Summit for All Seasons

By Blayre Delecour

Three nations, on the brink of war—none of whom can afford one. Orexa cannot let the capture and torture of one of her citizens by Ruzian authorities go unchallenged, but with no standing army and only a tentative treaty with Vasque on the books, King Vizick is left with little recourse but to summon representatives from the sister nations and pray diplomacy will win out in the end.

But treachery snakes out from the woodwork before the Vasque delegation has even arrived at the Oresian fortress at Dunagrenn, and accusations fly fast in the direction of the Ruzian representatives. Will this meeting of nations succeed in averting a war—or merely start one?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blayre Delecour
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370139910

Blayre Delecour

Just a M/M fantasy enthusiast who, after being inspired by so many great stories and playing in others' sandboxes for ages, finally decided to add her own worlds and characters to the melting pot. She lives in a tiny high-rise in Tokyo with the world's cutest and fluffiest cat-shaped distraction.

Book preview

SUMMIT FOR ALL SEASONS

Blayre Delecour

Copyright © 2017 Blayre Delecour

All rights reserved.

Follow the author on Twitter: @blayredelecour

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This book is free-to-share but may not be redistributed through any means, print or electronic, for-profit without permission from the author.

To the next great adventure and everyone I’ll be sharing it with.

CHAPTER ONE

You’re sure you don’t want to go greet him yourself? pressed Everet’s steward, an older gentleman with sallow cheeks and thinning hair by the name of Marcos whom Alaric was quite certain Everet had only folded into his staff because he’d once worked a Navy vessel in the South Seas and was likely full of interesting tales. He was wringing his hands and glancing over his shoulder at the visitor Alaric had brought in tow on this particular trip to Berghdal. The last time I had you wait in the parlor, you’d think I’d asked Her Grace herself to await his pleasure—such a fit he threw!

Alaric frowned. The Ambassador ought to learn some patience. Marcos huffed fondly, shaking his head and muttering under his breath what Alaric suspected was something along the lines of from your lips to the Lady’s bent ear. And it’s quite all right—I’m best served keeping his guest company. I’d quickly find myself subject to one of those fits of his if he knew I’d left this one to twiddle his thumbs in his receiving room.

Marcos shrugged to himself, reaching both hands out to push through the double doors into Everet’s parlor. Early afternoon sun streamed through the tall paneled windows lining the eastern wall facing the sea’s endless horizon, with the remaining walls covered in portraits and tapestries and all manner of gaudy bric-a-brac beneath a sloping ceiling. The parlor was packed to the gills with loungers and sofas and high-backed quilted chairs—enough plush luxury to drown a grown man. I’ll let Lord Berghdal know straightaway that guests have arrived. In the meantime, please— Marcos waved them inside. Have a seat.

They could have taken ten seats apiece, admittedly, but Alaric merely tipped a nod. He gestured for his tag-along to pick a spot and make himself comfortable, then gravitated toward one of the windows, sweeping his gaze along the now-familiar stretch of beach. Watching the breakers crash foamy white against the beetling cliffs nearby, he found himself wishing none-too-wistfully that he were here less for business and more for pleasure.

Lord and Lady above, but he was growing maudlin in his indolence. He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and reminded himself he was here at the Veld Martiale’s behest—likely for reasons that would soon leave both he and ‘Lord Berghdal’ with no time for fantasies, acted upon or only imagined.

Movement in the courtyard caught his eye: a group of workers (carpenters, by the belts that hung at their hips), just finished with their lunch break and now back to the task of erecting as much of the grounds structures as they could before the first cold snap hit. If they could get roofs up on the skeletons still left to raise, they could work through to spring. Much of Berghdal was in a similar state: months now of what seemed like never-ending construction of some sort or another. The manse, at least, was largely finished, though there were still additions to be made to the eastern wing that wouldn’t likely see ground broken until planting season. Everet had raided the dyers’ district and furniture houses of the Capitole while the contractors had still been finalizing blueprints, buying out their stocks of anything and everything in Eizenthley colors. "The King will have ruined my Holdhelm with that dreadfully dull primary palette of the Crown’s, he’d mourned, ordering three bolts of a handsome nude brocade with gold-threaded paisley patterns worked into the weave that was now his master duvet. I’ve got to preserve the stately opulence I’m known for somehow."

And preserve it he had, stuffing Berghdal fit to bursting with cushions and throws and hangings and benches until one could hardly walk five paces without bumping into some item of decor. Granted, a great many of the decorations had been graciously donated as gifts by the Capitole’s well-to-do as word of impending border relaxations spread. Everyone and his brother was evidently eager to earn the favor of the first of hopefully many Oresian nobles that might be interested in trade—or ties of another sort.

There’d be a fair bit more breathing room once the additions to the manse were completed, with the glut of furnishings used to trim guest quarters and studies and salons. Until then, though, staff and visitors alike would be forced to watch their toes and suck in their guts as they struggled to navigate the cramped state of Berghdal Manor.

"That’s, ah—that’s called The Charge of Her Grace’s Men. Alaric broke the awkward silence, turning from the window to find Everet’s guest studying a painting taking up a good portion of the western wall. It was taller than Alaric himself and twice as long, depicting one of the more famous—or at least, more memorialized—skirmishes with the Hartsvåel. As Alaric’s own contingent was the subject, immortalized in oil and pigment and quite literally larger than life, he’d been mortified when Everet had bragged of the purchase, begging it be placed into storage or at least well out of sight where casual visitors familiar with Alaric’s accomplishments might not see it. Everet, though, would hear nothing of it, insisting he wanted his Dear’s gallant figure on display for all and sundry to see, and so it hung here in the front parlor, outlandish and shameless as its owner. Summer’s about the only time we could make any real headway in our campaigns, so we had a rather tight schedule for strategic maneuvering and… He trailed off, frowning, then sighed. …And you can’t understand a damned word I’m saying, can you?"

Ainsley shrugged, thick shoulders rising in apology, and went back to quietly admiring the trappings and politely ignoring Alaric. The carriage ride from the Capitole had been a quiet one, necessarily, and Alaric wondered if he seemed a terrible host for not having come further along in his Oresian language studies than simple greetings and stock phrases and faster, harder, yes, soon, now. One did pick up a few things when one heard them repeated on end, after all. The conversations he’d attempted, though, had quickly fallen apart between their poor command of each others’ tongue, and so they had by mutual agreement passed the bells on the road in awkward silence.

Muffled voices argued beyond the double doors—one Marcos’s, Alaric assumed, and the other unmistakably Everet’s exasperated whine, the huffy tone he tended to take when he was feeling particularly peevish and annoyed. Alaric offered silent apology to Marcos—alas, he didn’t seem to have escaped the piqued fit he’d been fearing.

The double doors flew open, and Everet’s dulcet tones filled the room as he strode in. "—don’t care what he told you, I’ve given you explicit instructions that the Commadont be presented to me promptly when—"

Stop haranguing the poor man. I asked him to bring you down.

"Oh, my Dear, Everet crooned, slipping around a loveseat blocking a proper embrace. You do try my patience. Sometimes I don’t know if I should kiss you or give you a good cross."

I’m sure we’ll get around to doing both eventually… Alaric returned, taking care to keep his voice low, though Marcos was nothing if not discreet and had already stationed himself outside the doors, his duty done. But before pleasure—business.

Business? Everet wrinkled his nose. Oh—yes, Marcos mentioned a visitor… Alaric stepped to the side, and Everet gave a sharp gasping cry of delight as his guest came into view. Ainsley! He darted forward, wrapping his manservant in a tight hug that was warmly returned with more emotion in Ainsley’s features than Alaric thought he’d ever seen. The pair practically danced in place before drawing back and diving right into a rapid-fire exchange of Oresian that left Alaric feeling only a tiny bit abandoned.

He awkwardly backed into a deep-cushioned couch and settled down, preparing for a good bell or more of being ignored as Everet caught up on what Alaric could only assume was the juiciest of gossip and tales of the goings-on atop Eizenthley Hold. Everet claimed he’d never left his country’s borders, so it was understandable he might feel a bit homesick and seek to abate it through conversation with an intimate friend who could fill in all of the gaps that time and distance were beginning to leave in the memory. Try though he might, Alaric couldn’t empathize—having spent much of his adult life on the trail, he’d long since lost the longing for home afflicting many an amateur traveler. His contributions to easing Everet’s occasional bouts of longing came instead in the form of distraction, and he felt he’d gotten quite good at it.

Everet tittered giddily, one hand covering his mouth as he shook his head in mirth, perhaps in response to some scandalous bit of news concerning—what had his name been? Leon? Lars? Ainsley ignored the interruption, droning on undisturbed, while Everet writhed in laughter beside him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Was it really that amusing a tale, Alaric wondered—or perhaps only an inside joke, funnier for the memories it brought than the content itself? Would Everet loop him in later? Or was it one of those you really had to be there things? He wasn’t a jokester by nature, but he could appreciate a good laugh now and then. Unless—his brows furrowed in concern at this thought—he was being excluded from the conversation for a reason. They could be discussing any number of things: the state and location of border garrisons, routes into and out of the Palaizon Tonne-Kolore, the readiness of Her Grace’s regiments, and Alaric wouldn’t have a clue. They could be—

Alaric wiped a hand over his face, sighing in irritation at himself. He was being ridiculous. True, he couldn’t claim to have learned all there was to know about Everet of Eizenthley inside of a few months—but he could recognize that these suspicions were largely sprung from jealousy, and jealousy and logic made foul bedmates.

Hadryan wouldn’t have let Everet learn anything of their country she didn’t care for him to, and even if he were at that very moment spilling every state secret he’d gleaned in his time as Vasque’s guest, their military forces outnumbered what remained of Orexa’s Crownswatch a hundred to one and more. Entertaining such thoughts was not only uncharitable, it was downright ridiculous.

He was at least relieved to note that he could recognize it as such—though that didn’t make such suspicions, or the jealousy that birthed them, any less called for. He’d had Everet to himself for months now, even while juggling his duties at The Academy. That he hadn’t sated himself yet of his capricious, infuriating Holdmaster was at once mortifying and befuddling.

And yet, he found himself wholly unapologetic. He knew he ought to feel ashamed at this entirely inappropriate and unfounded bout of jealousy, even in the privacy of his own mind—but he wasn’t. Certainly not enough to convince himself to do anything about it, other than to appease the sinister little voices whispering lies into his ear by taking his fill of Everet later once they’d managed themselves some privacy. He wondered idly how long Ainsley would be staying—and how far away his rooms would be from Everet’s chambers in the west wing.

Eventually they’d get around to the missive Ainsley had come bearing, having delivered one copy already to Hadryan in the Capitole and needing an escort to deliver its sister to the Oresian Ambassador—but that could take bells, if the sparkle in Everet’s eye and clip at which he spoke were anything to go by. Alaric hadn’t been made privy to its contents—these were state matters, after all, and he was playing at little more than liaison to the Oresian Ambassador these days, so it was not his place to pry. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dreadfully curious and wondering when the two might recall that they had a third in the room and get on with the matter at hand.

Perhaps sensing Alaric’s silent imploring for them to wrap up their reunion—or at least to spare lengthy conversations for later—Ainsley reached into his vest pocket and drew out an envelope much like the one he’d presented to Veld Martiale Hadryan on his arrival in the Capitole. He’d made quite a sight, escorted by a cuatre of border guards who’d met him at one of the crossings and seen him safely to the steps of the Palaizon after recognizing the sign of the Oresian crown stamped into the wax sealing the letters. Sending a servant with no political or diplomatic standing scurrying across the border to deliver a message seemed less than orthodox, but given that Vizick’s Vasque Ambassador—Alaric himself—was indisposed at the moment, perhaps Ainsley had been all the King could spare. Or all he trusted to send, in light of the events of the previous spring.

Everet took the envelope, mild concern knitting his brows, and broke the seal. He mouthed the letter to himself, and Alaric’s curiosity only grew when the contents dispelled Everet’s furrowed brow and instead left him looking rather bemused.

Fair news from your Hold? Alaric tested, praying he didn’t appear to be nosing into matters that were none of his concern. He didn’t much fancy being told to mind his own business in front of Ainsley, even if Ainsley couldn’t understand.

Everet donned a funny sort of smile. No, it’s—well, it’s an invitation. Or a summons, I suppose. I’m sure the Veld Martiale’s copy was phrased more elegantly; this one’s rather curt.

"An invitation? From Orexa?"

"From her King to be precise—seems he’s planning a summit, and he wishes Vasque to attend."

Oh. Well that was a matter to rejoice! Alaric allowed himself a hesitant, hopeful smile. Then—we’re to finally get on with these blasted talks, at last? Hammering out duties and outlining the flow of visa requests and whatnot?

Not quite… Everet fanned himself with the envelope as he ran his eyes over the text a third time. I don’t think it’s to be that sort of summit. He flashed Alaric the letter, though he couldn’t read a word, only recognizing the henscratch as Oresian. L’ruz will be in attendance as well; Vizick’s gathering the heads of nations to discuss— He cleared his throat and read: ‘Recent issues of concern affecting all three regional powers’, apparently.

Not that sort of summit, indeed. Alaric could well imagine what ‘issues of concern’ were being referenced. The details that filtered down from the Veld Martiale and her cabinet to the liaison to the Oresian Ambassador were sparse, but Everet had been briefed by his King promptly on conclusion of the whole affair and railed at length about the injustice of it all. Even for L’ruz, it seemed a cruelty beyond the pale: torturing a defenseless child merely for a chance (not even a promise!) at striking a lode of Starfell. Alaric could not have remained ignorant of the matter even if he’d wanted to.

Everet reached for a hand bell that hung from a carved stand on a side table, giving it a little shake. In an instant, Marcos was at his side, head inclined. See that Ainsley of Eizenthley has a room prepared—the one in the east wing overlooking the herb garden, I think? Then find a messenger to attend me in my study at seven bells—I’ll need a dispatch delivered to the Palaizon Tonne-Kolore with all haste. Marcos made no reply, simply clicked his heels and straightened, extending his arm to invite Ainsley to follow. Ainsley spared Everet a concerned glance, but Everet mumbled something at him fondly, sending him off with a shooing motion.

Once the double doors had closed behind them, Everet leapt to his feet and made a fist, giving a chirping whoop of joy, then snapped his hands out to grab Alaric by both wrists and tugged insistently. Come, help me pack!

"Help you—what? Pack?" Surely he didn’t mean to set out for the Capitole tonight. He hadn’t yet been invited to join Hadryan’s retinue—had the letter demanded his attendance? Everet was getting entirely too far ahead of himself, dazzled as he was wont to become by the prospect of a bit of excitement. "Where are you going?"

"Not me, my Dear—us! Everet released his hold on one wrist to beat back one of the double doors, shouldering their way through as he dragged Alaric towards the stairs with a mischievous glint in his eye. And isn’t it obvious? On an adventure!"

❖

With Ainsley safely tucked away in the eastern wing, both out of sight and earshot, Everet wasted no time in flinging open his closets to begin the arduous task of packing for a long overland journey, any warnings from Alaric to wait for directions from the Capitole falling on deaf ears.

Your Veld Martiale does not strike me as someone who likes to be kept waiting—especially at a foreigner’s pleasure. He held a dressing robe of crushed velvet in a rich plum at arm’s length, cocking his head and wrinkling his nose in consideration before tossing it aside. Evidently, it would not be welcome at the summit—though in Alaric’s opinion, it had no business at Berghdal, either. Plus I’ll need to poke my head into my Capitole offices to let them know I’ll be indisposed for a while. They’ll have to handle the invoices without me. He drew out a heavy fur and frowned. How long do you suppose this summit will last? Should I lean on furs and wools, or do you think there’s any chance this will drag into spring?

"Everet, she hasn’t even invited—"

A loud sigh cut Alaric’s protests short, and Everet tossed the fur over a rack. Did she read her copy first?

Alaric blinked, confused. Her copy…?

Hadryan. He nodded to the writing desk in the suite’s adjoining study, where the letter lay waiting for Everet to pen a response. Did she read the letter Vizick sent along with Ainsley for her eyes before asking you to escort him here with my copy?

Well—yes, I assume so.

Then she means for me to go along, else she wouldn’t have bothered, or would have sent Ainsley along with a letter from her own desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and thrust his chin out a bit defensively.

Alaric felt his cheeks heat but was keen to avoid a fight. "I didn’t mean to imply she wouldn’t want you along. Honestly, you’re the Oresian Ambassador; it’s all but expected you’d be in attendance."

"Then what in the Stars’ boundless names are you whining about with my packing? He gestured to the bench upon which Alaric was seated. Up now; I’ve some quilted coats in there I’d like to piece through while you sort yourself out."

I only mean, Alaric began, releasing a huff of irritation as he was shooed away, "that there’s a protocol to these sorts of things. You’re meant to prepare a letter of intent for the Veld Martiale—"

"Which you know well I will do—Stars, how did that end up in here?" Something sheer and skimpy went flying, tossed aside as Everet dug through his winter chest. Alaric sent up a prayer of thanks that little number wasn’t coming along.

"—and then wait to be invited. If you simply show up, unexpected and with no summons, you’ll put Her Grace in a difficult position. You’ll make it seem as if you’re meant to head this delegation and she’s to be along for the ride as part of your retinue."

Everet straightened, hair in disarray and eyes goggling. "You mean to say you’re pitching a fit over optics? He scoffed in disgust. What a waste of time, all this pomp and circumstance!"

Alaric frowned. You certainly didn’t seem to have any problems with it when you got to dress me up like a doll and flaunt me before the masses on Crown Hold.

"Yes, well, that was fun. This is business. Politics. I mean to do it right."

"Then do it right—don’t go haring off half-cocked. He reached for the blanket Everet had been about to set aside—a rather nice quilt job that ought to have been decorating one of the guest bedrooms and not stuffed into a chest where it was sure to become moth-eaten. Close the chest—shut up your wardrobe. Have dinner, write your letter. And wait."

Everet’s features screwed up, a bit petulant. …I wasn’t going to go off half-cocked.

Alaric raised a brow. No? Everet wasn’t exactly known for his carefully thought-out plans and, more often than not, tended to act rather impetuously. The sheer and skimpy something came to mind.

No, he said, lips stretching into a smile as he took two slow, deliberate steps forward. There’s nothing halfway about my cock at all. He reached out, hooking his fingers through Alaric’s belt loops to draw him close. What would I do without you to keep me grounded when the Fellfire goes to my head?

Continue acting like a child when your steward acts in your best interests instead of following your instructions to the letter, and we may find out.

"Oh my, is that a threat? He took a step backwards, fingers still curled into the loops at Alaric’s waist, and gave an inviting tug. Perhaps I’ll just keep you tied up here as my prisoner, then. Make sure you can’t escape. Alaric snorted inelegantly, covering his mouth and trying desperately to sober up when Everet gave him an irritated frown for it. You’re ruining the mood, my Dear."

Sorry, sorry—just, you know how silly I think… He cleared his throat and straightened. Erm, do with me…as you like, Ambassador? This sort of thing was far outside of Alaric’s range of comfort—but it always seemed to give Everet a little thrill. He liked playing roles and pretending at scenes when he was in a particularly amorous mood, and evidently Ainsley’s unexpected appearance had been just the thing to get him hot and bothered. He’d always had a bit of a voyeuristic streak, even when rooming at the Palaizon Tonne-Kolore, after all.

Everet just rolled his eyes and gave him a light shove across the chest, turning away in feigned disgust. No, the moment’s passed.

Alaric drew up behind him, squeezing his shoulders in apology. There’ll be time aplenty to pack your seven trunks’ worth of outfits once Her Grace has extended you a formal invitation to join her party. Patience is one of the highest virtues, as I hear it.

That sounds like Vasque rot, Everet sniffed, flopping down on the bed. His hair fanned out in a white spray across the plush duvet as he picked idly at the ticking. In Orexa, we seize the moment—take initiative. If there’s something we want, we make a grab for it.

Hm, well that does explain a few things concerning your seduction techniques. Alaric quickly ducked, dodging a throw pillow that had been aimed at his head. Now there’s a direct assault on the Vasque military if ever I saw one.

Everet lifted up onto his elbows, trying not to smile. Perhaps Vasque should practice this patience and restraint she seems renowned for, then.

Patience is for politicians, Alaric reminded, reaching for the buttons to his vest. And I am not one.

Everet had slipped off his boots as soon as they’d entered his chambers and was now stretching out a stockinged foot to rub against Alaric’s groin. Perhaps this isn’t the best time to remind you, then, that you’re technically an ambassador yourself.

In Orexa, maybe, Alaric allowed, shrugging off his vest and shirt and peeling out of his underthings. But not here. He caught Everet’s ankle, raising one brow. You’re getting ahead of yourself. You’ve still entirely too many clothes on, and you know how I feel about those complicated trappings of yours.

"And you know how I feel about making you sort through them—where’s that patience you were going on about only a moment ago?"

"And where’s that initiative you were going on about?"

"Oh, well if that’s how we’re to play. Everet shifted onto his knees and began the task of divesting himself of the waistcoat and vest and necktie and cuffs and what seemed like thirty other garments separating Alaric’s eyes and bare skin. He caught Alaric marveling at the skill and speed with which he undressed and crooked a smile. Would you like me to take it slower?"

Perhaps another time… Alaric muttered, and it wasn’t a lie—Everet could put on quite a show when he wanted. But Alaric had been shamefully looking forward to this from the moment he’d received his orders to see Ainsley delivered safely to Berghdal. He’d resigned himself to at least a good fortnight or longer before he’d be able to see Everet again after their most recent parting, so to be back in this bedroom inside of a week was a blessing from the Lady he wouldn’t soon question. "How is it you make stripping off old stockings so damned erotic?"

Practice, practice, practice, Everet crooned, crooking a finger as he slinked back on the bed. Alaric followed dutifully, covering Everet’s body with his own in one smooth motion as he slotted their lips together. Everet opened for him with a smile, bringing both arms to loop around his neck and draw him closer. His thighs came up to bracket Alaric’s hips, sending a rush of blood to Alaric’s cock at the innocent brush of a knee against his bare buttocks. He sucked in a sharp breath, and Everet pressed their foreheads together. Overeager much?

Much, Alaric confessed, letting his hips drop just enough to impress upon Everet the fact that he would not last very long this first round. It…was a long carriage ride. Quite bumpy.

The corners of Everet’s eyes crinkled with his grin. Did you miss me, Commadont? He darted a tongue out, licking Alaric’s lip before nibbling. How do you comfort yourself when you’re away from Berghdal? He arched up, drawing his cock alongside Alaric’s—and it was warm and sticky with new sweat already, the head easing past its sheath and glistening with anticipation. What thoughts push you over the edge in the dark of night, alone on your cot, when you must be quick and quiet about it?

"Do you really want to discuss my masturbatory habits right now, or would you rather not waste the bell or so we have until we need to start making ourselves respectable for dinner?"

Who says one must exclude the other? Everet kissed a path to his ear. Show me? A hand slipped between them, and Everet let his fingers ghost across the crown of Alaric’s swiftly filling cock to tease the ballocks hanging pendulous at the root.

Alaric released a shuddering whimper, a bolt of pleasure shooting down his shaft and tightening everything until he was wholly taut and stiff. …I fear it won’t be much of a ‘show’ at all.

My Dear, you could spill before I finish this sentence and I would lap it up. He quirked a brow. Quite literally.

And needing no further pressing, Alaric eased back, balancing tall on his knees as he gripped himself in a rather utilitarian manner and began working, eyes firmly shut in shame. He knew it pleased Everet, but such displays were still rather embarrassing for Alaric, and though it aroused him beyond his own credit to feel Everet’s gaze falling hot over his shoulders, chest, stomach, cock, he couldn’t bring himself to make a spectacle of the matter. That was Everet’s purview; if he wanted to see Alaric spill himself, then he’d have to be satisfied with quick, perfunctory strokes and the occasional swipe of a thumb over the tip to slick the way.

He was shortly interrupted in his ministrations, though, by Everet’s desperate whining, and he dared a peek—and nearly spurted then and there.

Everet’s legs were splayed fully, sitting at lovely right angles to his torso with his cock jutting straight up and leaking like a faucet, coating Everet’s fist and fingers in viscous slick as he worked himself. It was a rather enticing sight, and try as Alaric might not to gawk—it just wasn’t seemly—he couldn’t seem to keep himself from fixating on what he had to admit was one of the more impressive lengths he’d encountered. The ballocks and base were the same rich, dark bronze as most Oresians’ sun-baked skin, gradating smoothly to a creamy pink at the tip, which wept profusely. He’d wondered idly, before he’d been presented with proof, whether or not the hair carpeting Oresians’ nether-regions was the same flaxen white as on their heads—it wasn’t, alas, instead a dark gold so deep as to seem altogether absent against Everet’s skin until candlelight or sun streaming through a window glinted off it.

See something—you like, Commadont? Everet rasped, fingers tight around his shaft as he gave a meaningful tug, arching into his own grip. You’ve faltered.

He hadn’t faltered, he wanted to protest; he was just taking his time. You’re distracting me; it’s rude, Ambassador.

Everet’s smile curled at the edges, lips parting to reveal teeth. That makes two of us… He then bit his lip, brows furrowing and breath hitching—and when his strokes came quicker and less practiced, a desperation behind them, Alaric knew he’d brought himself close. Alaric…

Lord, but the sound of his name on those swollen, lascivious lips was enough to undo a man. Alaric fell forward, supporting himself with one hand and using the other to get himself off. Everet was beyond caring about the show, having given himself over to tactile pleasure wholly, so Alaric could finally do the same. He snapped his hips in sharp, punching thrusts into his fist, a crude mimicry of the good proper fucking Everet owed him after this. If he’d wanted to rut into his own hand, he’d have stayed back in the Capitole. Out here at Berghdal, though, behind the handsome reichwood doors with their ostentatious pulls and ornate carvings marking the entrance to Everet’s master suite, he liked to lay with Everet and Everet alone. The trouble was, Everet knew that and did this sort of thing purely to tease. Such a chore, this little weasel was.

The Hold ring swayed back and forth from the chain at his neck, a pendulum ticking in time to Alaric’s increasingly frenetic thrusts, and he shut his eyes tight as he felt himself crest with a shout, buttocks clenching and cock twitching in release. When he opened his eyes again, blinking away the stars flashing in his vision, he saw he’d painted Everet’s heaving chest with the pearly strings of his spend, though Everet was too caught up in finding his own climax to care.

He leaned down, capturing Everet’s mouth in a firm, guiding kiss and reaching between them to bat Everet’s trembling hand away from his cock. Once he’d formed a nice, tight channel, he gave a suggestive tug and waited for Everet to offer a thrust in response. Another few such passes, and Everet seemed to have the hang of Alaric’s intent, rocking up desperately into Alaric’s fist. He was breathing open-mouthed against Alaric’s lips, every exhalation laced with a gasping moan or keening whine.

Everet was impossibly beautiful like this, all slick and sweat and the thick, hot miasma of mingled bodies radiating warmth that coalesced and took on almost physical form. Alaric had never had a steady lover for more than perhaps a few weeks on the trail, taking care not to get too attached lest a skirmish part them early or rumors part them late—but he was well and truly entwined every which way possible with the Oresian Ambassador. Misgivings concerning the wisdom of this course lingered—sometimes creeping into Alaric’s thoughts as nightmares involving his Veld Martiale asking him to compromise himself—but for all his worries, he still found himself here at every opportunity, back in Everet’s bedroom, tucked snugly between Everet’s legs and with Everet’s spend coating his fingers.

He tightened his fist on the upstroke and buried his face in the crook of Everet’s neck, tonguing the pulse point and laying down marks he knew wouldn’t show through the dark complexion but liked delivering all the same. Like a secret hiding just under the world’s nose. Let Ainsley have his idle chats with his former master—Alaric had Everet in all the moments when words were wholly unnecessary.

A shudder rippled down Everet’s spine, and his hips snapped upward with a sharp cry as Alaric felt the cock in his grip heat and swell before Everet’s release bubbled out and dribbled over Alaric’s fingers in a slow, viscous slide. Perhaps purely on instinct, Everet continued to thrust weakly until Alaric gently guided him back down flat on the bed, taking care not to get any of their leavings on the duvet, which they’d learned was an absolute horror to have cleaned. They’d need to strip the bed down to the topsheet before continuing their play, having tempted fate enough already as it was.

Everet’s chest rose and fell with less labor now, easing to a more moderate pace as they drifted down from their respective highs into a light drowse. Alaric was already on the tail end of refraction, but it would take Everet a bit before he was in any fit state to consider another round, so he made himself comfortable while they recovered, sliding down alongside Everet with one hand propped up beneath his head as he fought the abrupt wave of fatigue bearing down upon him. If he napped now, they’d waste the entire afternoon, and he meant to get that lay in before they rejoined Ainsley for dinner.

Perhaps sensing his intentions, Everet brought a hand around, boneless in its lack of coordination, to pat Alaric sweetly on the cheek. I can read you like a book, my Dear.

Mm, and what does my book say?

It’s all bawdy poems, not fit for the eyes of gentlemen. He cracked one eye open, leering at Alaric with a sideways smile. We were only parted a week; I shudder to think how I might have fared had you only returned after a fortnight as planned.

Alaric gave a gruff, knowing chuckle. Then you’d best prepare yourself once you’re back from this summit, Ambassador—for that will part us a sight longer than a week or two.

This seemed enough to have Everet easing up onto his elbows, staring down at Alaric with a perplexed frown. …Why would you say that? I told you—I mean to bring you with me.

And indeed, he had mentioned something along the lines of ‘us’, but Alaric had hoped their earlier discussion concerning protocol and propriety might have hinted that Everet’s and Alaric’s stations were worlds apart here in Vasque and that no invitation to Alaric would be forthcoming. Clearly, such hopes were unfounded. "And as I told you: you stray too far from the bounds of formality with such insistence. You’re the Oresian Ambassador, but the Veld Martiale has the first and final say in who joins her retinue. He softened his words with a wry smile. She sent me to your country to sort through treaty law when she thought she might not get a second chance; now that it’s being delivered to her on an argentine platter, she’ll have no need of me."

The Stars take any need she may have of you, Everet huffed, flopping back down and reaching over to trace the dips and rises of Alaric’s muscles in a distracted fashion. "I have a need of you."

Alaric released a short bark of laughter. "You can’t satisfy that need yourself for a month or so?"

"Not that need. Alaric raised a brow, dubious, and Everet quickly amended with poorly feigned chagrin, …Not just that need. It’s only… He sighed, lips pinched into a troubled line. I trust you. Mayhaps I shouldn’t, but I hold your opinion on matters in rather high regard. Your Veld Martiale sent us a man she knew could cut to the quick of a tangled matter and sort it out smoothly without needing his hand held the whole way through. You’ve value my Dear—I wish you’d learn to see it."

Alaric shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to such flattery, idle though he knew it not to be. He tried to deflect. Whether I see it or not, this summit of yours isn’t my place.

"It’s just your place—Hadryan will need someone who’s met with Oresian politicians before, who’s dealt with them and dined with them."

"She’ll have you for all that."

And you trust me to be completely honest with her? Even at cost to my own liege? His eyes flashed in challenge. "Do you think I would trust you, were our situations reversed?"

Lord, but there was a pretty trap if ever Alaric had seen one. She’s got enough advisors to fill a twelve-top should it come to that. He held firm. She won’t ask me along.

Then I’ll ask you.

You— This argument was getting circuitous and threatening what had been stacking up to be a refreshing afternoon. "Everet, you can’t—"

"Regardless of whether or not I can, I shall. He shifted upright, leaning across Alaric’s chest to loom over him. It was admittedly more than a bit arousing when Everet held his ground like this and brooked no argument, and the spend drying on his stomach was helping matters none, but Alaric silently ordered his cock to keep its quarters until they’d concluded this discussion. This isn’t to be a picnic, you know. I’m not going for a holiday in the hinterlands."

…Of course I know.

"Then you know I don’t want you along with me for fun and fancy. I want you along to help me be the best Ambassador I can be. As I said: I trust you. I trust your read of a situation, the counsel you give. I trust that you’re too upstanding and straight-hearted by half to knowingly steer me wrong."

Now that didn’t add up. "You just told me you wouldn’t trust me to speak true to you at cost to my Veld Martiale."

No, Everet smiled. "I simply asked if you thought I’d not trust you."

Little weasel… Alaric muttered, and Everet reached out with one hand to caress his cheek, stroking a thumb over the edge of a cheekbone.

I told you I want to do this right. Not to bungle it. He swallowed. Come with me, Alaric?

And having forgotten somewhere along the way how to tell Everet well and truly No after such an impassioned plea, he gave in with a noncommittal grunt, refusing to give Everet the pleasure of hearing him voice what was likely a foregone capitulation.

Everet clearly didn’t need it, though, for his smile stretched into a proper grin, and his brows rose. "It’s settled, then. Perhaps we’d best continue this in your suite, now."

Alaric grabbed his wrists to hold him in place lest he get any ideas about rifling through the grand wardrobes Everet had ordered built into Alaric’s rooms despite the fact that every fine thing he owned and then some couldn’t fill it halfway. You promised you’d await word from Hadryan before packing.

"Yes, but that’s just for me—this is for you, my Dear. At Alaric’s hard stare, though, he relented with a sigh. Fine, fine. Have it your way."

Just the words I like to hear.

Hmm, haven’t been getting it your way often enough as is? Everet leaned further forward, hair falling around their faces in a white wall as he hovered over Alaric’s lips. We’ll need to rectify that.

Indeed… And before Everet could get started on restitution, Alaric reminded, But first—maybe roll back the duvet?

Oh—ugh, right, right. Everet pulled back, rolling awkwardly off the massive bed and hopping onto the floor to make his way to the washstand. Take care you don’t get any of your leavings on the material.

"Ho now, this is your leavings too, you know."

They gave themselves a cursory scrubbing, not bothering to run a proper bath just yet since they’d need one again in short order. Marcos was probably already heating buckets, knowing well they’d be in want of a soak once they finished in Everet’s rooms. Alaric had been mortified by the man’s sharp attentiveness those first few weeks, but by now he’d learned to appreciate his forethought—and discretion. As unabashed in his affections as Everet was, it was likely thanks entirely to Marcos that