Flesh and Spirit

By Blue Sapphire

In a temple, in which men worship the gods with the bodies that were gifted to them, a dark god languishes, trapped, bound by magic. Hungering to be free again, to taste flesh and drink on blood, Vargo waits. He needs only time, and a key.

Enter Kirin, a man without a memory; a man who may not be just a man. Drawn to this temple by instinct, and perhaps something more, he is brought under the care and tutelage of a high priest. Under his watchful eye is where he will learn the skills necessary to survive battle with the dark god.

The lessons are arduous but there are rewards to be had in a temple where pleasure is the goal of the worshippers. Kirin finds there are many besides the high priest willing to teach him anything that he desires to learn.

But still, Vargo waits and he is not without followers himself.

A showdown is coming but who will win?

Flesh and spirit combine in Kirin but while one is willing is the other weak?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne C.
• Release date: Feb 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311102164

Blue Sapphire

Blue Sapphire is the pen name of English author, Yvonne Carsley. It is the name she uses when writing m/m erotic fiction.

Book preview

Flesh and Spirit

Blue Sapphire

Flesh and Spirit

e-book (Smashwords Edition)

Written by Blue Sapphire

Published by Yvonne Carsley

Copyright Blue Sapphire 2011. All rights reserved.

The rights of Blue Sapphire to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Warning: This work is not suitable reading material for the under eighteen’s and/or those who find descriptions of homosexual acts offensive.

This author advocates the practice of safe sex. Fictional characters do not require condoms; you, dear reader, do. Whatever your sexual preferences please practice them safely.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Get out of the way, you fool!

The voice was loud enough to wake him from the trance that’d had him in its grip for…how long now…a mile; a hundred miles? He didn’t know. He seemed to have been walking forever. His feet were sore, he knew that much.

He whirled at the sound of the shouted command and stared incomprehensively at the carriage bearing down on him. It was a huge affair, painted in shades of burgundy with a gold leaf design along its sides. The four horses pulling it were massive beasts with madly-rolling eyes and huge snorting noses. Their gazes fixed on him for a moment and it was as though they knew him. They planted their hooves and with expressions of determination twisting their foam-covered lips they screeched to a halt and came to a stop mere inches from him.

The driver, bundled up in his big brown coat and scarf glared down at him. His mouth moved as he prepared another blast of invective but the words would’ve been wasted if he’d managed to utter them as before he could form the first syllable the young man, who had come so perilously close to being crushed underfoot, swayed to the left and very slowly crumpled to the ground.

Well, the driver harrumphed, feeling rather cheated. There was nothing like a good rant to warm a body up in weather like this.

Jonas? Jonas, what is it? Why have we stopped?

The carriage window slid aside and a head immerged into the cold night air.

It’s a young man, sir, Jonas replied without turning. Walking in the road. Nearly got his fool self run down. He’s on the ground.

"I thought you said nearly got run down?"

I didn’t hit him, sir. He’s just sort of fainted.

"Nearly getting run down might do that to a body."

The carriage door opened and a man climbed out.

He was a tall man, not the tallest Jonas had ever seen but he carried himself with a bearing that made him seem taller than he was. He was wrapped up as warmly as Jonas, his body concealed beneath a thick fur-lined cloak; the hood pulled up to obscure his features and protect them from the biting chill. He wore gloves and warm boots.

He approached the fallen body, shivering in sympathy at its lack of warm clothing.

The young man and young he was (surely no more than twenty?) was dressed for much warmer climes. His thin shirt and trousers were no comfort in this icy weather. His boots hadn’t been designed for sturdiness. They’d certainly not been meant for long journeys and by the looks of them the man had walked far indeed. The soles were worn right down; the left one was loose and flapping like a rude tongue.

The tall man knelt down, heedless of the snow melting beneath his knee and soaking into his trousers. He wasn’t far from his destination and would change as soon as he was home. He placed a hand on the young man’s chest. It rose and fell steadily beneath his touch. The shirt was soaked but warm under his fingers. He touched the young man’s face. It too was warm. Not fevered he concluded. It was the warmth of overexertion rather than the warmth of sickness. He frowned as he looked the young man over.

He didn’t recognise him.

He was dark-haired, pale of flesh (though that was down to the cold) and he was slender; painfully so, he thought. Was he a slave? If so not a slave of a good house. An unhealthy slave was not a productive slave. Most owners knew well to look after their goods, keeping them fed, clothed and warm.

Whoever he was the young man could not be left here. He’d die in this frigid atmosphere.

The tall man chewed his lip.

By rights he should take him to the nearest hospital but he hesitated, uncertain as to why. Was it simply that he was cold and hungry, and wanted to get straight home and not spend the night answering tedious questions or was it something else; something more visceral?

The young man was very handsome. He liked looking at him. He would like to look on him a little longer.

And there was a mystery to be solved here. Who was this young man? Where had he come from? Why was he clothed so inadequately?

He enjoyed mystery. He would hardly have chosen the life he had if he didn’t but it was not just that though. He was a man of great instinct and his was telling him to pick this young man up and take him home. It told him that it was important that he do so.

So he did.

He gathered the young man up (he was very light) and carried him to the carriage.

Jonas raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. There were things he could have said, reasons he could have given as to why this was a bad idea but he held his tongue. The pay was too good and besides the man was a priest (a high priest no less) and priests rarely listened to reason. They couldn’t hear the common sense of the common man through all the chatter of their gods.

He waited for the carriage door to close and with a weary sigh snapped the reins and set the horses to walking again.

----

The Temple of the Brotherhood of the Flesh was nothing much to look at from the outside. It was built of grey stone; a big square building lacking ornamental columns and decorative fat cherubs. There were no gargoyles, angels or carved runes. There were windows spaced evenly along the walls; tall narrow windows through which a warm yellow light spilled and there was one large door fashioned from the hardest oak. There was a big brass knocker fixed in its centre and a sliding panel at head height.

The carriage stopped before the door and the priest climbed down and gathered his charge once again into his arms, leaving Jonas the task of announcing their presence.

The man hurried up to the door, banged three times with the knocker and stepped back to wait.

There was a moment of silence then a scraping noise. The sliding panel drew aside and a weathered face peered out.

Yes?

It’s me. Brother Haryon, the tall man uttered. Open up, Brother Silas. This is not the weather for standing about chatting.

What’s that you have there? Silas was unfazed by the cold. He’d lived long and seen worse winters.

A young man in need of assistance. Come on Silas, open up now, there’s a good chap.

Haryon could sense the old man’s disapproval. This was not how things were done in their order. It was dangerous bringing strangers into their temple. Haryon’s motives might be born of a need to offer aid but the young man was not one of theirs; he’d not understand their ways. But Silas had been a priest for almost as long as he’d been alive and his heart had overridden his head many times. Common sense told him to refuse entry but other senses very gently but firmly told him that the young man was in pain and in need of treatment. He huffed then drew back the beam that kept the unwanted on the correct side of the door.

Haryon thanked him with a nod and a smile as he swept on through.

Jonas hurried back to the carriage and made his way home. He shook his head as he sent the horses trotting through the streets.

It was a mistake, he fancied.

He himself had only been in the temple on three occasions and had seen glimpses of things that’d startled and worried him but being of surprisingly liberal mind had not caused him to refuse his services to the brotherhood though many others would’ve done so. He shook his head again. He might have a liberal mind but what of that young man? What would he think or say or do on waking up in that place? The temple might not be much to look at on the outside but inside was an entirely different story.

He shrugged beneath his coat. Oh well. It was not his concern. The young man was in the priest’s care and who knew…maybe when he woke up he’d just be so incredibly grateful to be alive that he wouldn’t care about the strange things going on around him. It’d be an education if nothing else. It would be a real eye opener.

Jonas chuckled. Oh yes, an eye opener indeed. His own eyes had opened so wide he was surprised that his eyeballs hadn’t fallen from their sockets. He chuckled again then stopped.

Not to worry, young lad, he muttered. The brotherhood might be a strange bunch but they’re not a bad lot.

There were some that would disagree but Jonas had seen enough of life to know that those who judged others so freely often lacked a little something in the morals department themselves.

He rode on, still wondering what the young man would make of things when he woke.

----

Haryon wondered the same thing but he shoved his doubts aside for the moment. Doubts were the whisperings of dark gods. He was a man of instinct and his had told him very clearly to help the young man and help him he would.

He swept down corridors and past rooms whose opulence would never have been guessed at by those looking up at the building from the street. The young man hung unmoving in his arms, his head resting against his shoulder. It was a surprisingly pleasant weight. Haryon glanced down briefly. The temple’s lights played fetchingly across the young man’s features, highlighting the curve of brow and cheek and the firm set of his jaw. Haryon knew without a doubt that were the young man to suddenly awake that his eyes would be blue, the darkest possible shade of blue, like burnt sapphires. Haryon’s gaze drifted down to the young man’s mouth.

It was a good mouth, a strong mouth. The lips were neither too thin nor too pouty. It was a perfect mouth, just right for…

Haryon squashed that thought. He’d brought the young man here in order to care for him not to take advantage of him.

He hurried on, the hem of his cloak sweeping the floor behind him.

He managed to reach his quarters without anyone seeing him. Not that he was trying to avoid being seen. That would be impossible. As soon as he entered the building his brothers would have known of his return. Silas would likely have sent word to Brother Raythe who was famed for his medicinal skills. Raythe moved swiftly. Haryon would have less than five minutes before he arrived and took over with his customary confidence.

He opened the door with his foot and darted inside. He uttered a word that set the candle flames flickering to life and moved to the bed. He lay the young man down gently, arranging his limbs so that he was comfortable and then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out.

He ran the tips of his fingers over the young man’s warm forehead, traced the line of his nose, cheekbones, eye sockets and ears. He saved the mouth for last, running the edge of his thumb across it. It was warm but dry. There was a chest of drawers on either side of the bed. Haryon reached out to the one closest. There was a silver platter upon it and a dozen small glass bottles upon that. He selected one, withdrew the stopper and inhaled. Urm, oil of orange. He inhaled again, loving the warm citrus scent. He poured a single drop onto the tip of his thumb and smeared it tenderly across the young man’s closed lips. Then he returned the bottle to its spot on the platter and reached out once more. This time placing his hand on the young man’s exposed neck.

He felt the big vein pulsing beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, counting the beats and then very carefully reached out, not with his hand but with his mind.

He sank down slowly into the younger man’s mind, feeling for hard spots (points of resistance), which would indicate areas where the young man would not wish him to go and the softer spots (areas with more give) where the young man might let him in if he could convince him to trust him.

He discovered no hard or soft spots. There were areas of colour instead. Black areas, where memories were concealed or protected (he couldn’t tell which) and red areas, indicators of pain, tiredness and fear.

Haryon hesitated. Should he push on, try to find the cause of the redness, remove the pain, or should he draw back? He might make things worse if he pushed on and went blundering in. He wanted to help though. There was so much redness here.

Let me, brother.

A hand squeezed Haryon’s shoulder and broke the connection. Raythe had arrived. How much had he seen or sensed? Haryon was suddenly ashamed though he didn’t know why. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Quite the contrary. And he was a high priest. He was Raythe’s superior so why then did he suddenly feel like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar?

He backed away as Raythe moved forward to minister to his patient. His! Haryon thought with a sudden and shocking flare of jealousy. Raythe would tend to him; make him better…be the one who he gave thanks to.

Haryon shook his head, frowning as he backed further away. By the gods, what was the matter with him? He’d trained for years to gain a better understanding of things. He should’ve left these feelings behind a long time ago. They had no place within the brotherhood.

He busied himself with meaningless tasks while Raythe got on with what he was doing. He removed his cloak and changed his damp garments behind a screen while listening to Raythe muttering and mumbling as he worked. He tried not to feel angry and when that didn’t work he tried to understand the anger. Understanding was the first step on the road to self-control.

By the gods!

Haryon poked his head around the screen. Raythe? What is it?

His feet. Look at them.

Haryon tightened the belt around his waist, cinching his robe closed, and moved to Raythe’s side to see what had caused him to exclaim so loudly.

The younger priest had removed his patient’s inadequate boots, tossing them into a corner (Haryon would have them burned and replace them with a decent pair) and had peeled his woollen socks away to reveal much abused flesh. The socks themselves were full of holes and damp with sweat and blood.

By the gods, Haryon whispered, forgetting his jealousy as he stared at the young man’s naked feet. How far have you walked, lad, and why?

The soles of the young man’s feet were torn and bloodied. Blisters had formed and popped, then scabbed over before being torn open again.

He must’ve been in agony. Why didn’t he stop to rest or tend to his wounds?

Raythe shook his head. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he was afraid to. He shook his head again.

You can repair them though?

Of course. I’ll clean them. Then I have some cream here that’ll help to soothe the pain but I’ll have to bandage his feet and he won’t be able to walk on them for a good few days at least. Raythe glanced sideways at Haryon. You’ll be keeping him here then?

Haryon nodded. It’s the right thing to do.

Raythe nodded and returned to his work.

I know I should’ve taken him to the hospital but the temple was closer.

Raythe nodded again and began wiping the young man’s left foot with a moist cloth.

I know there’ll be questions when he wakes and that I’ll have to explain who we are. He may not understand. He may be horrified, but my instincts said to bring him here.

Raythe nodded again, wringing out the cloth.

Perhaps I’m being a fool. Maybe I’m being influenced by dark gods but I don’t think so. I’d know if I was. I’m not a high priest for nothing, you know.

Raythe nodded again.

I’d know, Haryon reiterated firmly. I would.

I never said you wouldn’t. I never said anything in fact.

No, you didn’t. Why not? Why aren’t you telling me what a bad idea this is, how I’m being a fool, how this’ll only end badly for all of us?

Would you listen if I said any of these things? You are as you just said not a high priest for nothing. You are wiser than I.

Am I? Haryon glanced at the young man. I brought him here.

Because he was hurt. You were following your heart.

Perhaps I should’ve been following my head.

Perhaps. Raythe set to work with a sweet-smelling cream then began to bandage the foot he was working on. But he’s here now and you've taken it upon yourself to care for him. So do so and do so well.

Raythe worked on in silence until both feet were washed, slathered in cream and bandaged. Then he removed the rest of the young man’s clothing, wiped him down, removing a great deal of grime and examined him for other injuries, finding none but not liking how thin the young man was. He could count his ribs without feeling them though feel them he did to be sure they weren’t damaged.

Haryon watched him, listening attentively as Raythe completed his examination and instructed him on how best to care for his charge.

The dry lips and these white spots on his nails are indicative of a poor diet. When he wakes there must be plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables. Start him slowly on soup before proceeding to meat. He’s clearly not eaten a decent meal for months and will likely have a sensitive stomach. There must be plenty of fresh water and milk. You’ll have to remove his bandages every day and apply fresh ones until the sores are healed. When he wakes a nice warm bath would be welcomed. Make sure he washes his hair thoroughly. There may be lice.

Raythe examined the young man for signs of identification. His clothes told him nothing; generic garments, nothing special or distinctive about them. There were no brands on the young man’s body indicating ownership but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Some slavers did not mark their goods, knowing that many owners preferred their own brands and others didn’t want their goods marked in any way for it spoiled their looks. There were no injuries to wrists, ankles or neck that might indicate the use of chains, cuffs or collars. The young man’s ears were un-pierced as was his nose and he seemed too fair to belong to any of the eastern people’s. His dark hair hinted at a possible gypsy lineage but gypsies rarely travelled this far north and certainly not alone.

There was only one mark upon him that might prove useful in identifying him.

Raythe turned the young man over, tutting inwardly at the knobbly prominence of his spine. The lad wouldn’t leave the temple until he’d put on a good bit of weight. Far too skinny. He’d seen fatter babies.

Urm, he uttered. Here’s something interesting.

Both men stared at the intricate tattoo running from left to right across the young man’s shoulder blades. The pattern was of a length of trailing thorny vine with tiny flowers blossoming along its length. It was done in black ink and looked extraordinarily fresh as though having been applied only mere hours before. Tattooing was a gypsy custom. Someone might recognise the work.

I’ll send out word, Raythe said. Perhaps the young man has family looking for him.

Yes, perhaps. Haryon hoped not then maybe the young man could stay with them.

And do what, a small voice whispered within him, become a priest, an underling serving you? What makes you think he’ll even hear the call? When he wakes and discovers who you are, what you’re all about, he may run screaming from you.

Perhaps, Haryon whispered back. And perhaps not.

He nodded absentmindedly as Raythe finished and gathered up his things.

I leave him in your capable hands, the other man murmured, retreating from the room.

Thank you, Haryon uttered. Though who he was thanking and what he was thanking them for he was not sure.

CHAPTER TWO

He woke from sleep reluctantly. It was so peaceful where he was and as he came awake by degrees he was aware of pain in his body. He didn’t open his eyes until the last possible moment, hoping to fool his body into believing that it was still asleep. If it believed the lie it might become the truth. But there was a sound…or something…something that insisted he wake and open his eyes. His eyelids rolled up and his gaze fixed blearily on the ceiling. It was white with golden leaves painted upon it. His eyes swivelled down and around.

He was in a large bedchamber in a bed so comfortable that the idea of rising from it made him want to weep. But rise he did, almost against his will.

The covers fell away from his body. A dark-blue robe clothed him from neck to ankles. It was silky against his skin. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bandaged feet touched the floor and he whimpered but something propelled him onwards. He stood and staggered forward.

"Come. Come to me."

He heard the words clearly though there was no one in the room with him.

"Come. Come to me."

He couldn’t resist the words. They pulled at him like a rope. He opened the door, struggling with its weight then stepped out into the unfamiliar corridor, turned left and moved down it with a surety that he’d never felt even in his own home.

Home? He stopped and frowned.

"Come. Come to me."

He moved on, forgetting all but that voice. It compelled him. It commanded him. It would not be denied.

He turned left again then right; another right, then left. Then there was a long corridor, shrouded in gloom. The other corridors were lit by lanterns; this one wasn’t. He walked down it on feet that were growing warmer with each step. Red spots appeared, marring the pure whiteness of the bandages. He didn’t notice. He walked on, the spots getting larger.

At the end of the corridor was a door. It should’ve been locked but it wasn’t. A length of chain lay coiled on the ground. He stepped over it and pushed open the door, entering a large, seemingly empty, room. There were no windows here but there was light. There were lanterns all around the room and as he crossed the threshold they flickered into life.

Magic? he murmured sleepily.

"Yes," a voice replied. My magic. Come. Come to me.

He walked forward, afraid yet unable to stop. His eyes darted left and right, looking for the owner of the voice but there was no one here but he. As far as he could see.

It was a completely empty room. It was a big room; a sacred room.

He frowned, not knowing why he’d thought that but knowing it was true. This was a sacred room in a sacred building. This was a room for worship. It was big enough to contain a thousand worshippers so where then were the pews? Why was there no altar? Why was it so empty? At least so empty to the naked eye. There was something here. He sensed it.

"Come. Come to me."

He stopped.

There was something there, just ahead.

On the floor, carved into the very expensive-looking tiles, was a circle. It had a radius of ten feet and was very clearly marked out in white paint, and though there was no sign saying stay away, he nevertheless felt that he should. He took a step back.

"Ah, now then," the voice uttered soothingly. There’s no need for fear. I’ll not hurt you. Come. Come to me. Come closer. I just want to see you.

The voice was coming from the circle and just for a moment he thought he saw something; someone, a man. He frowned and stepped forward.

"That’s it. Come. Come to me. Let me see you."

He stopped again and backed away.

"Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. Come. Come to me."

He didn’t move.

"I can feel your pain," the voice uttered. Such pain. Such sadness. So tired. You’ve been walking for so long, walking so far. You’re so tired. Your poor feet. Wouldn’t you like to sit down, rest a while? Come. Come to me. Rest your head against my shoulder. Let me comfort you. Let me hold you. You’d like to be held, wouldn’t you? You miss being held. Strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you safe; gentle arms, warming you. You miss that, don’t you?

He swallowed and nodded. By the gods, yes, he missed it. He walked forward again, his arms held out.

The figure within the circle grew more distinct, gathering form as he neared. It was a man. He couldn’t see him clearly but he sensed arms rising up to greet him.

Father? Father, is that you? He began to cry.

"Yes, my son, it is I. Come. Come to me. Let me hold you. I’ve missed you, so very much."

Father. The tears were hot on his cheeks. Father!

NO!

He was snatched away from the circle. He was aware of the figure within it lunging towards him. He was aware of flailing claws, sharp teeth and a dismayed growling snarl, and then there were arms around him, holding him tight, pulling him away.

He staggered and slumped against a hard form. He was becoming acutely aware of his extremely sore feet. Strong arms held him upright, taking the weight off them. Hands darted up and down his body: touching, testing, examining.

Are you alright? Are you hurt? an anxious voice uttered in his ear.

My feet. They’re so…so…sore. He slumped tiredly against the stranger and was only vaguely aware of being lifted and carried away.

You can’t keep him from me forever, another voice uttered. I cannot be imprisoned forever. I will escape. I promise you. I swear it! I will have him!

----

Haryon placed the young man back in his bed and tended to his feet, stripping away the blood-spotted bandages and berating himself while doing so.

Idiot, he chastised himself. Leaving the young man alone like that. It was a foolish thing to do.

But he wasn’t to know that Vargo’s influence could reach this far.

He chewed his lip and berated himself again, knowing full well that Vargo’s power was not limited by physical distance. Vargo’s voice could be heard by all who had the Talent.

He stopped in the act of wiping the blood from his charge’s right foot and stared hard at him.

The Talent? Was it possible? There was no hard and fast rule regarding those likely to possess that ability. Haryon had never met anyone from beyond the mountains who had it but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone, and anyway he’d not yet discovered just where his patient hailed from. Who was to say he was from beyond the mountains? Just because Haryon didn’t recognise him it didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t from Goldhaven.

He’d not sensed the power within the young man on touching him earlier but the power often hid so that those who didn’t understand it would not discover it and be afraid. Haryon’s own Talent was concealed so well that he could pass even a moderately deep scan by the Watchers.

Haryon resumed his ministrations, knowing very well that to question what had happened would get him nowhere. Regardless of where the young man came from or who he was he had the Talent. He’d heard Vargo’s voice, felt his influence…been drawn to him.

Haryon paused again.

That was the most worrying aspect of this, that the young man had been drawn to the circle. He hadn’t the power to resist. No one had taught him how to use his abilities. He was a soldier armed with weapons that he didn’t know how to use. He might as well be defenceless. It was a state that had to be remedied; sooner rather than later.

He tended to the other foot, realising how right his instinct had been to have brought the young man within the temple. He was one of theirs after all. He had the Talent but lacked someone to teach him how to use it.

Haryon gently wound a fresh bandage around the foot, smiling softly to himself.

There were teachers aplenty within the temple. It just remained to be seen if the lad desired to learn.

He tied off the end of the bandage and covered his patient with the blanket, tucking the edges in so that no chill could creep beneath it. He resisted a strong urge to run his fingers through the young man’s hair and sat back in a chair by the bed. He watched his charge sleeping, noting the way his forehead creased in sleep; with fear? Was Vargo whispering to him in his dreams? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, reaching out questioningly with his mind’s power.

Vargo was still safely secured in his prison. He batted angrily against its invisible walls, raging with frustrated anger. He’d been so near to escaping!

Haryon shivered and not with cold.

Had the young man crossed the circle Vargo would’ve had him. He would’ve used him to flee. A key to unlock an unseen door was the use he’d have put him to. It’d happened once before.

Haryon swallowed.

He had been an adept then, a member of the brotherhood for two years. He’d still been a wide-eyed innocent (though only in certain matters), amazed at everything he’d seen and learned, still excited by the thrill of discovery. He’d been warned about Vargo. All students were warned about Vargo. He had been more sensible than most in that he’d been properly afraid. Others had not been so. Others had been proud and confident that they could handle themselves and any situation.

Three young novices had taken it into their heads to visit Vargo’s prison. Perhaps they’d thought to destroy him once and for all. Who knew what foolishness had overtaken them? Perhaps it had been Vargo himself, whispering in their thoughts, reeling them in. Whatever the reason they had approached him, performed some sort of ceremony meant to banish demons for all time and something had gone badly wrong.

Somehow one of the novices had been drawn inside the circle and Vargo had seized his moment. The young man had not survived the bonding. Vargo had drunk down his soul in thirsty gulps until there was not a drop left. The other novices had run screaming in terror to confess their actions to one of the high priests of that time, Kirrick (Haryon’s mentor).

Haryon remembered the terror that’d swept through the temple in the wake of Vargo’s escape. Novices shivering in their beds. Adepts huddled in corners, murmuring to one another. The lower priests had been pale but composed, at least to look at. The high priests locked themselves away, attending endless meetings that went on late into the night. Then finally a resolution was met.

Vargo was recaptured.

Haryon never really knew how. He remembered only that all thirteen of the high priests had been involved and that certain specifically chosen adepts had assisted them.

He’d watched through a crack in his door as they’d hurried silently by. They had appeared astonishingly calm. It was he who’d worried and fretted despite Kirrick’s insistence that everything was going to be okay.

The group had sequestered themselves within the room that’d once been a god’s sanctum but had become, due to his actions. Vargo’s gaol. The doors had been locked and for three days there had been no sight or sound of anything within that room.

Then Kirrick had announced that all was well, Vargo was once again within his prison and the students had breathed heartfelt sighs of relief.

Haryon had not felt relief. He’d been too worried by the strained look on Kirrick’s face. He hadn’t asked how Vargo’s recapture had come about. He’d been too afraid of the answer. Kirrick could be brutally honest at times and Haryon had learned even before joining the brotherhood that honesty could be painful. Years later when Kirrick attained the title of master and Haryon was elevated to high priest the old man had sat him down and told him that not everything that the brotherhood did was about beauty and passion. There was ugliness too and bloody sacrifice. He had not elucidated further and Haryon had not pressed him.

His only question had been regarding Vargo’s treatment.

Never show him mercy, Kirrick had answered. Never allow him even the merest taste of flesh. Flesh is the key to unlocking his prison and is also the only thing to get him back in if he should escape.

From that day on no one but the high priests were allowed inside Vargo’s cell and only in pairs or groups. No one was permitted to go in alone. The high priests were strong, well-trained, but not even they were completely immune to Vargo’s malign influence.

Haryon opened his eyes. Vargo was angry but his voice was quiet. He was not whispering in the young man’s dreams. For the moment anyway.

You must learn, Haryon murmured. I will teach you. He reached forward and trailed his fingers through the young man’s hair. I was right to bring you here, he uttered softly. It was destiny. I was right to listen to my instincts.

----

Within his prison Vargo smiled to himself. Destiny eh? We’ll see about that. You think I don’t have a destiny? You think it’s my fate to be forever trapped by someone as small as you? I don’t think so. I’ll show you. I’ll show you just what that boy was brought here to do. Flesh is the key to unlocking my prison. I will have that flesh and I will make damn good use of it. He chuckled. Oh yes, I know how to put flesh to its proper use. I remember well how to make it sing and how to make it scream.

CHAPTER THREE

He awoke to blinding sunlight streaming in through the windows. He turned his face away, allowing it to warm his cheek and stared, confused, at the man slumped in the chair by the bed.

He studied him intently, looking him up and down but there was no sense of recognition. He looked around the room. There was no recognition there either. He didn’t know this place, didn’t know how he’d come to be here. There was not much he did recall and it frightened him.

He shifted position in the bed and groaned. His body was a mass of aches and pains. He could barely lift his head from the pillow.

The man in the chair groaned and he froze, heart thumping in his chest. He stared at him but the man made no further sound.

He had to get out of here before…

Before what?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that he possessed an overwhelming urge to run, to get out…to get away.

He struggled with the blanket, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his bandaged feet on the floor. A dizzying sense of déjà vu swept over him and for a moment it seemed he was falling.

Because he was falling!

He toppled forward, his aching feet and trembling legs unable to support his weight, and fetched up in a crumpled heap on the carpet. It was a nice carpet, he noted. It was the colour of copper pennies and soft to the touch. He pressed his cheek against it, sighing at the softness. He remembered soft things: soft pillows beneath his head, soft blankets wrapped around his shoulders…soft towels patting him dry.

He also remembered hard things: hard, sharp needles against his back, hard yet kindly hands holding him down, the tip of a knife pressed to his throat…hard and not so kindly hands squeezing his arms.

He remembered feelings: loss, grief, fear…downright terror, but he couldn’t remember the reasons for them.

He pressed his cheek deeper into the carpet. It was the memories of softness he wanted not those other memories. He wanted to remember the pillows and the blankets and the towels. Why towels? He’d been wet. Why?

A bath; he remembered a bath: warm water, a copper bathtub…the smell of roses. There had been petals in the water, pink and red, shaped like hearts. He couldn’t remember where the bath was. Outdoors? Indoors? Tears slipped down his cheeks but he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to remember. Why could he not remember?

A bath, warm water, rose petals and…and…what else, something else.

A woman! A woman singing. Sparkle, sparkle, moonlight bright, lighting the way for her precious children. See her smile, smile only for you…sweet little boy beneath the stars.

He cried harder. He could hear the woman but not see her. He didn’t know her though he felt he should. Was she Mother? Try as he might he couldn’t remember mother or father, nor sister or brother.

Ah, now then, now then. Don’t cry. It’s alright.

He was lifted from the floor and placed back on the bed. He refused the blankets and sat up against the pillows, drawing his knees up to his chest.

He stared at the man from the chair, trying to bring his name to mind but there were no names in his mind.

Please, he whispered. Please. Who are you? Where am I? What am I doing here?

I am Brother Haryon. My carriage almost ran you down several nights ago. Don’t you remember? I brought you here because you needed medical attention. His gaze travelled down. How do they feel, your feet? Are you in much pain? I can give you something for it if you’d like.

Haryon? Haryon. I don’t recognise that name.

We’ve never met before.

I don’t know you?

Haryon shook his head.

He looked hard at the man, trying to work out if he was lying or not. I don’t know you? he uttered softly, almost to himself.

No.

Do you know me?

I do not.

You don’t know my name?

I don’t. Haryon frowned then suddenly understood. What is your name? he asked softly.

I…I.

You don’t know, do you?

I…I…I can’t remember. Please! Why can’t I remember?

He buried his head in his arms and tried not to cry but he was so very frightened and couldn’t for the life of him think why.

Then there were arms around him. They were hard not soft but they held him gently, protectively, and he settled gratefully into the embrace. He didn’t know this man but he felt comfortable in his presence. He felt safe.

He sighed inwardly at the idea of safety. He felt that he’d not been safe for some time but suddenly he felt alright. Even the pain in his body seemed lessened somehow. He rested his head on the man’s warm shoulder and sighed aloud.

There now, Haryon soothed. It’s alright. We’ll find out who you are. In the meantime we’ll call you…Kirin.

Kirin?

It’s the name one of the priests here at the temple used to go by. It means…beautiful one.

Haryon was glad the young man’s face was pressed against his shoulder. It meant he couldn’t see how red his own had become. By the gods, he’d not blushed since he was a lad and now his face was aflame! What was the matter with him and why give the lad that particular name? It was a name connected to so many memories. Too many perhaps?

Perhaps…perhaps you’d prefer a different name, he muttered.

I don’t know any other names. The young man yawned suddenly and snuggled tighter against him. I like Kirin, he mumbled tiredly. It’s nice. It’s a… he yawned again, safe name.

Haryon glanced down. The young man, Kirin (he was most assuredly Kirin now) was soundly asleep. He reached down to prise his arms from around his waist, meaning to tuck him back up in the bed, but Kirin moaned softly and tightened his hold.

Alright then. As you wish. Haryon stroked his back, frowning as he felt Kirin’s bones beneath his fingers. Raythe was right. He needed feeding up before anything else could be done with him.

He sat upright, his hand idly playing up and down Kirin’s spine, his eyes slipping closed as he pondered on what to do. Health and education were of paramount importance. Feed the lad up, ensure his wounds healed, put some muscle on this skinny body and then test him for the Talent. Identifying the lad and getting him back to his people…well, that was important of course but…

It was clear to Haryon that Kirin was unwanted. His tatty attire and frail appearance were indicators of a lack of care. He didn’t remember who he was; it was likely that no one recalled him in return.

Or perhaps you only hope that is the case, a soft voice whispered to him.

He could have fooled himself into believing that it was Vargo taunting him but it wasn’t. He knew the voice of his own conscience when he heard it.

I need no conscience in this matter, he whispered. I’m doing nothing wrong.

Are you certain of that? Sitting here with your arms around him, your fingers trailing so lightly across his form, giving him that name. It’s not just that name that holds so many memories. This room is stuffed with them. If these walls could speak might they not also tell a story of a frightened young man? Far from home, from all that he knew, banished because of his unnatural abilities. A young man who craved a little comfort in his loneliness. If this bed could talk what might it say?

Haryon breathed hard and resolutely refused to be drawn into an argument with himself. It was one he couldn’t hope to win. I’m doing nothing wrong, he uttered again.

Was he to push the lad away, foist him off on someone else? It was his carriage that’d almost run the lad down. It was he who’d made the decision to bring him within the temple’s walls. It was he who’d decided to care for him. He could not now change his mind just because some old feelings were stirring. And that was all they were, feelings. He wasn’t going to act on them. Unless…

No! He shoved that line of thought aside. Stick to the plan; tend to Kirin’s health and his education and after that…well, if anything occurred he’d deal with it as they went along.

Kirin shifted against him, causing him to hold his breath but the lad did not relax his grip. Haryon smiled and he sat long into the afternoon, unmoving, feeling Kirin dreaming against him. He turned his face away from the window so that when he woke again the light would not hurt his eyes.

He’d been correct. Kirin’s eyes had been the darkest shade of blue he’d ever seen.

----

It was late in the afternoon when Kirin awoke again.

For a brief moment he didn’t know where he was and there was a strange thudding in his ears. He realised with a start that it was the heartbeat of the man holding him. Haryon, he recalled. He’d said something about priests. Was he a priest? Kirin didn’t know if he’d ever met any priests before. What did they usually look like?

He glanced up.

Haryon’s eyes were closed but Kirin didn’t think that he was sleeping. He coughed lightly and Haryon looked down at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled.

Did you sleep well?

Kirin nodded.

Did you dream?

Kirin frowned. I don’t think so. I can’t remember. I’m not sure. Is it important?

Haryon smiled again. Kirin liked it when he did so. It made him feel warm inside. When he smiled Haryon’s hazel eyes lit up like a cat’s just before he was getting ready to pounce.

Kirin frowned again. Had he ever had a cat? He couldn’t remember one but he knew the way their eyes shone when they were excited or up to some mischief. He knew they were soft and warm and that they purred when happy.

Haryon was warm against him but did not purr. The thought made his cheeks glow. He coughed again. This time to cover a sudden embarrassment.

Is it important if I dreamt? he repeated, pulling away from the other man and affecting an interest in a loose thread hanging from his sleeve.

It was just a curiosity. You moaned occasionally. I wondered if you might be remembering things in your sleep.

No. Kirin shook his head. I don’t think so anyway. He turned a serious gaze on Haryon. Why can’t I remember anything?

I don’t know. Brother Raythe examined you thoroughly. Aside from the injuries to your feet, caused by you walking a heck of a distance and your obvious lack of nourishment there’s not a lot wrong with you. No broken bones or head injuries that he could discern. It’s possible you suffered head trauma so long ago that no trace of it could be found now but I’m more inclined to believe that your problem is less tangible.

Kirin frowned.

What I mean is that a lack of memory could be caused by other things besides physical injury. Illness, poison, a predisposition (something running in your family) or even an emotional or spiritual trauma.

Like fear?

Haryon nodded. A large enough fright can cause a man to forget not only that which frightened him but much of what came before the fright.

I remember feeling afraid but not knowing why. Kirin hugged his knees to his chest again and stared down at his bandaged feet. What was it that had scared him so badly he’d walked until they bled?

Then you’re in the best place to seek out healing.

Kirin glanced around the room. You said something about priests. Is this a house of worship then, a church?

It’s a temple.

Kirin’s eyes widened. A temple! He had a sudden vision of golden altars and rooms filled to bursting with incense. He heard drums beating and voices chanting loudly. He remembered the bathtub again. Warm water and rose petals shaped like hearts. He had a sudden flash. Men, serious-faced men, some with beards that dared you to mock their bushiness; others shaven faced but with strange markings on their faces. There had been an altar. Not of gold, something far more precious but he couldn’t remember what. An altar draped with a cloth. He ran a hand down the robe he wore. It had been the same silky feeling. An altar, a silk cloth, the clearing ringed by beech trees.

Beech trees?

Damn! The memory was fleeing.

Trees, an altar, serious-faced men, the woman smiling, her white hair spilling over her shoulders like a cascade of foaming water.

What woman? What was her name? It was…it was…

No! It was gone.

Trees, an altar, the men, a woman…then someone had lifted him. He remembered being lifted. Such giddiness! His belly had felt funny. He’d laughed and the white-haired woman had smiled brightly. She’d been so beautiful. He’d loved her. She wasn’t Mother but he loved her in much the same way.

He’d lain on the altar. Someone had turned him over. Hands had opened his robe, exposing his back to the warm summer-evening air. The woman had touched him, drawing complicated patterns on his back with the tip of her finger. It had tickled but he’d known not to laugh or squirm. This was serious business the men had said. The woman had smiled and said, yes, very serious, but there had been a twinkle in her beautifully exotic eyes.

Then the woman was gone. There were only the men left and there had been pain, the sharp needles piercing his flesh. He’d tried not to squirm or cry out but the pain had been so bright. There had been a strong hand upon his neck, holding him down. Not an unkind hand. And afterwards a voice had praised him, applauded him for his courage.

Then he’d been alone. At least all the men were gone.

The animals had come out then: foxes and wolves, badgers and hares, the skunk and the weasel. Birds had flown down from their nests; all the creeping and crawling things had come and sat before him. They had fixed their eyes on him and he fixed his upon them.

Then he’d been alone again. At least all the animals were gone.

Then something else had come out.

But there his memories ceased and he wasn’t entirely sure about the ones that had gone before. They seemed like dreams; someone else’s dreams.

He stared around then looked again to Haryon. A temple? Do you worship the gods then?

We worship life and in doing so honour the gods. At least those ones who love life. There are those who don’t.

Dark gods, gods of shade and shadow. Kirin shuddered.

Yes. Haryon stared at him. What do you know of shades and shadows?

Kirin shrugged. Just…just a feeling I guess.

Urm. Haryon looked thoughtful. You’re a man of instincts. That’ll serve you well.

Kirin smiled uncertainly. I wish I could remember. I’d rather have memories than instincts.

Things forgotten can be remembered if they need to be. The trick is to be ready when your memories return. You need to be strong to face some memories. I can make you strong. I’ve taught others. I can teach you. Do you wish to be taught?

Kirin nodded enthusiastically. Yes. Please, he added shyly.

Haryon smiled again and Kirin felt warmth moving through him like a wave.

First we’ll make you physically strong. You must eat and allow your feet to heal. When there’s not a sore upon your flesh I’ll put you in Brother Markus’s care. He’ll strengthen your body; I’ll take care of your mind. After Master Kirrick has tested you to see if you have the Talent.

Talent?

I believe you have it but we must be sure. If you do possess it you mustn’t be afraid. It’s not the curse that others claim it is. Haryon sighed. Nor is it properly speaking a blessing. It is as its name suggests a talent and nothing more. How you use it will determine whether it’s a curse or blessing. Haryon suddenly touched Kirin’s cheek. Use it wisely and well and it will be a boon to you. He smiled again. "I’ll have food brought to you and a bathtub. You will bathe and I’ll bring you clean clothes, and while you ready yourself I’ll send for my master. He may speak strangely to you. You may not understand many of his words but don’t fear nor doubt him. He’s kind and wise. Though don’t ask him to tell you absolute truths unless you feel