vylenor and if I went with you there you’d have to use me?”
“I am not taking you to Vylenor for many reasons. Including that if I took you there, you would have to pose as my thrall, yes,” Perl says. His voice sounding even more frayed.
“And I,” Kerik points at himself, “would be allowed to be your thrall at the Ice Court. We are both men. That would be a sin of the body.”
“The Ice Court is not the Rose Court. In very many ways including this one. It is a great taboo for any fae to breed with a mortal. Mortal thralls must never be of another sex.”
“So you are all sly? I have heard some people say this.” Kerik says.
Vylenor is only getting more and more fascinating.
Not only are the faeries and their lands real, but they have some kind of interesting sexual practices there.
Didn’t some whore he met in a pillow house once tell him that the faeries live as if every night is a Pleasure Night?
He would like to see that. Along with the fabled magic Vylenor must hold.
“Not at all. The fae would not see any meaning in being sly. That would not be a problem for us.”
“I see. And as your thrall I would have to warm your cock on command?” Kerik says it with a smirk.
“Not necessarily," Perl says curt and firm with a tight expression, “But we would have to pose as such. Because, in the eyes of the Ice Court, that is the only reason I would bring a mortal to Vylenor. You would have to wear my collar and obey me.” Perl pauses.
He seems to be thinking. Kerik is sure he is coming around to the proposal.
“But it would mean I could protect you. And she would never be able to break the wards of Vylenor. In many ways it is the safest place. But no… No. It is not possible.”
“Because you think I could not manage that? You will not take me where I will be safe because you think such a task beyond me? To pose as your thrall?”
“I simply do not know.” Perl looks at Kerik.
He steps away from the salt circle and pours himself a cup of the bark tea, draining it in one long sip as if trying to give himself strength.
“Perhaps it is a better option. Although I dearly wish there was another. But if we do this we would have to make it as convincing as possible. I am of the fae. I cannot tell a direct untruth. We would have to make you look the part and behave the part, so they do not question me.”
“Very well,” Kerik says quite sweetly. Pleased to see his powers of persuasion have not dimmed.
“And I would have to do something about your hair.”
Kerik lifts a hand and touches his hair.
He realises he has far more of it than he expected.
“Oh,” he says in surprise and then both his hands are on the sides of his head.
He has so much hair. It feels greasy. Even — he shudders — matted into foul clumps in places.
He touches his chin. His beard has grown too. “You let my hair grow.”
Perl looks at Kerik. “I wouldn’t say I allowed it.”
“Can you fix it? It cannot have been in this state when you found me. Kindly fetch a blade so this can be rectified.”
“You want it how it was when I met you?” Perl cocks his head onto one side. “I believe you had it short on the sides in the Fanosti style.” He raises an eyebrow as if Kerik’s vanity is amusing.
Kerik looks at him, annoyed. He has been doing all he can to seduce this creature into taking him to a magical land, without realising his usual good looks are so marred. And he is not going anywhere with his hair in this state. “Do you have a silvered glass?”
Perl waves a hand in the air and produces one as if he is picking a piece of fruit. One minute his pale hand is empty and the next he holds the handle of an elegant piece of silvered glass, encased in a decorated onyx frame.
He hands the glass to Kerik. Kerik takes it, attempting to mask his shock at what Perl has just done in front of him. His fingers close around the glass’s handle. He is quite surprised to find it solid and real.
He looks into the glass. He is relieved to find that apart from his hair he looks mostly unchanged.
A little more gaunt than usual, but he is quite definitely still himself.
He had been struck for a moment that this creature might have done something far worse to him than let his hair grow long.
However, his face is as he remembers it.
His dark eyes sparkle with Darek silver.
But his hair is long to his shoulders and the sides that he normally keeps shorn, have grown out into a loose shaggy style that looks almost girlish.
What does not look girlish is the long dark beard that has sprouted from his chin. He touches it. The hair is coarse. He looks like a vulgar peasant who lives in a cave. “And remove this too. I wish to look presentable for your faerie court.”
“As you wish,” Perl says. He waves his hand idly in the air.
What happens next is like something from a tale.
Even more shocking than the glass appearing from the air.
Kerik watches his reflection slack-jawed.
His beard vanishes from his face, leaving his chin completely smooth.
The hair on the sides of his head melts away, until the planes of his skull are as bare as if he had just had a servant attend to them with a blade.
The rest of his hair is shortened too, grazing his ears now instead of lying over his shoulders.
He yelps in surprise and finds himself glancing at the floor, expecting to see his hair lying there, but the floor is clean. The hair from his head and his face is just gone.
Kerik looks back to the glass, moving his head from side to side. Admiring his reflection.
It is surprising, he thinks, looking at his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, that this faerie does not want to lie with him. Or, at least, that is what he claims. Perhaps he is just hiding his desires.
Kerik lifts his chin. Rather pleased with what he has wrought from this situation. An adventure to the faerie realm. It will make a good song one day.
How Duke Kerik of Fanost was taken by a cruel faerie as his bed slave, but the poor faerie fell in love with the handsome duke and granted him untold wealth and riches.
Perl interrupts Kerik’s pleasant thoughts, saying, “I suppose it is helpful that you are of a type that a fae would select as their thrall.”
Kerik gives Perl an amused look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are handsome in face and your body is fine. We can choose any mortal we wish to. Why wouldn’t we choose the most pleasing?”
“So, I look like the kind of mortal a faerie would choose as a thrall?”
“You do. Now, we do not have long before the door is ready. Take off your shirt. The binding will allow it. But remember you will not be able to harm me. Or run.”
“Take off my shirt?”
“If you are to be a thrall.” Kerik sees Perl swallow. “Traditionally, they don’t wear very much. I will allow you your breeches for travelling but you must be prepared to wear the garments of a thrall in Vylenor, which will leave you mostly bare.”
Kerik stands and pulls his shirt off over his head. As soon as it's gone, he looks at Perl, inspecting him for a reaction. But if Perl enjoys the sight he betrays nothing about it.
Instead he stands up and goes to a small cabinet.
He opens it. Kerik can only see a glimpse of the darkened space, but it seems to be full of random items: old scrolls, some candles and candlesticks, what appear to be small wooden boxes.
Perl draws something out. When he turns, Kerik can see it appears to be a dusty leather strap.
Perl waves a hand over it and it is instantly clean.
Its silver fittings sparkle. The black leather looks supple and glossy.
It looks like an accessory for Perl’s own leather outfit. But Kerik is sure it is not.
Because it’s a collar. Like something for a large hound or some other beast.
Kerik touches his own throat. “You want me to wear that?”
“Yes.” Perl holds it out for Kerik to take. “As I said, we need to be convincing.”
Kerik doesn’t take the collar. He raises his chin. “If I am to wear that, and you are to be my Master, I think you ought to put it on for me.”
Perl does not flinch. “Very well,” he says, stepping forward.
He buckles the collar around Kerik’s bare neck. This close, Kerik can smell Perl. He even smells like cold.
The collars snicks closed.
Kerik has met many a man who is aroused by these things, has welcomed many of them to his bed for nights of deviant pleasure, and if Kerik were such a man himself, perhaps this would be pleasant. But the leather encircling his neck is simply an odd, slightly uncomfortable sensation.
He looks up at Perl. “Happy?”
“This is not about making me happy. It is simply what is required. You look the part very well. Perhaps this will work. And now for some practical concerns. In the Ice Court the fae speak Magaar.”
“I speak Magaar.”
“I assure you, you do not.”
“We are speaking Magaar now.”
“Correct. But you are only so proficient because I enhanced your powers with a glamour during this conversation, before that your grasp of the basic grammar rules was atrocious.” Perl sits back down at the table.
He looks at Kerik with an intense expression.
“No matter, the glamour will suffice, but you must believe me when I tell you the Ice Court is a dangerous place. It is ruled by a Fae Queen, Exeinil-que-zeren-ai, Perfection Beyond Comprehension.”
“That’s a lot of name. Is that what I should call her?”
“You should not speak to her. Protocol would not allow it.”
“Protocol?”
“Yes, protocol. Please try and observe it. She is cruel and sadistic beyond your imagination.”
Kerik takes a breath and lifts the glass to look at the collar at his throat. “And you? How sadistic are you? Should I fear being your thrall?” He lowers the glass to grin at Perl.
“You will have many things to fear in Vylenor, but I assure you, my sadism is not one of them.”