Cross Purposes: Chronicles of Ylandre, #5

By Eressë Belley

With love, the line between happiness and heartache is all too easy to cross.

 

One of Ylandre's most prominent nobles, Keosqe Deilen may have had it all in terms of wealth, power, and social rank. But in matters of the heart, he was impoverished. Such was the consequence of falling in unrequited love. Though he hides that love and his sorrow well, a few inevitably see through his masquerade.

 

Young Tristen Marante is quick to discern Keosqe's pain. His blunt sympathy is a balm to Keosqe's wounded heart as much as his beauty is an effective distraction from the noble's hopeless yearning. But Tristen is a skittish would-be lover, whose reluctance to express his affection is as much an impediment as the lack of reciprocation from Keosqe's first love had been. Whereas Keosqe seeks intimacy, Tristen shies from it, suspicious of the motives behind his pursuit and unwilling to yield his heart so easily or soon.

 

With such different perspectives toward lust and love, is it any wonder their path to a common goal is strewn with stumbling blocks and paved with false impressions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eressë Belley
• Release date: Aug 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223814283

Eressë Belley

Since her college days, Eressë enjoyed writing historical fantasy. Most stories turned into M/M romances because the male leads had more chemistry with each other than the females. This penchant later became the wellspring of her series Chronicles of Ylandre. Eressë lives in Southeast Asia with her husband, three sons, and one beloved Shi Tzu. She also likes to cook and bake and is a professed chocoholic. But her first love is and always will be writing stories. 

Book preview

Author’s Note

To assist the reader in understanding Ylandrin culture, language, and government, glossaries of frequently used terms, locations, and characters have been placed at the end of the book.

Prologue

Solace

Nivare, Sidona in the 2994th year of the Common Age

One of the obligations Keosqe Deilen disliked carrying out as the heir of a Herun was standing in for his sire at vigils for the dead. Unfortunately, it was expected of an Ylandrin fief-lord or his duly authorized representative to attend such occasions if the deceased Deir was a ranking blueblood under said fief-lord’s rule. Thus, every once in a while, Keosqe would travel from Rikara, Ylandre’s capital and seat of government, to his home fief of Sidona and extend his family’s condolences to bereaved kith and kin.

The dislike turned to loathing when the deceased was someone he knew. Such was the case with the late Tyrel Marante and his spouse Jaron. Worse, Keosqe had not only known the baron and his consort, he counted their eldest son as his dearest childhood friend. Now Veare Marante was thein in his sire’s place, guardian to his only brother and custodian of the family fortune. What was left of it.

Tyrel had been a devotee of the gaming tables and, as a result, lost monies and properties needed to maintain the family’s standing. While not reduced to poverty, the Marantes had been forced to scale down their way of living. They had moved to a modest residence in a town west of the Sidonan capital of Nivare and retained but a fraction of their domestic staff.

The town was prosperous enough to boast a number of minor gentry and well-off merchants. But it could not compare to Nivare either in appearance and sophistication or in the presence of families of high lineage. The Marantes upon their removal to their new home had become the town’s first representatives of the aristocracy. However, due to their reduced circumstances, they had perforce purchased a house little bigger than the town’s richest resident, a mere trader.

How humbling it must have been to move to this nondescript residence from one of the largest and loveliest houses in Nivare, Keosqe thought. To forego the esteem of fellow bluebloods was an even greater blow. And all on account of Tyrel’s gaming habit.

The fall from society’s grace further revealed itself in the somewhat worn furnishings of the family home, the less than sumptuous cold buffet laid out for mourners, and the paucity of highborn Nivarens come to console the Marante sons. Most of the visitors thus far were the Marantes’ fellow townsfolk. It being only the second day of the customary ten-day vigil, perhaps more aristocrats would arrive before week’s end.

He knew Veare spread word of his presence, a potent incentive for many of the fief’s prominent citizens to pay their respects. But it took at least three days for letters and goods to reach the capital from this little known town. He only learned of the tragedy through the faster but costly delivery of letters by courier bird. And in any case, not all bluebloods possessed the ability to travel by translocation.

Keosqe turned his attention from the faded draperies and scuffed carpets to Veare. The new thein was standing before the caskets, conversing with guests. But where was his brother? Looking around, he spotted the lad huddled on one of the corner divans. He made his way to the divan and sat down beside Tristen Marante.

On the brink of adolescence, Tristen was slender of build and small in stature. And while his features were similar to Veare’s, he did not have his older brother’s coloring. Tristen’s tawny skin came from their swarthy Arvaldin birthing father whereas Veare shared their sire’s fair complexion. On the other hand, Veare bore Jaron’s sandy locks while Tristen inherited Tyrel’s dark hair. If they both did not have the dark green eyes of their Marante forebears, they would not be taken for close kin, much less brothers.

He laid a hand on the grieving youth’s shoulder and rubbed it soothingly. Tristen averted his face, hiding his tear-streaked cheeks.

There’s no shame in grieving over a great loss, Keosqe murmured.

Tristen gulped a few times then shuddered in an obvious effort to control his weeping. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and turned to look with red-rimmed eyes at Keosqe.

It was just a short ride, he whispered.

But conditions were ripe for an accident, Keosqe quietly replied.

The hillside road had been badly gutted by heavy rains. Indeed, once the left front wheel of the Marante carriage splintered upon dropping into an exceptionally deep rut, there had been no hope of keeping the coach from sliding over the edge of the road. Miraculously, the hardy steeds that had drawn the vehicle survived when their old harnesses had come apart in the fall, as had the coach driver, who’d been flung from his seat. But the Marantes had been battered to death inside the coach as it tumbled down, rolling over several times before coming to rest at the bottom of the incline.

Tristen closed his eyes. "If only Aba hadn’t insisted on going. He knew the road would be damaged by the rains. But he didn’t want to miss that stupid wedding."

Keosqe grimaced. That was the most lamentable part of the story. The Marantes had been on their way to the nuptial ceremony of a friend’s son. The most prominent aristocrats of Sidona had been invited to the affair. To be counted as one of them by his attendance would have helped polish the baron’s tarnished reputation. So the couple made their ill-fated journey, tragically unaware that due to the foul weather the wedding had been postponed to a later date.

It is a terrible pity, he agreed. Would that we could foresee disaster before it strikes.

The lad seemed to think about it before he shook his head. "It’s Aba’s ill judgment and reckless gaming that killed them. If he hadn’t gambled away his fortune, we would still reside in Nivare and there would have been no need to travel such a treacherous route in the first place."

Bitterness underlined Tristen’s words and his eyes darkened with anger for a moment before giving way to sorrow once more. Keosqe regarded him with compassion and not a little sadness at the youth’s painfully earned insight. But before he could respond, Veare hurried up.

Kes, may I ask a favor of you? he asked without preamble.

Anything.

There isn’t enough drink to go around. Would you be kind enough to send your people into town and fetch more wine and ale from the vintner?

Keosqe scanned the room. There were indeed more visitors than usual.

Of course.

And would you mind if I presented you to our guests? It would do me and Tristen a world of good if they saw we still have friends in high places.

Keosqe felt rather than saw Tristen cringe beside him. Truth be told, he did not enjoy being used for aggrandizement either. But he did not voice his distaste and acquiesced to Veare’s request with as good grace as he could muster.

When Veare left to welcome another group of newcomers, he turned to take his leave of Tristen. The youth was frowning with displeasure.

What is it? Keosqe asked.

Tristen huffed. "He’s been asking you to do all sorts of things since you arrived, Keosqe-dyhar, he muttered. And using his connection to you that way— It isn’t right. He shook his head. I’ve just realized how inconsiderate he can be with you and how much he takes you for granted. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, since you allow it. What I don’t understand is why you let him treat you so."

Tristen’s frown had deepened into a scowl as he listed his brother’s failings. Keosqe could not help feeling grateful to the youth for being indignant on his behalf.

It’s a habit, he said.

A very bad one, Tristen pointed out.

Keosqe’s mouth tightened. You’re likely right, he murmured. Across the room, Veare motioned to him to join him and he rose to his feet. Before he walked away, he smiled at Tristen.

"Thank you, Tris-min," he said, his use of the diminutive term expressing his gratitude to the lad as well as his familiarity with him.

Tristen looked at him in puzzlement. For what?

For caring enough.

Keosqe fondly ruffled Tristen’s hair, chuckling softly when the latter protested. He left Tristen and joined Veare.

I think you comforted him well, Veare said, indicating his brother.

On the contrary, it was he who consoled me, Keosqe averred.

I beg your pardon?

Nay, it’s nothing.

Veare stared, obviously baffled. But he quickly seemed to forget about it and proceeded to introduce Keosqe to a number of Deira, all eager to ingratiate themselves with the heir apparent of Sidona’s ruling lord.

Keosqe stifled an impatient sigh. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter One

Reacquaintance

Rikara, in the 3004th year of the Common Age

The afternoon was waning by the time Tristen Marante returned from the State University in Rikara’s north district. He had applied for admission to the venerable institution’s medical college and it had taken nearly the whole day to complete the paperwork. He would have to return for a number of interviews before they would consider placing him on the waiting list. After that, if he did get listed, he would bide a few months before learning if he’d been accepted or refused entrance.

In the meantime, he would use his gap year to hone his inborn skills by assisting the town healer back home. However, if the University accepted his application, he would enroll at once, even if it meant beginning his courses in the second term. The sooner he got started, the sooner he would complete his studies, become an earning physician and cease to be Veare’s dependent.

Veare did not resent his reliance on him, but he had an unfortunate habit of harping constantly on the hardships of being his brother’s guardian and provider. Tristen loved Veare but, oh, how he yearned for the day when he could stand on his own two feet and not be beholden to anyone for his sustenance.

He hailed a public carriage and clambered on board. There were only two other passengers, a father and his child. Tristen took care not to stare at them though the adult piqued his fascination.

The Deir was slender and somewhat rounded of shoulders and there was a delicacy to his features and manner that had naught to do with weakness or refinement but rather effeminacy, an extremely rare trait in the world of Aisen. Verily, he bore all the characteristics of a throwback to the past, when the Naere, the Deira’s forebears, first came to Aisen and shared it for a while with its indigenous people. The gelra had once walked the very streets of Rikara, male and female alike, before they were assimilated by the Naere and ceased to exist as a race apart.

The Inception as it was now called was that period of engineered racial evolution wherein the Naere sought to adapt themselves to the world to which they had fled amidst the death throes of their ancient home. They systematically mated with the gelra, or rather with the males of that now vanished race. For the dual-gendered Naere had no need or liking for the female of the species being themselves capable of conceiving progeny, as well as begetting them on one another.

This selectivity resulted in their evolution into a stronger, more resilient people while retaining the Naere’s longevity and ability to withstand physical hardship. It also ensured that they remained androgynes, though they slowly lost almost all traces of the softer lines and facial features that had heretofore distinguished the Naere from the gelra males. However, it heralded the death knell of the gelra as a race and especially the extinction of female-kind.

Ylandre saw the passing of its last female almost two millennia ago. None now existed in any of the five continents of Aisen. But ever so often, a Deir would be born bearing the hallmarks of the Naere and the female gelra of old.

Born with a healer’s instinct and curiosity, Tristen could not help being intrigued by this deviation from the usual. He surreptitiously studied the pair as the carriage rumbled its way down the main avenue of the capital, his would-be physician’s mind tidily tucking away every detail for future retrieval. He wondered if the child would grow up to be like the parent who had sired him or his birthing father.

Tristen could not think of the Deir before him as being other than a childbearer. It simply boggled his mind to imagine otherwise. In any case, he came away from the experience all the more certain he was meant for the healing profession.

At length, he disembarked and trudged down the narrow street to the inn where he and Veare were staying for the duration of their fortnight in the capital city. They chose the inn because it was reasonably priced and situated in the east district, rather than the seedy south. The other reason was Keosqe Deilen’s current absence from the city. Had the Sidonan noble been in town, Tristen did not doubt Veare would have asked him to let them stay at his townhome.

He did not tell his brother so, but he’d been relieved to learn Keosqe was away. He was uncomfortable with Veare’s sense of entitlement when it came to asking anything of Keosqe. And there was also the matter of his aversion to being in debt to anyone. Keosqe was Veare’s good friend, but Tristen could not banish the fear that the Deilen heir might one day decide enough was enough and demand recompense for all he’d done for the Marantes.

He reached the inn and, crossing the small front foyer, hastened up the narrow stairs to the second floor of the three-story building. He walked the length of the corridor to the room he shared with Veare. The rear chambers were slightly larger and had wider beds and more spacious closets.

It was a fairly comfortable inn and the owner kept everything spic and span. But like many old establishments, plumbing was primitive. There were three rudimentary bathing rooms on the ground floor. Water was brought in daily from the public spigots outside. There was also no indoor commode, only an outhouse in back of the building. However the owner did provide washbasins and chamber pots in every room.

Which is more than we could have expected had we stayed in the south district, Tristen concluded.

Nearing the room, he noticed the door was not completely closed. That meant Veare had not latched it. Tristen shook his head over his brother’s carelessness. He pushed the door open and strode in.

I’m back, Ve— He stopped and gaped.

Veare was seated on his bed, a book in hand, and by his side, his head on Veare’s lap and one arm draped across his legs, was Keosqe Deilen. Clad only in a jerkin, close fitting shirt and long breeches, he hardly looked the part of a young lord and even less a cousin to the Ardan Rohyr Essendri, Ylandre’s sovereign.

Tristen spotted a pair of fine leather boots on the floor beside Veare’s shoes, while a costly tunic had been flung across his bed. He closed the door without taking his eyes off his brother and their unexpected visitor, who appeared to be fast asleep.

I thought he was away? he blurted, looking from Keosqe to Veare.

He just arrived, Veare replied. Indeed, he came straight here from his house when the staff informed him we passed by.

I reprimanded them for turning you away.

Tristen started when Keosqe raised his head to look at him. He regarded the noble with some irritation.

Why did you do that? he tartly asked. They were only doing their duty.

But they know Veare is a very dear friend and that he always stays at the house whenever he’s in Rikara, Keosqe said.

He sat up and swung his long legs off the bed.

Well, that’s just fine when you’re in residence, Tristen pointed out. "Otherwise... I’m sorry, Keosqe-dyhar, but I don’t think it proper to impose on an absentee host."

Keosqe gazed at him from under slightly lowered lids. For some reason, the searching look brought on a rush of heat into Tristen’s cheeks. He wondered how red his face was and scowled at being made to blush.

It’s never an imposition if it’s Veare, Keosqe said at length, standing up. Or you. Tristen wondered if he was an afterthought and bristled a little at the idea. I do understand your discomfort, Tris. However you should set your reservations aside when it’s I you’re dealing with.

He suddenly grinned. The sight had a surprising effect on Tristen. The noble had always been a prime example of physical attractiveness, but Tristen did not remember being blindsided by his beauty before. He groaned inwardly as he felt his face turn hot once more.

He’s grown some since I last saw him, Keosqe remarked to Veare as the latter also got to his feet. And filled out, too. But he’s still not as tall or well-built as you. It’s rather hard to believe you’re brothers.

Tristen scowled. I know I’m not as comely as Veare, but you don’t have to be so rude to say it in front of me! he huffed.

Who said you aren’t? Keosqe asked.

That startled Tristen into momentary speechlessness. Um, I’ve heard people say so, he muttered.

They must be very poor of sight then.

Veare beamed. There, see? I told you not to pay them any mind. Surely Kes is a better judge of beauty than those fools.

Tristen rolled his eyes. Oh, he was sure Keosqe was a veritable connoisseur if one were to believe Veare’s tales of his conquests. Then again, with looks like his, Tristen doubted Keosqe would have trouble luring any Deir he desired into his lair. Who could possibly resist his compelling violet eyes, silky pale-gold hair, sensuous mouth and swoon-worthy body?

That last train of thought filled him with horror. What in Aisen was he doing dwelling on Keosqe’s attractions? He cast around for something to distract him from such disturbing ideas and the images they conjured.

"Why are you here, Dyhar?" he abruptly asked.

Tris! Veare said reproachfully.

But Keosqe replied, I came to invite you both to stay at my house.

And I accepted, Veare added.

There’s no need for that, Tristen protested. We aren’t staying long.

I insist, Keosqe firmly said. "This is no place for a thein and his family."

"He’s right, Tris-min, Veare concurred. Come, pack your belongings as quickly as you can. Let’s not keep Kes waiting."

Realizing there was no gainsaying either Deir, Tristen reluctantly acquiesced.

When he once visited the Deilen townhouse several years before, Tristen had pondered the absurdity of calling so large a structure thusly. True, it was only about a fifth of the size of the Deilen mansion back in Sidona, but that was not surprising given the Sidonan property sat on a huge estate the size of a hamlet. However, the townhouse was considerably bigger than the Marantes’ original home in Nivare and that had been a substantial dwelling.

Really, a fourteen-bedroom, six-parlor residence was no mere townhouse, especially when half of those bedrooms were suites, complete with sitting rooms and built-in bathing chambers, two of the parlors served as function rooms for small parties and the main reception hall was so capacious it almost took up one wing of the building.

Many of the lots in the north district were large, allowing Rikara’s affluent residents to build three-or even four-story homes with expansive gardens and spacious stables in back and enough room below the stairs and occasionally up in the attics for the virtual armies of servants needed to maintain such dwellings. Such was the lot of the moneyed of the land.

Yet despite childhood memories of wealth and high social standing, Tristen did not feel comfortable in such settings. Perhaps he’d been too young to acquire a taste for luxury when the Marantes forfeited or sold their baronial properties, let go of most of their servants, and moved to a smaller house away from Nivare. Veare, on the other hand, had found it difficult to adjust to a modest lifestyle.

Looking across the dining table at his brother, Tristen noted how easily Veare fell back into his role as a privileged Deir. He accepted the servants’ attention as his due and spoke to them with the authority of one born to the blood. Come to think of it, Veare had been quite affronted when, upon their initial visit to the Deilen abode, none of the staff asked them to stay. Now there was a touch of righteous condescension in his manner toward them, as if in retaliation for ignoring him previously.

Tristen glanced at Keosqe, wondering if their host felt unease over his friend’s behavior. But Keosqe was going through his correspondence and paid Veare’s actions no mind. Tristen sighed with some exasperation. Small wonder Veare behaved thusly in his presence. Keosqe was much too lenient with him in his opinion.

However, he did not turn his nose up at the sumptuous breakfast served their first morning in residence. His mouth watered as he eyed the slices of honey-glazed ham, roehart sausages, poached eggs, sautéed vegetable mélange and fried bread piled high on his plate. On a platter before him were fresh-from-the-oven scones, slices of farmer’s cheese, a bowl of whipped butter and a jar of roseberry preserves. And to wash it all down, a mug of steaming milk tea.

If there was one luxury he would never refuse it was good food. Many starved from want of a slice of stale bread. Who was he to turn down a meal, however extravagant? He happily tucked into his breakfast.

Conversation picked up once the food was served. Tristen took only a small part in it. Much of the talk dwelt on things the other two had done together and meant little to him. However, he became interested when they spoke of current events in the kingdom.

Keosqe was not only cousin to Rohyr Essendri, he was also head of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. At fifty years, he was one of the youngest Ministers ever, thanks to Rohyr’s preference for government officials close in age to himself. Before Rohyr’s reign, Ministry heads had tended toward the middle years and Deira younger than eight decades were rarely considered if at all. Thus Keosqe’s appointment was more exception than rule. And because of that appointment, he was abreast of the latest news and gossip in the kingdom.

The more he heard of the constant jockeying for power, wealth and position among the Citadel courtiers and the aristocrats and other prominent Deira across the land, the greater Tristen’s disenchantment.

What a waste of time and effort, he thought. And for what? At best, to be shunned by society or humiliatingly pitied by one’s peers because of a blunder. But at worst, prison or the gallows for those who crossed the line into chicanery born of greed and ambition-spurred treason.

He listened with some incredulity when Keosqe recounted the discovery and incarceration of an embezzler in one of the Ministries, a Deir of old name, good blood and supposed unblemished repute. Tristen grimaced when he heard the reason for the Deir’s misappropriations.

Secretly impoverished by too much time spent at the gaming tables, he’d been using the stolen funds to bribe higher placed officials into appointing certain acquaintances to promising positions in government. Naturally, said acquaintances had conveyed their gratitude in coin and he’d steadily and quite rapidly been replenishing his coffers.

That revelation led in turn to the fall from grace of the aforementioned officials who were now being investigated and would probably face stiff sentences as well. Their reasons for taking such a risk? Greed, plain and simple. And they’d been arrogant enough to assume they were so well-connected they would be untouchable even were their unsavory practices brought to light.

Tristen grimaced. I’ll never understand the appeal of politics, he muttered.

Keosqe chuckled. You sound just like my cousin Eiren. If he can help it, he avoids setting foot inside the Citadel save to carry out his duties as Rohyr’s personal physician or for family gatherings.

Mention of Eiren Sarvan, Ylandre’s foremost healer, was enough to keep Tristen’s attention for the rest of the meal. He listened avidly as Keosqe recounted the physician’s latest activities as well as more news of court. However, he noted the noble’s caution in dispensing news. He was forthcoming about generally known issues but reticent when it came to speculations about politically sensitive matters.

So, Tris, when will you know if you’ve been accepted? Keosqe asked as he finished his tea.

I have to go through a series of interviews first, Tristen answered. Only then will they decide if they can add me to the waitlist of candidates for the medical course.

I see. Well, you can have them send me the letter of notification. I can get it to you much faster than they.

"Why thank you, Keosqe-dyhar."

Just ‘Kes,’ please. And drop the honorific.

Tristen balked. What? Nay, I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be meet. You’re of higher station and besides I’m much younger than you.

Surely not that much younger, Keosqe good-humoredly chided. "Use tyar then if it will make you feel more comfortable. He glanced at Veare. By the way, how long do you plan to stay in Rikara?"

Another week or so.

Only? Why not finish the season here? A Rikaran autumn is not to be missed.

I know. But my intended wouldn’t appreciate it if I missed my own nuptials.

Keosqe had just downed the last of his tea. Tristen noted how his hand trembled when he replaced the mug on the table. The noble turned shocked eyes on Veare.

Your nuptials? he sharply said.

Next month. I sent you an invitation last spring. Didn’t you read my letter?

Nay, there was no letter. Or if you sent one, it didn’t reach me.

Where did you send it? Tristen asked his brother.

Veare looked at him, startled. Here. I think.

You think? Tristen shook his head. Are you sure you sent one at all?

Fie on you, Tris! Veare huffed. You saw me when I wrote it.

But I didn’t see you actually send it, Tristen pointed out. If I recall correctly, you were going to have it posted the next morning. Did you?

There was an awkward pause. Veare looked sheepishly at Keosqe. I’m sorry, Kes. It seems I forgot, he admitted. That explains why you didn’t reply.

And you never wondered why he didn’t, Tristen muttered.

Veare did not