21

He walked around the village, wood creaking beneath his boots as the waves rolled under the stilts. Greyson greeted various people, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. He'd already bought plenty of dried meat and hard cheese for the journey home.

Greyson headed down a thin bridge, which rocked with every movement, toward a house on the outskirts of the elevated village. Mildred Mowsley lived there with her family. While he didn't know her well, he knew enough. She was a prolific gossip and hoarder of knowledge. If anyone had heard of a hidden necromancer, it would be her.

The house loomed above him, near the size of Charles' home, with a prominent main ridge and smoke curling out of the stone chimney. He knocked on the wood door carved with pine trees. Feet scurried on the other side, followed by low voices. He tightened his grip on his staff as he waited.

Eventually, the door cracked open and revealed a woman in her early twenties. Greyson's brow furrowed as he tried to recall her name. She'd studied with him, but she'd been exceedingly quiet and scurried to and fro, head down and face obscured by her long hair.

Agatha, his mind supplied. She was Mildred's granddaughter. Decent magic user. Unbound, like most people in the Griseo Mountains.

"Agatha," he said with a nod.

"Mage Greyson, what are you doing here?" she asked, her hand tight on the door.

"I wanted to speak to your grandmother. Is there a problem?" Greyson frowned. Most people within the mountains were excited to see him, or at least more welcoming than she was.

"Of course not." Agatha waved him inside.

The house was long with three doors off the main room. A warm fire burned in the stone fireplace while an older woman sat in a rocking chair, which creaked with every movement. There were a few chairs and a couch covered in red fabric scattered around plus a bookshelf against the wall, giving the room a full and lived-in feel.

Over the wide mantle hung a painting of Ferrum Peak. It showed a crack in the side of the mountain, jagged and rough, that was surrounded by trees. Greyson had been to that cave. It led deep underground, and it was unstable and dangerous to explore.

Greyson moved toward the older woman. Long black hair with gray strands hung around her weathered face. She had heavy jowls and a pinched expression as she carefully stitched an intricate embroidery pattern.

"Mildred," Greyson said.

She grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Greyson. What are you doing here? I haven't seen you in a few years. Are you and Charles finally over your spat? What happened? Did Julia abandon Victoria to be with you? Was it scandalous? I bet it was!"

"No, Julia did not leave her wife, but Charles and I are over our fight."

"Good. Good. What exactly happened? Spare no details."

"I came with my boyfriend."

"Ah." She nodded. "That probably helped. Though, grandchildren have calmed Charles." Mildred glanced at her granddaughter who poured them each a cup of tea. "I would know. No greater blessing."

"Hmm," he replied as he accepted a cup of tea from Agatha, who smiled shyly at him.

"So who are you courting?" Mildred asked, taking a sip of tea. "Everyone will want to know."

He doubted many people cared about his love life, but this revelation would certainly be shocking. He fought back a smile. "Cyrus."

She coughed, tea spattering her blue dress, and Agatha dropped the teacup. It shattered on the wood floor, shards of porcelain and tea covering the ground. "Excuse me?" Mildred asked, patting her chest. "I must have heard wrong. You don't mean Prince Cyrus, right?"

Giving into the growing urge, Greyson snickered. "Yes, I mean Prince Cyrus. We're together now."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she blinked rapidly. "Well, that is a development. One even I didn't see coming."

"Indeed. His memory was scrubbed."

"Your doing?" she asked before taking a long drink of tea. Agatha quickly cleaned up the shards of porcelain and puddle of tea, then whisked the mess out of the room and returned with another cup.

"No. Necromancer. I assume at least."

Mildred's thick eyebrows raised. "Do you know who?" she asked, leaning closer, the chair creaking beneath her. "I haven't heard nary a whisper of a necromancer existing. It's rare. That last known one was Charles' grandmother and my aunt, and she died a long time ago."

Greyson leaned back. "I was hoping you would know."

"What makes you think it was a necromancer?" Agatha asked, her voice quiet and soft.

"Cyrus was in the glade when he lost his memories."

Nodding, Mildred said, "Bones soaked in blood and magic."

"Yes." Those bones would be strong and powerful for any necromancer.

"I haven't heard anything, but I guarantee I'll start asking around. A necromancer. The first in years." Mildred shook her head, jowls shaking. "I'd almost thought that magical line had died out, but now…there's hope."

Necromancy was the rarest type of magic, and it had been dwindling to the point of extinction. Many mages, like Elizabeth, did not see that as a bad thing. But Greyson viewed the death of any magic as a tragic loss. It was all beautiful. Not voicing his opinion, he asked, "Has anyone been missing from here for any length of time?"

"People travel," she said with a shrug. "But, no. No one has left that I've noticed."

"Will you ask around for me about a necromancer?"

"Of course, Greyson. Do you think that person can restore Cyrus' memories?"

"No, but maybe they know why Cyrus came in the first place."

Her brow furrowed as she asked, voice full of censure, "But you're courting him without his memories?"

"Yes." Greyson paused, then merely said, "It's complicated."

"I imagine so," Mildred said before taking a long drink of tea. "Scandalous as well."

Agatha chuckled but didn't say anything.

Cyrus ambled off the boat, shivering. He hadn't fallen in, but the spray from the ocean had soaked him. Being on a boat, though, had felt natural. The ebb and flow. The wind rushing past him. He had to have sailed before.

He scoured the pier, searching for Greyson, who was nowhere within sight. Disappointment shot through him. He liked kissing Greyson and hoped for another upon his return.

He loves me, he thought, beaming.

Julia hooked an arm through his. "Let's get you inside before you freeze and Greyson kills me."

"H-he w-w-on't b-be mad," Cyrus stuttered.

"Yeah," she said with obvious sarcasm. "I'm sure when you lose a toe, he'll just laugh it off as he transforms me into a frog."

He tried to laugh, but his teeth were chattering too much. Swallowing, he asked, "C-can he do-do that?"

"Greyson can do whatever he wants."

Cyrus glanced at her, but Julia merely led him toward her home. When they approached the house, the door opened. Greyson took one look at Cyrus before he scowled deeply.

"What the hell happened?"

"He got wet from the sea spray," Julia replied.

Cyrus tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out more like a grimace and made Greyson's scowl deepen. Greyson yanked him away from Julia, glaring at her, then draped an arm over Cyrus' shoulders and ushered him into the house. Heat washed over Cyrus. It hurt his chilled skin while, at the same time, it made him moan in relief.

Immediately, Greyson started to yank his clothes off.

"Greyson," Cyrus protested.

"You need to get out of your wet clothes," Greyson snarled.

Charles came inside, pausing in his step. "Would've never guessed the two of you would get together." He guffawed as he directed his daughter and grandson upstairs to give them some privacy.

Shivers wracked his body as Greyson helped him undress, then made him sit in front of the warm flames before placing a blanket over his shoulders.

"You shouldn't have gone," Greyson said, scrubbing Cyrus' wet hair with a towel.

"I liked sailing."

"Of course you do. You grew up on the coast."

"I've been sailing?"

Kneeling in front of him, Greyson dropped the towel as his gaze met Cyrus'. "Yes."

"Have we been sailing together?"

"No."

Cyrus hooked his arms around Greyson's waist. "We should go some time."

"Hmm," Greyson said as he began drying Cyrus' hair again.

A week later, he and Greyson stood outside the headman's house. "Thank you for hosting us," Greyson said.

"Of course. I didn't find any likely candidates for erasing Cyrus' memories, but I will keep asking around," Charles said.

"Thank you," Cyrus said, but his brow furrowed. He hadn't seen Charles speak to anyone about it, though that didn't mean he hadn't. Of course, Greyson made him stay in the house most of the day while he and the others asked around, leaving him with Julia, who was nice enough.

"I like you more than I thought I would," the headman remarked.

"I'm not sure how to respond to that," he said.

Greyson squeezed his arm. "Ignore him. It was nice to see you, Charles."

"Sure."

"Julia," Greyson said. "Always a pleasure."

"It was nice to see you, and, Cyrus, it was nice to meet you," Julia said.

"It was nice to meet you as well," he replied.

"We need to go," Greyson said. "We're wasting daylight."

They waved goodbye, then, hand-in-hand, they strolled along the beach. The waves slapped against the rocky shore. Snow dotted the ground, and his breath came out in long, foggy gasps. As he held Greyson's right hand, Cyrus peeked at him. Since they'd raced out of that small mountain village, Greyson had been holding his hand more often.

Biting his lip, Cyrus peered at him. "I thought you wanted me to stay on your left side."

Stopping, Greyson faced him. "I don't mind now."

"Why?"

Greyson shrugged.

"Because you love me?"

Rolling his eyes, Greyson started walking again.

As they continued, Cyrus studied the gray-blue water. "I think this is my favorite color."

"Really?" Greyson asked, stopping again.

"Yes," he said. Cyrus was almost positive that this was his favorite color. Greyson gave him a slight smile, then tugged on him.

When the sun started to set, Greyson made camp, and Cyrus huddled near the flames, shivering under his blanket.

With a furrowed brow, Greyson caressed Cyrus' face, but he didn't say anything.

"I'm fine." Cyrus yanked Greyson onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Greyson's waist, holding him tight. Inhaling the sweet yet sharp scent of pine, he rubbed his face against Greyson's back. "Now, I'm much better."

Greyson shook his head.

Cyrus tightened his hold. Greyson fit perfectly in his embrace. Solid and intoxicating. He nuzzled his neck. Cyrus knew, at this moment, that he wouldn't ever let Greyson go.

"I need to make dinner," Greyson said, but he didn't move out of Cyrus' arms and, instead, he leaned back.

He enfolded the blanket around Greyson, then tightened his hold. "You should stay right here."

"You're impossible."

It took close to three weeks for Drakcombe to come into view. Never had a sight looked so appealing. Lights gleamed from the windows as smoke curled from the chimneys. The sun had already set, and the air held a crisp tinge as thick clouds covered the sky.

They walked up the thin trail toward home. When they reached it, Greyson placed him before the empty fireplace. Greyson got a fire going as he kept peeking at Cyrus, whose teeth chattered loudly.

"Are you alright?" Greyson asked, brow furrowed.

He nodded, shakily, but didn't respond. Greyson cupped his face and brushed a thumb along Cyrus' cheekbone. "Stay here. I'm gonna get more wood."

The last three weeks of trekking over the rough goat trails had been hard, but at the same time, it had been amazing. Greyson had held his hand, snuggled against him at night, and answered questions. It had been perfect, except for one glaring reason.

Every time they got close, Greyson would pull away, though he wouldn't go far. Greyson would continue kissing him but wouldn't go any further. Cyrus knew he was interested, but Greyson wouldn't do more.

The door opened, and Greyson came in, carrying an armload of wood. He chucked a piece onto the hot flames. "Let me make you some food."

Snatching his hand, Cyrus yanked Greyson beside him. "I'm fine."

"Then I would like to make tea."

"Stay with me," Cyrus whispered in his ear.

Greyson shifted toward him, frowning. "I have not left your side once. Tea would be nice."

"Fine," he grumbled, "make your tea."

Chuckling, Greyson moved to his knees and softly kissed him. Cyrus drew him close. He cupped Greyson's cheeks as he nibbled on his lips. Greyson pressed against him, hands moving around his back. Cyrus shrugged off his cloak before undoing Greyson's, then clutched the front of his shirt, keeping him close. Greyson groaned, tongue pushing into Cyrus' mouth as he fell on top of him.

Cyrus slipped Greyson's shirt off, fingers exploring his chest. Greyson moaned. Needing to feel his skin against Greyson's, he pulled his own shirt off. Greyson shifted back, panting. Cyrus drew him down. Greyson hesitated before he lowered onto Cyrus and took possession of his mouth. Cyrus undulated beneath Greyson, his movements smooth and liquid. Every touch inflamed him.

He grabbed Greyson's pants, but Greyson seized his wrists, lifting them over his head and trapping them against the floor. Greyson continued to kiss him, his lips firm and relentless. Cyrus frowned slightly. He ground against his hips, and Greyson moaned. They were both hard.

Rocking against Greyson again, Cyrus tried to wrest his hands from Greyson's hold. When Greyson didn't release him, he shifted back, chest heaving.

"What's wrong?" Cyrus asked. Greyson moved back, and Cyrus sat up. "Greyson, what's going on?"

Greyson would not look at him.

Cyrus cupped his cheeks, lifting his face. "Talk to me. We clearly want each other, but you keep pulling back. What's going on?"

"I can't do this."

Pain flashed through him. "What?"

"I love you, Cyrus. I do. But…"

"But what?"

"I've been lying to you."

I know where this is going, he thought. Cyrus nodded. "I know."

"Excuse me?"