Chapter Two

When the receiving rooms had completely emptied, Domvoda too absorbed in a gossipy tale of a byr from the south to care about music as he walked through the gardens, all of his eager bees trailing after him, Fox allowed himself to drop, sitting at last on the edge of the dais. He released the strap securing his lute to a button on his doublet and set his lute to one side, then awkwardly bent his knees so he could put his elbows on them and rest his head in his hands.

It was not comfortable, the step too short even for Fox who was not tall, and anyone could walk in at any moment. But he needed to relax his tense muscles and catch his breath. The soles of his feet thanked him as well, throbbing from hours standing in one position in silly byr slippers.

His stomach grumbled but he’d deal with that after this, snatching whatever he could while he waited to be called again. If he was called again, but that thought would not ease the tension from his neck and back so he tried to ignore it.

Breathe, rest, then eat. He’d straighten his appearance as he waited. That was all he had to do for now.

He might have a long wait. His heart began to beat faster with panic which he tried to soothe by making plans. He’d stay in his room, giving the excuse of resting or reading if someone appeared to summon him, and if no one did, then, then he’d have to deal with what he already suspected, and his nerves would do they always did when it was time for Fox to move on.

He’d been through this before, though admittedly never from the court of the Kaskan king himself. But he had and he could do it again, even if he had no idea of where to go once Domvoda finished growing bored with the very idea of Fox at his court. Fox didn’t even know where he would end up in Saravar over the next few days. He had a room now but nobles in Saravar were being forced to share accommodations or to bring their own. Fox was a street musician who had risen to unprecedented heights… and was about to be thrown from them. He couldn’t sleep in the stables. Or rather, he could, and had many times in his life, but never when also expected to appear before the king the next day looking untouchable. One fragment of straw in his hair and the byr would tear him to pieces.

That was not how Fox wanted to leave, if he had to. But if he couldn’t recapture Domvoda’s interest or friendship and couldn’t please the new consort, then he must. The few among the byr who found him amusing would not want to risk Domvoda’s displeasure by sheltering him, although Fox wondered if Domvoda would care all that much by then. Maybe in the way that spoiled children did not like to share even the toys they no longer wanted.

For nearly five years, Fox had not had to worry—much—about a roof over his head and a clean place to sleep. For almost three years, he had been in the king’s court, and for over one year of that at the king’s side and in his bed more nights than not. Long enough to make Fox forget himself.

He was no longer so careless. But he still did not have enough saved to live as he had been. To dress like a byr cost money. It was no wonder the court byr were so nervous all the time, existing this way. Even they might be tossed from their bed at Domvoda’s whim, at least, in Saravar with the tournament approaching and storms apparently looming.

Fox’s problems remained and hurtled toward him with speed of the wind. He had nowhere to go in general, and nowhere to go within this castle when he would inevitably be asked to give up his room to someone else. A Potential’s friend, or servant, or pet dog might want it. They ranked higher than one small fox, and resisting would anger Domvoda.

Fox’s breath came faster. For a moment, he was close to being only fifteen years old again and discovering his place had been given to a better worker, one less prone to daydreams and flirtations, or being no more than eight and shuffled between the homes of neighboring farmers while they tried to find some use for him.

No malice in it, he told himself as he did whenever the memory came to him. Farmers with hard days and their own children to feed couldn’t be expected to have the time or room for one lost child, fond of that child’s parents or no. Innkeepers couldn’t keep a skinny youth around if he was no good in the kitchen and attracted too much attention from older travelers.

Fox had gone out into the world alone more than once. A love of music, a quick wit, a pretty face, and a plump ass had served him well. He had reached the court of the king itself and grimly held on to the space he had carved here, but there was not much left to hold to and nothing and no one trying to hold him.

Some distance from him but still closer than Fox would have liked, a throat was softly cleared.

Fox jerked his head up, one hand already closed around the neck of his lute and his tail raised into a position of polite inquiry. Embarrassment stung his face before he could manage a word.

Byr Conall stood before him, head tipped down to meet Fox’s gaze from his great height.

Someone that large should make more noise when he moved, Fox growled internally and not for the first time. He had once turned from a door shut nearly in his face, trying desperately to gather his dignity around him as though he had not just been rejected but forgotten, as though he had not been put in his place by the smug byr friends of the king currently taking someone else to his bed, and found Byr Conall behind him. The Dragonslayer himself there to witness Fox’s humiliation.

Here he was again and without even the decency to mock Fox as anyone else would have done. He studied Fox and did not comment on Fox’s pose of despair, and if he acted now as he had then, he would also never speak of it later to anyone.

Out of pity, Fox decided again, wanting to bare his useless little teeth at the thought, although he could hardly afford to alienate anyone not eager to crush him.

On that note, Fox ought to apologize for his earlier remark, although it had not been as insulting as it might have been. The apology stayed in his throat. Proof that Fox was as feral as they thought he was, without even basic manners, because he also suspected that if a dragon attacked the castle in that very moment, Byr Conall would put himself between Fox and the creature without hesitation.

Fox felt like shit for that and rightly so, but also grew damp beneath his clothing at the image. Like a boy with stories of princes and monsters in his head as he touched himself, Fox would grow wet enough to take Byr Conall’s knot without any playing around first if he didn’t stop imagining the flex of the Dragonslayer’s muscles as he turned and reached for a weapon, or the heat of his body as Fox would cling to him.

And Fox would. A tremor went through Fox’s tail at the mere suggestion of being able to wrap it around the mountain’s waist to pull him closer.

His blush, which was from embarrassment, had to only be from embarrassment if asked, spread down his neck and heated his ears, doubtlessly turning them a darker color instead of pale, rosy pink. Fox should have grown past blushes or trained himself to react less, but he’d never been able to entirely rid himself of them. His nature, he supposed. He was far too receptive to hide it.

Most of his lovers had enjoyed the evidence of his strong reactions. But it was hardly a useful trait now with someone like Byr Conall, who would likely never condescend to stuff the king’s pathetically abandoned knot-warmer.

The thought was a mistake. Fox belatedly tore his gaze away to blush at the floor, then, with sudden horror, glance toward the open doors to the garden. But the king and the others remained out of sight. He and the Dragonslayer were alone.

Fox remained decidedly damp and hot but took a deep breath before turning back to the knight who clearly had something to say to him.

He didn’t need to wait so patiently, Fox thought waspishly, a bitter, frowning fox who had no business around heroes.

“Well?” he demanded, raising his head. He dropped his tail toward the ground, letting it rest since surely Byr Conall did not care what poses Fox knew. “Am I in your way? Has Domvoda sent you to kick me out on my ass? Perhaps you’d like the room I was given and you need me to move?” Foolish, reckless things to say but Fox said them anyway. At least, he said most of them. He stopped midway through the last sentence when he could hear the tension making his voice high and shaky.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your moment of quiet,” Byr Conall answered evenly, unafraid of kings or tired musicians. “There will be few of those in the coming days.”

“And yet you did,” Fox pointed out, quite the nasty vixen. Domvoda had been right; today, Fox bit. He had done so twice now, both times to someone who might not have deserved it, even if they had been born byr. Byr Conall truly did not. The others had laughed at him too, and for what? The simple surcoat and doublet? The missing piece of his ear? Because his mere presence left half of them quaking with the knowledge of how useless they were and left the other half dripping with slick?

Or so Fox assumed. The nobles couldn’t be that oblivious.

Wait. Yes, they could. Domvoda liked them that way, though he got bored with them quickly, always moving on to new favorites.

Fox had no idea what Conall thought of that. He suspected many things, but he had no proof, and it was a waste of time to even wonder. Fox just… had more time these days to ponder useless things.

He pushed out a breath and rose gracefully to his feet. “You might also enjoy some quiet,” he apologized without apologizing. “The week will be strenuous for you in particular. I should leave you to peaceful silence.”

Which was almost a kindness. Yet not enough for someone who had stepped in to save him today. Guilty, Fox looked up again.

Byr Conall had a strange expression on his face, a frown without anger behind it, but shook his head and the frown vanished.

“You have no idea what an offer of peaceful silence means to a knight before a tournament such as this,” he explained, though Fox had not asked. “The younger knights are especially nervous and it makes them rowdy.”

“Ah,” Fox said, because that he understood. He should not have said anything, but rather moved along quickly before they were seen together, before byr would gossip and titter and Domvoda would wonder and possibly be angry.

Byr Conall spoke again, as if he didn’t worry about any of that when of course he did, because this was more than they had ever spoken directly to each other in the near to three years Fox had been at court. “The older knights are there to help steady them, but most of the contestants are young, often the youngest of many siblings, and tournaments offer them a way to make their names and perhaps begin their futures. This year, the very large prizes have added to the pressure.” His gaze was warm, probably naturally so, and no reason for Fox to grip his lute tighter. “Enough gold to fulfill many dreams. Which of course adds to the energy around where the knights are quartered.”

Fox shivered and shivered, inside and out, which made no sense the more heated he grew, except that Byr Conall had a low, quiet voice and he would not look away, and Fox had never experienced so much of him at once.

Fox had done so deliberately, not that it mattered now. He wondered if his fingers had disturbed his hair when he had put his head in his hands, and if he should fix it, or if Byr Conall did not care for curls in the first place.

Fox was fifteen again it seemed, and for the second time today.

He ought to demand to know why Byr Conall was telling him this. What he said was, “Fractious young nobles do not sound appealing,” in an agreeable tone, and ignored that he was the same age as many of those young nobles. Then he glanced toward the doors again. Byr Conall did as well this time. He was a noble too but didn’t comment on Fox’s words.

Fox, who ought to walk away, to rest and feed himself and plan, stood there, watching the mountain consider the doors and probably the absent king.

“Are you staying with the young knights?” Fox heard himself asking with real surprise and then deep dismay. If the hero was being forced into poorer quarters, then Fox definitely would as well.

“I do every year.” Byr Conall inclined his head as he returned his attention to Fox. “It’s near the horses and equipment, and easier than fighting for a place within Saravar’s guest rooms.” He paused. “It is also sometimes smiled upon by Domvoda to offer before one is told. I suspect it makes him feel generous although he’s done nothing.”

Despite himself, Fox gulped down a scandalized breath. “Those words,” he murmured, still nearly breathless at the honesty in them.

As if he hadn’t heard Fox, Byr Conall continued. “It is, as I said, hardly a peaceful spot. However, there is space there. Rooms small and simple, but rooms nonetheless.” He paused again. “Unless there is a summer rainstorm wet enough to soak the fields. Then the knights who prefer to stay out near the tournament grounds will return to the castle for shelter and there will be no rooms left for anyone.”

“Oh. Rainstorms.” Fox nodded to show he finally grasped what Byr Conall and Domvoda had been silently arguing about earlier. Then he pulled his lute to his chest and looked up to the mountaintop and the gaze that had remained steady on him for several long moments.

“Rooms meant for byr,” Byr Conall went on, so gently that Fox nearly shivered again, “if not especially honored ones. But rooms anyone might use.”

I could sleep in a barn, Fox almost told him, his chest tight, his body flaming hot with embarrassment again and then something hurtful and good. I could sleep on the floor by the fire but they will judge me and I can’t bear that. He thought it all without speaking or even moving his tail an inch, yet felt as if Byr Conall knew it already.

Of course he did. He had just offered Fox a place to stay.

Fox swallowed the lump in his throat, which might have been the apology he still could not make. “You’d think they’d do better for their hero than a small room with a bunch of noisy ruffians.”

The smile that curved Byr Conall’s pretty mouth stole Fox’s breath and Fox could not pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Byr Conall didn’t seem to notice as he hadn’t come here to study Fox’s every reaction. He had come here to make an offer out of… still very likely pity, but perhaps compassion that felt like pity because compassion had become unfamiliar.

“You’re the only one to think so,” Byr Conall answered, the smile lingering. “Or at least, the only one to say so, even if you do make it sting.”

The Fox did not flounder for words. If he did, he might as well start packing up his things now. But he also could not think of what to say to that.

“Don’t apologize,” Byr Conall added, his smile disappearing at last. “The truth should sting, sometimes.”

“I wasn’t going to apologize,” Fox told him immediately with a tiny, mean grin. “Why should I?” he added in a tone much cooler than how he currently felt.

Byr Conall blinked, then gave him a glance. A study more than a glance, really. A glance which became a thoughtful, steady stare that Fox had felt on him before and which Domvoda had experienced earlier. Fox wondered if even Domvoda trembled and warmed inside and worried about what that study meant. If he did, Domvoda would never admit to it.

Fox had warmed and trembled and worried under it when standing there in the hall outside Domvoda’s chambers with the Dragonslayer looking at him and surely seeing how Fox, who should have known better, had been in the king’s bed for so long he’d started to believe that he was special. That he had a place.

Byr Conall had been at court for more than a decade. He had probably witnessed such scenes many times. Even Fox had seen several new favorites come and go, although he had never personally watched them make fools of themselves outside the king’s chambers. But even if they had, they would have been byr. Not silly, jumped-up street musicians who really, really ought to have known better.

That was why Byr Conall treated Fox as he did, and Fox, with no friends but the odd servant or two, should have been grateful.

He wanted to sneer instead. Although not at Byr Conall. Other people deserved it more.

“Clever Fox,” Byr Conall began, hesitant, and Fox met his eyes for one startled second before looking away again to the open doors and the nobles he could now see beginning their slow return from the garden.

“Just Fox,” Fox told him quietly, arranging his tail to Disdainful Queen and checking the strings of his lute. He shifted, trying to find a way to stand that did not hurt his feet.

“Fox,” Byr Conall agreed in a voice to make Fox worry and wonder more.

“You should get to your quarters,” Fox responded with his head down. “Enjoy the peace before it’s taken from you. There will not be much of that to be had soon. I hear there are storms coming.”

When he looked up again, Byr Conall was gone.

Someone so large really should make more noise when he moved.