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THE RIGHT OF STRANGERS

As soon as Callian sat down at the table, he knew that something was wrong.

The conversation went out like a candle. None of the six men looked at him, even when he placed his bid on the table and reached for his dice.

“Are we playing?" Callian said, casting around for the smiles and bawdy grins that had come so easily the night before. Finding none, he put on a smile and drummed the tabletop. “I had planned on winning my money back from you jackals."

A few of the men exchanged glances. One of them, a stocky ox named Brugel, cleared his throat.

“I apologize for my behaviour last night," Brugel said, meeting his eyes for only a moment. “The drink had the better of me. Of all of us."

Around the table, there was a mumble of agreement. Callian laughed once. Then again, a little uneasily.

“All in fun, lads," Callian said, trying to recall the transgression that so cowed the gambling men. “Forgiven, forgotten."

“Thank you," Brugel murmured, inclining his head. The men echoed him, their apologies mingling with the noise of the tavern.

Callian arranged his dice, looking about in bemusement. Silence. He scraped a hoof along the rough floor. “What's the matter with all of you?"

“My Prince," Brugel said, and the bottom dropped out of Callian's stomach. “It would be best, I think, if you found nobler company than we, tonight."

Callian leaned back in the chair and rubbed the base of one antler. He considered denying it—but he'd lost this game enough times to know better.

Where once had been a brash young stag, they now saw Callian the Prince, untouchable heir to the throne. Their knowing of his name had changed him in their eyes: just a drop of the Divine Right of Kings, enough to turn an ordinary man exceptional.

But Callian had not changed. He was only a stag, blonde and scrawny and short of horn. He still wanted to play dice and drink bad liquor and laugh at tall tales.

“You're all noble enough for me," Callian said, trying for a joke. “At least you taught me how to play before you fleeced me, eh? Let's carry on, please."

“That was before we knew, Your Highness." Brugel the ox spoke to his lap. “We'd be happy to return the money we took, if My Prince wishes to-"

“No," Callian said, watching the word fall on the men like a command. He breathed in, sharply. “No, that's… you won the money. You keep it. It's only fair."

“Thank you, My Prince."

“I… I have enjoyed your company, lads," Callian said, earnestly. He waited a moment to see if the men reacted. When they did not, he pushed his coin purse into the pot and stood. “I'll leave you all to it. Your winnings are on the Crown, tonight."

“You are gracious, My Prince."

The rest of them mumbled similarly. Callian cast a forlorn glance at them all, and then strode out of the tavern, back the way he'd come.

When he emerged into the street, he sighed deeply of the evening air. He rubbed the base of one antler again, where an ache was taking root. Above the thatched roofs of the lower city, the Crownskeep stood, its parapets bathed in the last touch of sunset. As though God were painting a spotlight on the great stone cage of it.

Callian cursed softly, fished his signet ring out of his pocket, and began the long, lonely walk home.

***

“Baron Kelsatz arrives tonight," his father said, without looking up from his writing. “I wish to see him the moment he does."

Callian was quiet, standing at the foot of the throne. The King lifted his great, antlered head and fixed him with a pointed stare.

“You will meet the Baron at the gates of the city, Callian. Bid him welcome, and bring him here at once. We have much to discuss."

What there might be to discuss with an upstart mercenary, the King did not, and would not, say. Callian knew the so-called Baron Kelsatz by name: a northern lord, some old wartime companion of his father's. It was Callian's understanding, as given to him by the tittered whispers of the Court of Lords, that Kelsatz was a depraved savage, to whom the King owed some reluctant debt of honour.

Or so the gossip went.

What he knew for certain was that the Baron's seat at Court had been placed there some twenty years ago—in a far corner of the mezzanine, as distant from the throne as could be managed.

And as far as Callian knew, it had never had the occasion to be sat on.

“What does the Baron want?" Callian asked, tightly. “And why must I be the one to escort him?"

“Because you are taken to distraction when you are without assignment," his father said, ignoring the first question entirely. “And so, I am giving you assignment."

A moment of terse silence passed between them.

“You did not have to frighten those men last night," Callian bit out. His ring finger itched, gold signet sitting awkwardly behind his knuckle. Were that he were playing dice, instead of attending the vagaries of royal politics. “They were good company. Two of them fought in your name against the rebels in Videaux."

His father, the King, looked at him with eyes as grey and sharp as steel. Examining his heir with the coldest of scrutiny.

“What happened to your hands?" the King asked.

Taken aback, Callian glanced at his bruised knuckles. He'd forgotten to hide them before his audience. “I… solicited a bout of swordplay," he mumbled.

“With whom?"

It had been the ox. Brugel. They'd both been quite drunk, dueling across the table with wooden switches while the rest of the men laughed and jeered and stole each other's dice. It was a sour memory now—but in that moment, he'd been weightless.

“I don't recall his name, father."

“This man struck you?"

Callian sighed. “As is the game, in swordplay."

“Callian," The King said, shaking his great antlered head. “I will have Dalia fetch you gloves-"

“I don't need-"

“-which you shall wear until your bruises have faded." The King looked at him again and scoffed. “You were a fool to display such wounds in public."

Callian's hands curled into fists.

“Where is the sense in that?" he said, hotly. “I am only a man. I bruise, just as any who-"

“You are my Heir," the King hissed, leaning forward on the throne, “Sovereign Ruler-to-Be of Four Nations and One. We are at peace, now—but when this era ends, and it will end, the Lords of these nations will look to their King. And if they see a wounded man on the throne, they will descend on you like vultures."

Callian opened his mouth to rebut, but the King raised a hand to stop him.

“Enough, Callian. You will cease your escapades at once. You will not pick up a sword unless Ser Damien hands one to you. You will mask your weakness and mind your tongue or so help me God, I will appoint an heir who will."

The King looked down from his throne, cold and imperious. Callian looked back, fighting to see through wavering vision.

“Perhaps that would be best," Callian said through his teeth. “Give your crown to someone who wants it."

His father's jaw creaked audibly in the silence. They regarded each other over the distance; frustration and formality and familiarity boiling the air between them.

“Go," The King bit out. “To your task, Callian. Ride past the common men you so envy, and tell them how you yearn for their poverty."

Callian bit his tongue. He bowed his head, imagining the gesture as an antlered threat display, rather than obedience.

Outside in the hall, he stalked past a painting: his father, young and handsome and imperious. Newly crowned as King, though he'd been no older than Callian was now. The painter had taken liberties in the jawline and the sunny-gold tone of his fur—but even rendered in oils, the resemblance was undeniable.

Its eyes were his own, staring back at him.

***

The Baron's entourage was waiting in the shade of the city gate. They bore the banners and livery and tidy pomp of foreign dignitaries.

The only thing they were missing, Callian soon discovered, was their liege lord.

“He rode ahead, My Prince," a harried Seneschal told him. “I believe he tired of the King's escort. None would dare speak ill of his featly, you understand. But… Kelsatz is ruled by nothing if not impulse."

Callian rubbed the base of one antler. Another headache, brought on by the pains of the growing season. “So, he's already here? In the city?"

The Senechal bowed, for what must have been the third time in as many minutes. “Yes, My Prince."

“Where?"

“I did not dare to ask, My Prince. The Baron was in a rancorous mood, and seemed eager for solitude." The Seneschal's brow furrowed. “As I recall, his exact words were: 'If you send a man to follow me, I will drown him'."

Callian turned those words over in his head, pleased with how neatly they fit his impression of a mannerless, northern mercenary. An idea came over him like the lighting of a torch, and he smiled.

“Thank you, Senechal."

“Of course, My Prince. I will assemble a party to guard your person, and another to help you search-"

“No need," Callian said, eager to avoid an escort of his own—he'd already slipped poor Ser Damien on their way from the keep. “I know where he went."

There were plenty enough places to drown a man in his father's great city—but only one place where it could be done in the comfort of solitude.

On the city's eastern edge, where the streets cascaded down into the valley, was a district of leisure. Among these winding cobblestones were counting houses and jewelers, music parlors and gold smithies. A brothel, too, where Callian had spent several wide-eyed evenings.

There was also, as it happened, a bathhouse.

The building overlooked the edge of the valley, built of white stone and finished iron. It was a public building, and many of its rocky pools were open for the ease of all the King's subjects. Its private pools, however, were available only to those with means.

It was exactly the sort of place Callian would go after a long journey spent in the company of sycophants. And besides—if the Baron wasn't to be found inside, as he thought, it would be no loss. A hot bath and a dexterous masseuse would make for a wonderful consolation.

The reception of the bathhouse was clean and perfumed, staffed by a silky-voiced doe and an assembly of silent washer-boys awaiting assignment. As he entered, Callian could hear distant music drifting out from the steamy hallways that led deeper into the building.

“A northerner entered here," he said by way of greeting, watching the attendant's expression for confirmation and finding it. “I bring a message for him."

“Indeed?" the doe asked, pleasant and calm. “Many of our generous patrons desire privacy, but I can have one of our tending lads pass a message. Who may I say is calling?"

Callian hesitated. It would be easy, really: remove his glove, display his signet ring, wield the authority of his God-given name. His word, as Heir to the Realm, could get him a curtsy, the Baron, and a warm towel all in the same breath.

Instead, Callian smiled amiably and pulled a gold coin from the pouched sash around his middle. He placed it on the desk between them, and let the coin do the talking on his behalf.

The doe paused for a moment, overtaken by a strange look. Her eyes flicked from Callian's face to the King's golden likeness, embossed on the face of the bribe. Her eyebrows raised. Her mouth opened, as if to comment on the resemblance.

Then, she bowed, and the coin disappeared into her voluminous sleeve. “Down the hall, ser," she said, primly. “The ledge pool on the left."

The air in the halls was thick and warm—but nearer to the cliff's edge, a cool breeze licked the heat away. Unlike the natural springs further into the building, these pools were carved, filled and emptied by hand along the edge of a winding, granite shelf. Each pool was secluded, hidden from sight behind wooden panels that dripped with moisture and smelled of fresh Verdavian pine.

When he came to the last set of doors, Callian did not knock. In a brighter mood, he might have approached the situation graciously—but if Princes didn't get to evade their duties, Callian decided, then neither by rights could a Baron. He would deliver his message, deliver the King his savage, then deliver himself to a night of anonymous leisure.

Callian threw the panneled door aside and entered, hooves clacking on the wet stone.

A bear sat soaking in a circular pool inlaid in the center of the room. Baron Kelsatz was a large man, thick-pelted in the way of boreal northerners. Older than himself by some decades—but no frailer for it. The bear wore his weight in fur and fat and muscle, as much a grizzled warlord as the rumors suggested.

Callian had grown up hearing stories of Kelsatz, marching to war with his father against the Saspori. This was a killer, paid in title and flattered by courtly gossip; and though the Court of Lords made their mockeries of him, it was clear why the Baron's empty seat had never been openly challenged.

Even lounging naked in a stone tub, Callian found it easy to imagine the bear swinging a warhammer.

The bear did not react much to the sound of Callian's entry. He might have been asleep, if not for the deep sigh he let out as the Prince approached.

“I asked for privacy," the Baron rumbled.

It occurred to Callian that, unlike the doe from earlier, this was not a man who could be made pliant by gold. Lords, he knew, even savage ones, answered best to authority.

“The King," Callian said, projecting his voice as coldly as he was able, “does not wait on his servants' moods."

The bear seemed not to hear him, trailing the fingers of one hand absently across the surface of the pool. Then, he sighed again, deeper this time, and raised his shaggy head. For a moment, the Baron blinked at him, eyes murky with sleep.

Then, his heavy brow furrowed. Insult flickered to life in the old bear's eyes at the sight of him—and a spark of something… fond. Wistful, perhaps.

Whatever emotion it was flickered out as quickly as it had come. The bear yawned broadly and waved a hand through the steam rising from the tub. A stick of incense burned on a low table nearby, filling the damp air with the smell of lavender.

“It's been a long road, boy," the bear rumbled. “You'd do well to bring me a towel, instead of your father's demands."

Callian blinked. He may not have known the exact character of the bear's recognition—but it had been recognition. Kelsatz had seen the blonde, scrawny buck before him and known him instantly as the Prince.

That a lowly Baron made such crude demands of him despite knowing him was…

Baffling.

Mildly insulting.

And, if Callian were honest with himself, just a little intriguing.

“Baron Kelsatz," Callian said, probing and mildly curious, “my father has summoned you for an audience. As his subject and sworn vassal, you are compelled to rise."

The Baron regarded him for a long moment. Then, the bear shrugged, laid his head back against the tub, and closed his eyes once more.

“Alas," the bear murmured, stirring a hand through the water. “I am neither."

“Beg pardon?"

“You have me mistaken," the bear said, rolling his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I have heard that Kelsatz is a brutal savage, who rarely bathes—and then, only in the blood of his King's enemies." The bear waved lazily about himself, indicating the steaming, perfumed water. “And so, obviously, I must not be this man."

Callian considered that, baffled. Then, he shook himself. Squared his hooves.

“My father-"

“If I were Kelsatz," the bear continued, “it would hardly be proper for me to meet with His Highness the Prince in so intimate a setting. And His Highness the Prince-" Kelsatz cracked one eye to appraise him, pointedly, “-it should be said, cannot be so foolish as to appear, alone and unguarded, in the baths of strangers."

Callian shifted on his hooves. The bear, utterly comfortable in his odd pretense, returned to ignoring him.

“And so," Callian said, poaching the bear's words as a thought occurred to him, “obviously, I must not be the Prince."

The Baron raised his head. Sat up in the tub slightly to better meet Callian's gaze. “Evidently," the great bear said, acting his disinterest poorly. “Who might you be, then?"

Something unfurled in Callian's stomach. His adopted authority slipped from his shoulders, leaving him light. He took in a shaky breath he'd been holding since the gambler's table the night before.

“Why should it matter?" Callian asked, softly.

The Baron's mouth twitched at the corner. He thumbed one of his round ears, shrugged, and leaned back against the edge of the tub. “Well…" he rumbled, stretching the word into a pleased sigh, “whoever you are, you've interrupted a lovely nap."

At this, Callian nearly laughed. “I-" he began, shaking his head at the ease of it all. “My apologies for the intrusion. I… mistook you for someone else."

The bear snorted. “And I, you." He looked away. “No matter."

“I'll…" Callian said, fumbling for some cue in the quiet. “I'll leave you to your ease."

“You might." The bear's gaze reaffixed itself on Callian's royal muzzle. That odd look possessed him again. A quiet flicker of irritated nostalgia, there and gone. The bear thought for a moment, sighed, then gestured broadly at the tub. “Unless you could be tempted to join me in it."

Callian nearly laughed again—but nothing in the bear's manner said that it was anything but genuine. His eyes were lidded and calm. His expression almost… guarded. As much wary of rejection as acceptance.

The offer shouldn't have been tempting. Such an invitation asked more than a unspoken agreement. If Callian left now, as well he should, that would be that. No doubt he could find some way to wile the hours until facing his father's displeasure. He could find more gamblers, buy his way into their companionship—though only ever until his name was known.

But if he chose to stay… he had little idea what that might entail.

Not so simple a game as dice, Callian suspected.

No—this was far more enticing.

“A goodly offer," Callian said, oddly calm. “Surely made with innocent intentions."

The bear chuckled, the breath of it swirling the smoke and steam. He said nothing more, waiting instead for Callian to make his decision.

And so, he did.

Heart padding in his ribs, Callian tugged his gloves off one finger at a time, and dropped them carelessly onto the damp stone floor.

His velvet vest followed. The bear tracked the movement of his fingers as he worked his buttons loose. Callian felt a stab of embarrassment—but then, he reminded himself, of what? The bear was already naked, and showed no sign of shame for his exposure. If anything, joining him in his state of ease would be the courteous thing to do.

Piece by piece, Callian divested himself of a Prince's trappings. Vest, sash, undershirt, britches. The signet ring, studiously ignored by both of them, slipped from his finger and dropped silently into the pile of clothing. The stag stepped out of his smallclothes and, under the relaxed gaze of the soaking bear, approached the edge of the bath.

The stone tub was two-tiered; a circle within a circle carved into the floor, the larger of the two only half as deep to form a seat around the circumference. The stag lowered himself into the water across from the bear, who sat up slightly to make room. The water was just shy of scalding, scattered with pink and white flower petals. Its warmth pulled the last of the tension from his shoulders and drew out a contented sigh.

They sat across from each other, nothing between them but curls of fragrant steam. The tub was large—but so was the bear who occupied it. At rest on the bench, the bear's barrel chest was only half-submerged, whereas just the tops of the stag's shoulders remained above the waterline, lapped at by the soft waves created by his intrusion. The stag fidgeted uncertainly, then stretched his hooves into the space between the bear's spread posture. Their knees brushed beneath the water.

The bear drank in his guest with lazy satisfaction, half-lidded eyes fit to wander. That odd, nostalgic look came again: yearning, the stag thought, for something he'd lost. Reminiscence softened the big man, somewhat, as he searched the stag's contours as one does a portrait on the mantle. Then, the bear leaned his head back, and closed his eyes with a gratified sigh.

“I did not miss this city," the bear said, apropos of nothing. There was a tilt in his voice, a rise at one corner of his mouth. A lie, most like—or at least a half-truth. The stag took that in, dipping his chin so that it grazed the warm surface of the pool.

The stag blew gently across the water, sending the steam into curls. “I don't blame you. There is little in it to miss."

“Not so." The bear's smile grew, almost chagrined. He rolled one wrist in a slow circle, content to leave his arms draped over the edge of the tub. “I am…" he said, muzzle creasing in thought. It took a moment for him to finish the sentence. “Bosco. A smith of middling skill."

“Ah," the stag said. The syllable rippled the water in front of his muzzle, pushing flower petals in lazy circles. “I should have guessed—you've arms fit for the forge."

The bear gave a huff of laughter, then a nonchalant flex of both arms. “Now allow me," he said, resting both arms back on the lip of the tub and fixing him with a thoughtful look. “Judging by the state of your knuckles… you must be a priest's boy. Named after a chastely saint, no doubt."

The stag, who was, he realized, in need of a name, considered the fading bruises on his knuckles. He turned his hand over beneath the water, toying with several outrageous fancies.

“I have no God-given name," he said, testing the idea on his tongue and liking its taste. He nodded at the bear. “Where does Bosco the smith hail from?"

The bear chuckled. “Oh, here and there," he said, in a worldly way. “You'd not have heard of it."

“Test me," said the stag, scooping his hand from the water and wetting the back of his neck. “I… I am a great explorer, you see. I have seen much of the world beyond these walls."

The bear cracked a smile, and his eyes drifted closed. “In the north," he rumbled, “we do not name our cities. We save names for mountains and forests: things that do not move with the seasons."

The stag nodded, thoughtfully. “Far North, then."

“Very far." The bear made a noise of contentment and rubbed his back against the edge of the tub, rippling the water. “And yourself?"

“No single place could contain me," said the stag, inventing himself with rising gusto. “From Saspor to Egalia, and Orchéz in the East. I am burdened by nothing, and owing to none. I am free to go wherever, and wherever I go, I am free."

The bear raised an eyebrow at his fervor, and Callian felt his invention crumple under the weight of scrutiny. Suddenly, he was himself again: a petulant Prince, shirking his duties in a hot spring while men fought and bled for the sake of his family's name. He flushed and looked away, ears folding aside his head.

“And Mogodûn?"

Callian glanced at the bear, puzzled. “What?"

The bear shrugged. “You've been further east than most men. I wonder, in your travels, if you might have sailed all the way to Golden Mogodûn."

Callian bit his cheek. Then, he huffed.

“Of course I have," he said, smirking as the bear raised a heavy eyebrow. “Only… I swam there. And back."

“Careful, boy," the bear scolded, wryly. “Or I might call you a liar."

“It's true! The Golden Godlings were so impressed with my feat, they named me an honorary dragon."

“Now I will call you a liar," the bear grumbled, flicking water at him.

They settled for a time, idling in each other's company. They sparred back and forth, testing out the confines of their respective identities. After that, they soaked in silence. The stag copied the bear's languid pose, and found himself drifting off in the comfortable quiet. The incense burner was running low, but neither of them rose to light a new stick.

“You have his cheekbones."

Callian raised his head, blearily. The bear appeared as he had earlier: seemingly asleep. The big man had spoken quietly to the ceiling, as if not intending to be heard.

Obligingly, Callian pretended he hadn't, and waited for the bear to continue. Eventually, furtively, he did.

“No fault of yours," the bear mumbled, sleep sticking his syllables together. “I often see his face in other men."

Callian stuck a flower petal onto the backs of his knuckles and blew it off. It landed between them with a tiny ripple. “Who?"

“A man I knew, once," the bear mumbled, rather unhelpfully. Before Callian could press him, the bear continued of his own accord. “A lofty, highborn hart. Eyes like bright copper. Voice as hard as steel. He was a great man, made for great things."

“You speak well of him." Callian watched the petal float back toward him. “Suppose he must be dead, then."

“Married."

Callian cocked an eyebrow. Something in the bear's voice said that was worse, somehow. He shrugged, trying on the bear's casual affect and finding it comfortable.

“You fought over a woman, I imagine," the stag mused, “and parted on poor terms."

It was a part of their game—or so he thought. Something about his suggestion made the bear snort derisively and shake his head. “No woman's worth fighting over."

“No northern women, maybe."

That earned him a chuckle, and a sleepy glare. “What would you know, boy? Have you ever even kissed a woman?"

“Yes," the stag lied. As a great explorer, he imagined he would take many lovers, across many continents. “Often and eagerly."

The bear's jaw worked slowly, tasting his next words. There was a tension in him now, winding tighter the longer the silence stretched.

“And men?"

“What?" Callian laughed, nearly choking on the word. “No! Never." He looked up to see the bear glaring at him, and felt a stab of guilt. The bear had allowed the stag his fantasies—who was he to deny the old bear his?

Even if the thought was… uncomfortable.

The strange thing was, Callian's protestation felt like a lie, even though it wasn't. He hadn't. Kissed a man, that was. Why would he? Ridiculous thought. Sinful under the eyes of God, and certainly unbecoming of a Prince.

But then, the stag thought, he wasn't a Prince, was he? He was a nameless explorer. And perhaps explorers, far away from prying eyes… tired from the road and seeking company, might, if asked, or sufficiently inebriated, be convinced to, or be drawn to… they might.

He might.

The bear was staring at him, in a skeptical sort of way. “Never?"

Callian met his gaze.

“Never."

The bear grumbled darkly and looked away. Whatever game this was, the stag had found an affinity for it. And an excitement, too; a swooping lightness in his stomach at the prospect of pretending, just for a moment.

The nameless, worldly explorer –or Prince Callian, or whoever he was just then– sat with the thought. He noted the bear's disappointment as he indulged one possibility, which led to another. Then another. His imaginings stirred something in him: a quiet excitement, some dormant curiosity that demanded exploration.

And, after all, wasn't it the domain of explorers to be curious?

“Though I will admit," Callian murmured, with an ease that surprised him, “in secret, I've often wondered."

The bear's attention returned to him with glacier-slowness. Callian's face went warm from the intensity of it. He did not look away. There passed a moment between them, surrounded by steam and lavender smoke.

And then, spontaneity took him by the horns. The stag stood in a gentle rush of water, waded through the curling steam, and climbed into the bear's open lap.

He straddled the larger man where he sat, steam wafting hot against his face. The bear made no move to stop him. He shifted beneath Callian as the stag settled over his thighs, kneeling astride him on the stone seat. The touch of their fur was electric, a low current that ran through Callian's entire being.

Warm water lapped at the small of the stag's back. He realized belatedly that he hadn't a clue what to do with his hands. One of them ended up between the two of them, flat on the bear's broad chest, while the other landed tentatively on the curve of one broad shoulder.

This close, the smell of incense and soap was joined by that of sweat. The bear shifted again, rocking him side to side as the big man sat up slightly, bringing their faces level. Close.

If the bear had been drifting off before, there was no sign of sleep in him now. His eyes were sharp and focused, his grizzled jaw set. His posture, which had tensed, relaxed in a way that almost frightened him. They were close enough together that Callian could feel the bear's quickened heartbeat against his palm, growing quicker.

“Haven't you?" Callian asked. It came out as a whisper. He watched the bear intently, searching nervously for a line he had crossed. “Wondered, I mean. Or… with a man, that is."

“Many times," the bear rumbled, lowering his arms from the edge of the tub with a splash. His dark eyes flicked to Callian's antlers. “Only once that mattered."

Before Callian could dissect the words, the bear drew forward and kissed him, hungrily.

The sound of lapping water followed the sudden motion, and Callian found, to his own surprise, that he had met the man halfway. What ground he gained was hard-fought; the bear's advance was harsh, and Callian sucked in a thin breath between the press of their muzzles.

“Your highborn hart?" Callian breathed, once they parted. A suspicion had taken root, and he pursued it, eagerly. “Call me his name, if it pleases you."

The bear growled, shook his head, and kissed him again. This time, Callian let him come, testing how far he could draw the bear forward before he lost his perch in his lap. He nearly did—but the bear's hands found purchase at his waist and held him there.

“You don't want his fucking name," the bear growled into his mouth. His eyes snapped open, locking on Callian's. “You'd rather be wandering some eastern coast, with your Godlings and your freedom."

Callian broke their joining and lowered his antlers in a faux defense, grinning as he fended off the bear's next advance. He was lightheaded and giddy, each exhalation coming out as a breathy laugh. “But would it hurt you to pretend?"

There was that wistfulness, Callian saw, that simmering, half-healed wound. The bear fell back and studied him with bottled, unfulfilled want; seeing, Callian realized, that painting of his father outside the throne room. The young King he must have known so long ago.

“Only once it's over," the bear muttered.

Callian almost asked if his father had kissed him back—but before he could, the bear pressed forward again, and he felt the words melt off his tongue. He reached down, steadying himself on the warm wall of bear's chest, before his hand fell further, almost by accident, into their joined laps.

The ease with which he accepted the revelation, and the role he would take in their game did not even surprise him. He had so little room for thoughts, just then; the bear's cock was warmer than the water around it, growing in his palm as Callian wrapped his fingers around it. The bear gave a soft huff into Callian's mouth.

There was a soft splash of water as the stag felt those massive paws leave his waist, rising instead to grip the base of his antlers. Callian panted, held in place by his horns, penned in by the bear's panting, hungry muzzle. Water trickled down his muzzle and neck from the sodden fur of the bear's arms. The cock in Callian's hand no longer fit properly, and so he let his other hand fall from the bear's chest to join it.

“Unhand me," the stag demanded, giddily. “I am the King. Unhand me."

The bear growled, and tightened his grip. “Never again," he muttered, roughing Callian's lip with his teeth. “Not for all your fucking titles."

The bear stood suddenly, sending a wave of steaming water over the lip of the stone tub. Callian rose with him, dragged up by his antlers with a gasp. He was walked backwards until it was the stag with his back to the edge of the stone tub, and the bear who loomed overtop him. Gripping his antlers like handles, the bear bent Callian's head so far back that he felt the tips of his horns scrape granite. The bear nipped and licked at Callian's exposed throat as the stag adjusted to his new position, draped half in and half-out of the water. His hooves splashed for a moment, before they found purchase around the bear's middle, joining together at the ankles.

Standing, the bear's hips sat just below the water line. Callian swallowed thickly and watched the bear's expression flicker between triumph, insult, and stupid, animal need. They bucked against each other, slick with rosewater, surrounded by steam and thin pretension.

They weren't Callian and Kelsatz—they weren't even Bosco and some vagabond explorer. They were animals, fog-headed and desperate for the coarse friction of rut.

Without warning, the bear reached back and batted Callian's ankles apart, plunging the stag back down onto the stone seat with a splash. The bear raised one thickly-muscled leg up onto the edge of the tub, leaving the other planted on the stone seat next to Callian. As the bear rose, water streamed from him in rivulets, cascading over Callian's upturned face. There were flower petals stuck to the man's coarse fur, pink and white against chocolate brown.

They stilled for a moment, heavy breaths and the dripping of rosewater the only sounds to be heard. The cool breeze wafting from the cliff edge couldn't hope to steal the heat from Callian's face. He felt abraded, lost in fog and hot as a hearth. His gaze trailed down the rise and fall of the bear's chest, past his paunch and the wide curve of his hips.

The bear's cock was thick and darkly coloured, almost as big around as Callian's wrist. It shone with rosewater, lurching to the beat of the bear's heart. Right there in front of his nose, it smelled of a sex so potent that the stag didn't for a single instant entertain the thought of rebuking it.

His father, so cautious and kingly in temperament, might have left this man to the north. Given him a Barony instead of what he'd so obviously needed.

What he still needed, judging by the dark fervor in Kelsatz's eye.

But Callian had no intention of denying him.

As if he'd said it aloud, the bear came forward, resting the tip of his cock against Callian's upturned face.

“Go on," Callian rasped up at him, his voice thin and hoarse from the angle and the heat and the sheer need of it. “Take your due from me."

The bear paused. Breathed down on him for a moment.

Then, he gripped Callian by the antlers and fed him his cock.

The taste of it was bitter and tacky. Just the head at first, sliding across his tongue. Callian suckled at it, curious and spurred on by the hitching growl the bear made when he curled his tongue just so.

Despite the hold on his antlers, the bear seemed content to keep him in place while he worked in and out of Callian's muzzle. The stag's eyes drifted closed. He swallowed a mouthful of salt, breathed in the fog of roses and lavender and sweat that pressed in on all sides. He struggled forward against the bear's grip, earning another half-inch of him. The bear growled, low and approving. The noise rung in Callian's head, stirring him to urgency. His own cock, beneath the water of the tub, was painfully hard, twitching with need.

He reached down to touch himself, groaning at the contact. He palmed himself, unhurried, almost entranced by the repetition.

The bear pulled him forward without warning, and he choked. Callian's eyes flew open, and he stared up through sudden tears as the bear pulled his muzzle flush against his groin. Callian spluttered, hands coming up to push at the bear's thick-furred thighs—but as soon as they did, the bear retreated, leaving Callian to splash and cough and gasp for air.

He would have chosen words, but the cock returned to his mouth before he could, and Callian let them melt away in the wet heat. They returned to their pattern. Callian's eyes closed. His hands drifted down to his aching cock-

And the bear hilted him again, pulling him hard down the length of his shining cock.

When he was released, Callian pulled back and coughed, glaring up at the bear reproachfully.

“I-" he began, then interrupted himself with a shivered breath as the bear draped his cock along his cheek. “I didn't take you for a cruel man."

The bear looked down at him dark and wanting. “I don't care what you take me for," he growled. “But you will take me."

Nestled between the bear's legs, Callian nodded shakily. He rubbed his cheek against the bear's shining length, kissed it near its base. The bear's assertion was absolute. No lie there. Just a demand that Callian had no intention of denying.

“I took you for a savage," the stag whispered. “I was wrong. You are a loyal man. A devoted man."

The bear narrowed his eyes. His jaw worked slowly, grinding his teeth. Then, he nodded.

Callian grinned, and his fuzzy thoughts churned out a new fabrication. “And I am-"

“Warm and wet," the bear growled. He dragged his cock along Callian's snout, disdainfully. “I don't care what else."

Oh, but you do, Callian thought as the bear marked him. The bear tried to put his cock back into his mouth, but Callian jerked to one side, denying him. “Liar," he said, as the bear dragged him back into place. “You wound me, Kelsatz."

The bear froze at the sound of his name. Callian smiled up at him, innocently. He dropped his voice, adopted the timbre of a King.

A difficult task, while pinned between another man's legs.

“Do you think me ungrateful?" Callian whispered into the fold of the bear's sheath. He channeled, as best he could, the cold diction he'd heard so often in his father's voice. “Do you think so poorly of your King that he might forsake you?"

Kelsatz, for this was, after all, Kelsatz, stared down at him. Wide-eyed, as though he were an apparition. His hands loosened their grip.

“You have served me so well," Callian said, fervently. “And for so long… I intend to reward you."

Kelsatz made a small noise, and shook his great head. Callian kissed the base of his cock once more, and watched the shiver travel all the way to those broad, boreal shoulders.

“Shall it be gold?" Callian stood from the water, and the bear stepped back from him. “A highborn woman?" With his hooves on the stone seat, he came eye-level with the bear, who was staring at him with a wounded, conflicted expression. “Is it cold in your Barony? Are you lonely, Kelsatz?"

The bear looked now as Callian had felt after his own accidental admission: stricken and ashamed.

The bear flinched. “If… if you would only write to me," he said, hoarsely.

“Is that all?" Callian picked a sodden flower petal from the bear's forearm. “Is a letter all that you would have of me?"

Kelsatz closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath. When he surfaced from it, it was with a smoldering resolve that made the hot spring feel cold in comparison. What shame he'd had had simply burned away.

“I would… I will have you, my King," the bear croaked. The words seemed to come already half-formed, practiced over a thousand restless nights. “I will have you, and damn the rest."

The bear shivered when Callian's hands came on either side of his grizzled face, and went still as the stag kissed him, eyes screwing shut, breaths coming eagerly into the stag's mouth.

“And the Court of Lords?" Callian murmured. “What might they think?"

Kelsatz swallowed, thickly. “I don't care."

“And the clergymen?"

“I don't fucking care."

“And the-"

“Who else?" Kelsatz snarled, darkly. “I'll kill them if they speak. I'll kill them in their homes and burn their fucking temples and have you on the ashes."

“So you are a savage," Callian breathed, giddily. “Go on, then. Have me."

At that, Kelsatz needed no more prodding. Grasping Callian by the hips, the great bear stepped out from the pool. Entangled, dripping wet and breathing hard into each other's mouths, the bear carried him to the low table and with a sweep of one arm, scattered its contents away. The incense burner splashed into the pool with a hiss of smoke. A dozen little candles went guttering out, spilling their wax over the table and the floor and the bear's thick forearm.

Callian hit the table on his back, the impact forcing a breath from him. Hot wax pooled against his shoulders and the small of his back, and he gasped at the heat of it. Kelsatz growled at the noise, pulled Callian's legs apart, and pressed his cock beneath the stag's sodden tail.

Callian accepted him, wincing, trying to relax his hips. There was discomfort, at first. The bear pressed into him, licking the pained noises off of Callian's tongue. Kelsatz's arms looped under the small of Callian's back, arching him upwards, even as he crushed the stag into the table with all his muscled weight.

Callian murmured something insensate and grabbed the bear on both sides of his broad muzzle, crushing their teeth together. It was clumsy, and strained, and the bear's hips came to rest against his and suddenly it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered in the face of that feeling. Callian bit a curse into the bear's mouth, then moaned, then rolled his hips, dragging his drying cock against Kelsatz's stomach.

He had never felt so utterly abased. At ease and in throes, all at once. His lungs strained with the effort of heaving against the bear's bulk. Kelsatz, still hugging him around the middle, planted a leg and began to thrust. There was no rhythm, not even in the frantic beating of Callian's heart. He keened as the bear's cock left him, an involuntary sound that petered out once Kelsatz pushed their hips back together.

The table creaked beneath them. Its legs scraped against the stone floor of the room with every thrust, adding to the din of their coupling. The bear was rumbling deep from his chest, a raw, possessive sound that invaded some deep part of Callian's mind and made a home there. He bit at Callian's neck and shoulders, or else kissed him, or else dropped his forehead against the stag's chest. When he did the last, the stag could feel hot, panting breaths rolling down his stomach and across his unattended cock. Callian let out another wavering sound, then another. With each, the bear's driving thrusts became harder and faster until for a ragged, beautiful moment, they appeared in sync.

Suddenly, the bear shot upright, hands slamming down hard on either side of Callian's flushed, airless head. Kelsatz's face was screwed tight in some mingling of ecstasy and focus. He reached a fever pitch, slamming into Callian so hard and fast that he feared he would be thrown from the table.

All at once, the bear seemed to sag. His eyes became half-lidded and vacant. A sound dribbled out of him, growls and rumbles deep from his chest and finally, a sigh. Callian's hips were numb from his aggression—but he saw the rise along the shape of the bear's cock in his stomach, felt warm bursts of seed rushing in to fill what little space remained between them.

He'd never been filled like that before. The feeling it sent shivering through him was strange and giddy, hot as molten wax. By what right did the laws of God deny him this? What fool would turn it away?

Damp and aching and thoroughly claimed, Callian thought he understood now why men murdered one another for love.

Delirious, Callian reached down and tugged at his throbbing length. It's only relief thus far had been the friction of damp fur, and something ached in him to come loose while the bear was still inside him. Callian let his head drop back and his hands wander and his tiny, leftover dignity come undone. He did not know how he was capable of making the noises that bubbled out of him, but there they were, all the same.

And before he could finish, Kelsatz slapped his hands away.

Callian shot up on his elbows, panting and furious—but before the stag could curse him, the bear wrapped his own massive paw around Callian's cock. His anger died in an instant. He could feel the bear's cum matting his fur where their hips met, dirtying his white-tufted tail. Even as the bear softened inside of him, Kelsatz did not waver for a second. He stared down at Callian's torn, panting muzzle with an intensity that the stag was unable to meet. He looked away from it, shaking.

The shame was brief, overtaken by the wet crush of the bear's hand and the coiling pressure below his navel. Callian came into the bear's fingers, lowing like a wild fool—then collapsed across the table, lank and boneless.

The bear panted down on him, looking at the mess of his fingers like he hadn't a clue how it happened. Callian, still gathering his scattered senses, made a vague noise of disgust when the bear licked his digits clean. Kelsatz snorted, reached down and rubbed something sticky from Callian's chin.

Then, the bear scooped him up and returned them to the tub.

They floated there for a time, somewhat entangled. The water was cooler than it had been. The incense burner had sunk to the bottom, leaving clumps of wet ash floating amidst the flower petals. Kelsatz scooped the thing out and tossed it skittering toward the white-spattered table. Some of the mess was wax; Callian could feel the stuff matted between his shoulder blades.

Some of it was not.

The reality of what they'd done occurred to him all at once.

He'd just… with a man. And not just that, no: a man decades his senior, a Lord of the Court, his father's oldest ally.

And evidently, unrequited lover.

Callian's ears folded against his head. He considered, just for a moment, drowning himself.

Kelsatz, for his part, seemed similarly regretful. Neither of them could bear the other's gaze. Callian busied himself watching a petal cut a lazy circuit across the width of the tub. He rubbed his back against the edge of the tub, trying to scrape off the candlewax that clung to his fur in clumps.

Eventually, Kelsatz made a thin, grunting sound.

“You can't ever do that again."

Callian blinked, hard. “ Me?" he sputtered. “Wh- me?"

“Yes," the bear said, as though agreeing. “If I'd wanted to stick a knife in you instead of my cock, you'd be a dead man."

“You seemed happy enough, taking advantage."

“Is that what I did?" Kelsatz said, darkly. “I seem to recall you climbing into my fucking lap, boy."

Callian snorted. He adopted a rough mockery of the bear's northern drawl. “And men? Do you kiss men, boy? How would you like to kiss a man, boy?"

“I never said that," the bear snapped, and forged onward before Callian could retort. “You're the King's only heir—you don't have the luxury of indulging your passions."

Callian stared at the man like he'd grown a second head. Then, he leaned back, cursed God, and put both hands over his face. Their closeness in the tub, which once had felt so alluring, had gone cold with the water.

He could still taste the bear on his lips. Callian pressed his palms into his eyes so hard that stars crackled across his vision.

“How long have you loved my father?"

For a moment, it seemed as though the bear would commit himself to silence. Then, just as Callian had determined to collect his dignity and leave, Kelsatz spoke, very quietly.

“We were in Celaç," he mumbled. “Killing his traitor of an uncle. A halberdier took the King off his horse and down into the mud with the rest of us. Hit him so hard that both his horns snapped right off." Callian watched the bear drag a heavy hand through the cooling water, stirring flower petals in a circle. “After it was over, I spent four hours turning over dead men, looking for the damned things. He just… he looked so small, without them."

Callian spread his fingers beneath the water and looked at his bruises. All that he found to say was, rather stupidly: “They grow back."

Kelsatz stilled, then threw back his head and roared in laughter. “I know that, boy," he said, wiping an eye with his palm. He quieted. “Knew it back then, too."

A coppery wind was blowing in from the cliff's edge. Callian gathered a few petals in his sodden orbit, just to have something to do with his hands.

“He seemed eager to speak with you." Callian looked down at his collection, feeling weary. “Perhaps he's called you back to reconcile."

“He's had two decades to reconcile, boy. Twenty fucking years. No." Kelsatz looked at him, then away, out over the valley beyond the room. “He only deigned to summon me because I refused a royal edict."

“You can't refuse an edict," Callian said, aghast. “That's treason!"

“As is defiling the Prince."

The coarse admission of it brought some of the heat back into Callian's cheeks. He shuffled his legs beneath the water and determined to ignore that part, for the sake of his pride. “So what, then? My father had you marched all the way here just to stand trial?"

The bear ground his teeth together, pointedly averting his gaze. “No. He had me brought to him because he knows I won't deny him to his face."

“Does he… know?"

“Of course he does. Why do you think he rewarded me with a Barony five-hundred miles away from him?"

Callian winced. They endured a darker mood for a time, neither one willing to be the first to leave their cooling tub. Outside this room, their duties waited. They could sit here all they liked, getting pruny, and it won't have gone anywhere. Like a stubborn, unwanted stray.

“So, what is it then?" Callian asked, dully. “What has my father asked of you that you're so afraid of?"

Kelsatz put his head back against the edge of the tub and rubbed a hand down his face. “I was to leave my son in charge of my holdings in the north," he said. Before Callian could reckon with that bombshell, he carried right on to the next. “So that I could serve your father, here, as Master-at-Arms."

Callian blinked, thoughts churning in great, slow circles: first, Kelsatz had a son; which probably meant he had a lady wife. Odd thought, that. Second, Kelsatz would not have left his holdings in the first place if he did not intend to obey the King's demand.

And third… the duties of a Master-at-Arms included the safekeeping and martial tutelage of the royal family.

“You're going to teach me to fight," Callian said.

Kelsatz sighed. “You and every other lefthanded milksop in this city." He paused, then fixed Callian with a rueful look. “Though I was given to understand that the King's fool of a son is especially resistant to instruction."

A slow smile crept across Callian's face as the bear spoke. Before he'd even finished, the stag was laughing, harder than he had in a long, long time. Kelsatz endured his mirth—but not, Callian noted, without a small smile of his own.

“And you'll accept?" Callian asked, once he'd quite finished. Kelsatz glared at him, and said nothing.

That was answer enough.

Callian stood and climbed out of the tub, dripping wet and covered in flower petals. He felt the bear's eyes follow him as he strode to his pile of discarded clothes. He relished the attention—and made sure to flick his tail and bend over at the waist to pick up his things. After a moment, he heard the slosh of Kelsatz climbing out after him, muttering oaths under his breath.

They dressed in no particular hurry, on opposite sides of the room. Duty, that stray dog, sat waiting for them outside the door; though to Callian, it didn't seem as mangy a thing as once it had. Sword lessons with Ser Damien had consisted entirely of forms and dummies; no one who knew him had ever laid hands on him, too afraid of his father's wroth to damage his precious son.

The Prince picked a sodden petal from the inside of his thigh and turned to watch Kelsatz pull a brocaded surcoat over his broad, muscled shoulders. Their eyes met, and Callian saw there no shred of awe at his station.

Come what may in the days to follow, there was some small freedom in that.