Chapter Three

Byr Conall’s ability to remain quiet and yet speak boldly when necessary plagued Fox’s thoughts for the next few hours, though they shouldn’t have. Perhaps because the byr had grown even more tedious once Domvoda stopped paying attention to most of them and Fox had preferred to think of something more interesting, or perhaps because he was tired and his mind was prone to wandering. Or perhaps that was simply the effect of a hero on one’s senses. After all, Byr Conall could rattle even the king.

When Domvoda left the receiving rooms entirely and the talk instantly turned to the difficulty of securing adequate space in the castle and many curious glances were sent Fox’s way, Fox stopped playing and at last went in search of food.

In the kitchens, doing his best not to hobble on his sore feet, Fox encountered the guardian of the estate, and, swallowing a hard crust of bread along with his pride, inquired about the quarters where the knights stayed and if space was available.

Considering that, for the moment at least, Fox had a room and a bed to himself and the guardian knew it, her surprise was brief. The understanding that followed was not obvious, but she didn’t ask questions or leer at him as one of the cooks did. She merely looked thoughtful, absently tightening the ribbons in her hair as she waited for the servant she summoned to appear, then sending them off to ready a space for Fox in Kaladas Hall.

The hall, which like the two main wings of Saravar was almost a castle of its own but on a smaller scale, was called Kaladas—which Fox had heard meant ‘sword’ in the ancient tongue but wasn’t sure he trusted the source. The hall’s shape was roughly like the point of a sword, with a short, triangular tower at the end of a long, narrow, two-story building that was more or less dedicated to the knights and soldiers who might be required to live there in times of danger. Probably for that reason, the tower portion was near the stables and armory. The interior probably resembled a combination of those things.

But no matter what it was like inside the home of Saravar’s temporary and permanent knights, Fox was certain he had stayed in worse places. And it did make a small difference that it was his choice to go there before being told to or left to fend for himself. So he finished his meal and then went to the tiny room that was no longer his to pack up his belongings with slightly less dismay than he’d expected.

Unlike most of the visitors to Saravar, all of Fox’s possessions had come with him. He didn’t like to leave things behind, especially not knowing what he would be facing, and anyway, he didn’t have that much to take compared to them.

Regardless, he was proud of his trunks and grateful he had not removed much from them in his haste to dress that morning. Packing was familiar, quick work. He tried to let it distract him, taking the most care with the trunk full of his instruments, music sheets, and the books he studied in private.

It was not enough to have taught himself to read, he had to keep up with his reading to reach what the byr had been taught as children, and learn to write so that words flowed naturally. He had larger trunks for the clothing and shoes he’d managed to squirrel away, keeping even the items no longer fashionable because he couldn’t simply toss out clothing like the byr, and another smaller case for brushes, creams, oils, potions and medicines including what was necessary to prevent him becoming a bearer, his collection of jewelry and ribbons, and the stash of coins that he didn’t allow himself to spend.

Familiar or not, the actions did not grant him much peace, and when a servant knocked on the door with a cart to move Fox’s trunks for him and lead him to his new accommodations, Fox carried the smaller trunk himself and spared a coin to pay the servant for the extra trouble… and for not offering any commentary on anything except the prickle in the air that evidently meant it would be a wet summer.

That didn’t grant peace either, but Fox appreciated the warning. Worrying over the weather was a nice distraction while they journeyed through the main part of Saravar in full view of servants and any byr who happened to be around. Their turn would come, Fox reminded himself as he and his trunks entered Kaladas. Probably once the storms began.

Kaladas was older than one of the wings currently packed to the brim by anxious byr. So much older that Fox suspected it was either part of the original castle that had stood before Saravar or was the original castle itself. In the winters, the hall might be freezing, all the windows to let in the light also letting in wind and cold. But it was clean, and instead of any sort of barracks, was full of rooms with either wooden doors or thick curtains in the doorways. How Fox hoped some byr would end up in a room without a true door.

He could see into the tower itself, as it wasn’t closed off but rather the focal point for the hall. It looked to be a gathering place for knights who didn’t want to sit in their rooms. Several low-backed benches and chairs were centered around a circular fireplace, currently without a fire, and wide doors on one side had been opened reveal the courtyard by the stables. Another set of wide doors on the other wall that made up the point were closed. Fox didn’t know what they led to; he’d never ventured to that part of the grounds.

His room was on the second story and barely large enough for the bed, but with a window to let in light and an actual door. Fox left his small trunk on the bed and then went down to help carry the rest of his things up the stairs. He was left uncomfortably sweaty but the servant was not the one to complain to about it. Fox merely thanked them again and watched them go from his doorway.

From there, he could peer down into the tower or across to more of the rooms. Two knights, or so he assumed, walked through the open doors from the courtyard, each holding a plate full of food. They must have a kitchen nearby, probably a smaller one to provide meals for the staff who did not work or live in the main sections of the castle: stable hands, gardeners and the like. As Fox considered that, another knight slipped in through the closed doors, naked except for a wet towel and short boots.

This drew no remarks from anyone, so Fox assumed there was a bath of some kind in that direction, which was a relief. Fox would want to look fresh if he was called to entertain during the king’s dinner tonight, but wasn’t sure what the knights here thought of Fox’s presence among them. He might have to use the bath and kitchens in the rest of the castle—a pain, but perhaps more diplomatic since he was already in the knights’ space.

He stayed in the doorway, hesitating as he would not have in front of other nobles. The knights might be insulted to hear it, but they shared a strange status with him—they were not servants but they were there to serve, and they belonged neither in the servants’ quarters nor with the rest of the byr. But they had seen Fox arrive in Kaladas, and those who hadn’t would know of his presence soon enough, so he should do something.

He went back into his room to exchange his court slippers for soft boots, which were more suited to floors that led out to the stables in addition to being more comfortable. He tied up his hair at the top of his head, leaving his curls to fall down behind him like a horse’s tail, then took his lute and the longer strap that allowed it to hang from his shoulder before leaving the room again. He’d unpack later or not at all.

There was a narrow, curved stairwell halfway down the line of rooms and another one at the end of them, leading to the benches and fireplace. A large window lit the darkened stairwell, heavy curtains thrown open as they must not be in the winter. Fox noticed his tail was curled apprehensively around his waist as he reached the lowest step and forced it away from his body. Then he stopped dead, foolishly startled to see Byr Conall striding in from outside.

Byr Conall was immediately greeted by some of the knights around the fireplace. He was also fully dressed and not wet, a fact Fox registered with an embarrassing sense of loss. Fox barely had time to recover from that, or to realize he was staring at the energetic, happy swish of Byr Conall’s tail as he spoke to his friends, because Byr Conall looked up and over at Fox with sudden attention.

Which was the moment Fox realized how brightly and formally he was dressed compared to the knights around him, most in unbuttoned doublets to show their light shirts beneath and certainly not attired to stand before the king.

Several of the others turned toward Fox as well and said something amongst themselves that made a few of them laugh. Fox could guess what it was. So many tried to bed or were bedded by the king and yet Fox was the one they chose to mock for it.

Byr Conall looked at Fox, his pace and tail slowing, then inclined his head to acknowledge Fox before continuing forward in Fox’s direction. Fox went still, regretting his easy hairstyle, how tired he must look, how incorrectly dressed he was. He parted his lips to form a greeting anyway, hoping none of that mattered to Byr Conall, only to frown when none of it did matter to Byr Conall.

Fox was not Byr Conall’s destination. Byr Conall said, “Fox,” his voice as warm as before, but passed Fox with plenty of space between them before heading up the stairs. Fox stepped quickly from the stairwell, his face burning, and tried not to turn to see which door Byr Conall went into although of course he did.

Any and all information could be useful to a fox who had to be clever to earn his bread, but that wasn’t why Fox looked.

Calling himself a fool again, he forced himself onward and let the gathered knights notice him before he addressed them all in a pleasant tone.

“Brave knights, it appears I will be among you for the foreseeable future.” No point in pretending otherwise. “I don’t wish to get in the way, especially before the tournament, so if I overstep, please let me know.” He had his tail halfway up to the familiar Daffodil position before he realized that no one in the tower was doing anything with their tails except idly flicking them to chase away a few flies. He dropped his tail and bowed a little. “But, if you like, I thought perhaps I might sing or play for my supper?” He raised his lute as he asked and smiled wider than he would have in the receiving rooms. The knights’ quarters were not a tavern or the front room of an inn, and he was not required to play to be fed or housed, but Fox also didn’t want to offend them by assuming his music was wanted or by not offering if it was.

“You want to play for us?” He didn’t know the knight who spoke, although the knight clearly knew him. “Don’t think we can pay what the king does.” The knowing gleam in the knight’s eyes was better than a smirk, but not by much.

“Watch your boots,” another called, one of the ones Byr Conall had spoken with. “We might have tracked some horse shit in with us.”

Honestly, Fox had faced worse comments in his growing years before he’d ever set foot in the capital.

“Oh,” he answered lightly, still smiling, “I didn’t realize that the only difference between the byr who attend the king and the byr who fight in his tournament was horse shit. How silly of me to have expected byr sworn to nobly protect citizens to behave better.”

He did his best to seem unaffected by the sudden stillness in the room and turned his attention back to the first knight. “As for the other matter, as I said, my payment would be food. If you’d rather I go to Saravar for my meals, I can. But the music goes with me, I’m afraid.”

“I believe Rolfi’s remark about the shit was a genuine warning.” Byr Conall’s familiar voice came from behind Fox. Fox turned to watch him enter the tower. Byr Conall had changed into more comfortable clothing and was now wearing long breeches, a simple shirt, and a belt, with no weapon, which Fox found vaguely fascinating—a knife for court but no knife here. He sat down next to his friend, Byr Rolfi, who immediately slouched against Byr Conall’s side as if he had the right to. Fox moved his gaze away from the press of their shoulders and did not bring it back even when Byr Conall added, “The meals in this part of the castle will be simpler, but I suspect that will not bother the Fox.”

“It will not.” Fox stared at the empty place on the bench next to Byr Conall for a second too long, then at where there should have been space between Byr Conall and Byr Rolfi. He startled to see some hair visible on both of their chests, although Byr Rolfi did not have a beard.

No gossip in all of Fox’s years at court had mentioned anything of the Dragonslayer and a lover. Maybe Byr Conall had many lovers, so it was not worth mentioning. Maybe his lovers were among the knights, so the rest of the court did not care.

Fox rolled each wrist before he tied the longer strap to each end of the lute and pulled that over his head. Then he raised his lute to his chest. He spoke as if faintly amused. “I am not byr. I have eaten fallen fruit and stale bread. I’ve snatched up what was left on the plates of strangers. I have also eaten at a king’s table.” He finally looked up, noting another knight had stopped in the doorway from the courtyard to observe the scene. “You will please note that I am a performer of the highest quality. I have played near pigsties to coax the animals to slumber and sung for hours in the capital’s fiercest taverns. I’ve entered competitions at fairs and won them too. And yes, I have performed for the king—I love to play for an appreciative audience.” He darted his tail out from between his legs in a quick, crude joke that made the rudest one of them snort out a surprised laugh. Then Fox swept his tail back to the floor.

“Then if you’re not tired,” Byr Conall spoke before anyone else could, “you could sing for them.”

Not for him, it seemed. Fox chose not to dwell on that in the moment or to meet those unfairly warm eyes. He merely nodded. “Is there a request?”

The first request was for Dry Well, a favorite of all classes, although usually only asked for after a lot of spirits had been consumed. The song was not permitted to be played in some inns, although most taverns had no objections. Some byr pretended not to know it, but the song had likely been around for centuries and had different additional verses depending on the region. All verses went into great detail about the original singer’s difficulties in the bedroom and desperate search for something to get their waters flowing again.

Fox suspected the request had been meant to test him. He responded by singing one version, then a few of the additional verses he’d learned over the years.

He discovered quickly that knights could blush. Well, some of them. Especially when Fox looked them in the eye while he deliberately chose the added verses about the original singer propositioning a company of knights on the side of the road. For a song about someone trying yet failing to find pleasure, the singer had certainly seemed to enjoy that encounter.

It did sound interesting, Fox had to admit. He imagined taking that many knots in the right circumstances would almost feel like a mating. Or what he thought a mating would feel like, his body throbbing at the very idea. It had been too long since Fox had last been filled; Domvoda had been ignoring him and everyone else either detested him or were afraid to get close. He could try to convince one of the visitors to fuck him, although he doubted it would end in a knotting.

A knot required more emotional and physical investment than Fox would likely get with a stranger. The possibility tortured him anyway as the verses of the song got more explicit. He had knights and a thorough stuffing on his mind, and a far too tempting figure in his line of sight. So he barely let that song end before he moved on to another, something softer, sweeter, and easier on his throat to give himself a small rest.

More and more knights entered the tower as he went on. One sat on Byr Conall’s other side, not slouching against him though their tails rested near each other on the bench between them. Byr Conall didn’t seem to mind. He leaned back with his legs spread and his eyes closed, tired or bored or both, but nodded or quietly answered his friends when they spoke.

Fox wondered if their exchanges were about the younger knights who sat nearer to where Fox stood, but who glanced back to their Dragonslayer often as if uncertain he approved. They might have been after more than his approval. Fox could hardly blame them for that when his gaze strayed repeatedly to Byr Conall despite his best efforts.

It was seeing him more relaxed, in a place where expensive clothing clearly did not matter because it wasn’t needed, with people who had lived similar lives to him, without Domvoda there to observe and remark and dozens of others to immediately follow suit. Byr though they were, the knights were at ease, almost like the regular people they insisted they were above. And among them, the watchful, quiet Dragonslayer had his eyes shut and a smile on his face while his friends or lovers whispered over him.

Fox might as well have not been performing.

He switched into The Song of the Dragonslayer, singing as well as playing, and without looking at Byr Conall directly saw him flinch and straighten.

Several of the others turned to look at Byr Conall as well, probably curious about his reaction to hearing his deeds sung to him.

Byr Conall looked ahead, to Fox.

The Fox bites, Fox heard in Domvoda’s voice, the one especially rich with satisfaction that Fox had wounded someone. It made Fox shiver despite the sweat beneath his clothes. He should have chosen an easier song after such a long day of performing and should not have struck out at the one person who had offered him help. Before the song reached the part of the tale where Byr Conall was swept up into the sky, Fox melded the song with a much older one about the chiefs and rulers who had been given land from the dragons in a past so ancient that it preceded the fabled empire. That past was probably just as imaginary, which was fortunate since the song mentioned contracts that had been struck with the great beasts, and the terms of those contracts went unstated in the lyrics.

He got a few protests before the complainers recognized the new song and whistled their praise for the smooth execution.

It had been neatly done, Fox admitted, but was slow to glance to Byr Conall to see his reaction.

Byr Conall’s eyes were no longer closed and he was turned toward Byr Rolfi with his tail still perilously close to touching that of his other friend. He did not even give Fox a chance to worry over that again before he rose to his feet then helped Byr Rolfi do the same.

Fox was too professional to falter as the two of them headed out of the tower together. He played on, letting his voice soar where it might be heard even in the courtyard.

By the time the sky began to darken and someone started a fire for light in the central fireplace, several of the knights felt comfortable enough to call him Fox while asking for songs. Fox had stopped singing a while ago, regretfully informing them that he had to rest his voice in case it was asked for elsewhere. No one had made any jokes he could hear about wherever his evening destination might be. The music might have lulled them as it had once lulled drowsy pigs to sleep, though Fox would never say such a thing out loud to them.

They split off into pairs or small groups, talking quietly so they could still listen to his playing. They were nowhere near as rowdy as Byr Conall had said they would be, but the tournament was some days away, and the novelty of Fox’s presence might have distracted them.

The semi-quiet was peaceful, even Fox could admit it. The cooler night air carried the sounds of his lute, their murmurs, and the fire’s occasional crackles. Fox dropped his head now that he was no longer the center of attention and slowed his fingers.

No one came to call him to play during the meal at the great hall in Saravar, perhaps not knowing yet where he was but more than likely Fox had been forgotten once out of sight. He didn’t feel like thinking of it. He didn’t want to think of anything. Unfortunately, a wily fox needed to stay sharp to keep one step ahead of his doom.

But he should get some rest first at least, and could forgo dinner to go collapse in his new bed.

A shadow fell over him, bringing his head up. He recognized the shape of the shadow quicker than he should have and stopped playing without bothering to properly end the song. If there was a protest for that, he didn’t hear it.

Byr Conall stood in front of him, holding out a sturdy mug and equally sturdy plate loaded with looked like bread, potatoes, and slices of fig. His gaze was difficult to see with the fire at his back, but his intent was clear, if confusing.

“Did I play enough to earn dinner?” Fox asked lightly without sending his voice across the room.

“More than enough, which you know.” Byr Conall’s tone also did not tell him much. “For the future, if you need something to eat, the small kitchens are across the courtyard, next to the ovens. You don’t have to sing for us. I didn’t invite you here for that. You already perform all day.”

Fox shrugged and let Byr Conall’s shadow hide any color in his cheeks. “I like it. That is, I like to play to a more open audience. It’s been a while since anyone has enjoyed my music.”

A horrible, naked thing to say aloud, and to someone who likely did not care. Fox released his lute and pushed it to the side, letting the strap take the weight. He accepted the mug first and only after a quick sip of cold, clear water, flavored with lemon, realized how thirsty he actually was. He gulped more so greedily some ran down his chin.

“Perhaps you should wait to play until you are less tired?” Byr Conall suggested, even quieter than usual, steadily watching Fox pretend he wasn’t wiping water from his face.

“Who says I’m tired?” Fox wondered, then paused, frowning at yet another humiliation. He probably looked like a wilting flower, sweaty and sleepless, with a hoarse voice and hair that was… falling from its former position and had been for a while now.

Byr Conall, distressingly polite, did not comment on Fox’s pallor or damp armpits or any drooping ribbons. “If I didn’t bring you food, one of the others would have.”

Fox peered around the bulk of him in search of Byr Rolfi and didn’t find him.

“Whoever you look for,” Byr Conall continued, voice lower and ever so slightly rougher, “be careful.”

“Be…?” Fox didn’t finish the question, first too busy trying not to sweep a look over Byr Conall and how much of him was visible in his less formal clothes, and then trying not to touch the interesting patch of hair on Byr Conall’s chest. He jerked his head up once he understood what Byr Conall was not saying and had his mouth open before he remembered that Byr Conall didn’t need to know who Fox had been searching for.

Fox made a show of peering around the mountain again, then taking another small, careful drink when his mouth went dry. “Do you think I’m going to let all of them fuck me like the singer in Dry Well with the company of passing knights?” He didn’t know if the others heard that but he did catch someone glancing their way as he said it. “I’m insatiable, am I? So much more desperate for it than any byr no matter how many lovers they have, and…”

“They will bring you food because they’ve been admiring you all afternoon,” Byr Conall explained softly.

Fox tutted. “I always get admired. It means nothing.” If he could not stare into Byr Conall’s eyes or at his chest, that left the plate of food. “Perhaps,” he allowed, slowly, “you meant that as a polite caution against breaking their hearts. Or were you worried for mine?” He managed to make that a bit livelier at least. “Thank you, my lovely, if that’s the case, but sleep was on my mind more than romance.” He heard himself, heard those words better spoken to a friend or a smiling companion as heading upstairs to find a room and a bed, but couldn’t call them back and so chose to move on. “Or was it Domvoda’s reaction that worries you?” He didn’t want to acknowledge that very real concern so he didn’t. “You are the one who ought to be careful.” He tipped his head up before leaning in, very nearly on his tiptoes and close to falling against Byr Conall’s chest. He made sure to whisper. “Even the ones without the pretty adornments of the receptive would reconsider their preferences if the Dragonslayer invited them to his room.”

For whatever Byr Conall might ask of them there. Not that Fox was going to waste another second of his evening speculating on what that might be.

Byr Conall was unreadable and silent, leaving Fox to gaze up at him and sway on his toes. Then he said, “I would not use their awe of who they think I am to win them. I would rather they desire me.” When Fox could do little more than blink and stare and lick dry lips, Byr Conall pushed the plate forward until Fox took it. Then he bent his head, speaking for only Fox to hear. “Eat, my lovely.”

He gave Fox’s words to him as well. Fox had to force his tail to the ground. Exhaustion and lust had him confused, staring like a fool with his hands full and Byr Conall no doubt teasing him.

Maybe that was the reason he was damp in a new way. The Dragonslay—Byr Conall—being playful.

Byr Conall straightened when Fox didn’t move or speak, then added, “And rest,” to his teasing order before stepping to the side. “That is advice that nearly every young knight here will ignore during the next few days.”

“Oh, yes.” Fox tried to focus on the moment and issues of more importance that one small jest. “You mentioned that, the nerves and the rowdiness.” Which reminded him of what he had meant to do at some point that afternoon before getting distracted by lewd songs and chest hair. “Thank you. For the room, I mean. For telling me.”

Byr Conall’s eyes widened before he glanced away. When he looked back, his gaze was steady again.

If Fox were still wandering the countryside and performing for whoever would toss a coin his way, and an older, compelling knight had looked at him with even a fraction of Byr Conall’s natural warmth, he would have thrown himself into his arms. His younger self would not have hesitated, certainly. His younger self had been rather reckless and shortsighted. Byr Conall was not the sort to be wasted on one night in a hayloft, which was, unfortunately, all Fox would have been good for.

That was likely what Byr Conall saw when he studied Fox. The foolish child he’d been and the scared, mean creature he was now.

Fox looked down. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Then I will say good night,” Byr Conall answered after several beats of silence.

Too tired not to be foolish, Fox called out to him before he’d taken two steps away. “Byr Conall?” He wasn’t loud but hoped the others weren’t listening. He continued softly when Byr Conall turned. “Was it all right? My performance?”

Byr Conall didn’t move for another second, then faced Fox again. The firelight concealed half his face. “You play beautifully and I am always grateful for the chance to hear you sing.” Fox released a long, slow breath. Byr Conall went on, audibly confused. “But you’re famous. Why ask me?”

“You left.” Fox bit his lip, refusing to call his words a whine, although the weakness even in saying them was obvious. He swallowed dryly. If it was not his talents, then it was his teeth and how he’d used them. “Do you not like that song?”

He didn’t need to say which one.

“You already know the answer to that, I think,” Byr Conall replied, quietly making his point the way he did with Domvoda.

“You don’t like hearing of your deeds?” Fox pressed as gently as he could. Some didn’t, and that he would understand, though it must be maddening to the byr at court that Byr Conall didn’t push himself forward.

“I don’t like reliving them, especially with no warning.” Byr Conall turned from the light to answer. “And now that I’ve told you that…”

“I won’t play it for you again,” Fox cut him off before the hero was forced to ask for Fox’s mercy. “Unless I am commanded to,” he added reluctantly. He looked up and hoped he met Byr Conall’s eyes. “Foxes are mischievous creatures, not cruel ones.” Or so they were supposed to be.

“Thank you.” Byr Conall lowered his shoulders, as if even hearing the song mentioned had made him tense. “And Conall will do, Fox. Unless you prefer otherwise.”

“Conall,” Fox agreed too quickly, but Conall didn’t appear to notice or care. He inclined his head once more and then continued on to his room. He did that alone. Not that it mattered, Fox lied to himself, waiting until Byr Conall’s door was firmly shut before getting up in search of more water.