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He moves his hand between his legs and lower, under his body. He draws up his knees and touches his hole, realising with a sickened feeling that in his dream Xan had done this, Xan had touched him here.

He has barely known this man a day and a half and already he has awakened lustful thoughts. Lustful thoughts of a man who declared himself sly before Emperor Atticul. In the Sarelik Temple. That must be the reason. Such a brazen display has corrupted him, no doubt just as Xan hoped it would.

So he should not succumb.

He should not do this. He should be free. Free of sin.

But another part of his mind answers that there are no sins, not truly. Zai is no God. The Book of the Rules was written by men. He knows this. He does. And yet…

The shame of sin has always made the act of defiling himself sweeter. Holding his breath, he lifts a hand to his mouth, sucks on one finger, then spreads his legs and slides it into himself. He gasps as the sensation of his own breaching rolls through him, making him slide his knees up so he can open his thighs wider and press in deep.

No man has ever touched him in this secret place but himself. But now, as he slides his finger in and out of his hole, he imagines it is Xan’s finger, inside him, breaching him, causing him to sin.

He brings the back of his hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the smooth skin there. He’s never been kissed either. Not on his mouth. Not the way lovers kiss. It is hard to imagine. Another mouth pressed to his.

He slides a second finger alongside the first. He rubs the spot that gives him the most pleasure, gasping in the rough sheets of his tiny bed.

Xan’s fingers are bigger than his. Far bigger, perhaps just one would provide this much pleasure. And his cock. His cock would…

Guilt overwhelms him. Such sweet guilt. He loves this feeling. The conflict rolling inside him arouses him like nothing else. No pleasure so sweet as that which is forbidden.

But no, not now, not after a dream of the Plumian. What if Xan could tell somehow, the next time he saw Jemel, what he had inspired. Jemel could not bear it.

The thought is sour enough that he stops his ministrations with a jolt. Almost whining as he takes his hands from his own body. Instead of pleasure he chooses duty. This must be washed from him. He gets up, performs his rite and walks from his silent chamber in the acolytes wing of the Sarelik Temple to the chamber of the Immurite.

The temple halls are very quiet. His sandals make no sound on the floors of brushed grey stone. Candles glitter in wall sconces and braziers are lit, fighting weakly against the cold. Thin daylight spills from high windows. Jemel walks slowly with his head bowed under his veil. He takes small steps. His skin feels prickly against the rough fabric of his day robe. He passes other acolytes, Brides of Zai and visitors who hold the white stone behind their backs. He wonders if they can sense the sin on his skin.

He walks through the shrines of the twelve Sidu to reach the inner temple, bowing at the altar of each one, paying respects to them as a prophet of Zai, until he arrives at the thirteenth chamber, the most holy place in the temple.

As he always does when he has broken to shame, he kneels before the small hatch in the Immurite’s cell and waits for it to open. When it does he hears the soft familiar voice saying, “Jemel, I thank you for your diligent work in my service. Are you here for my counsel?”

“Yes,” Jemel says, “I wish to confess a sin.”

“The Immurite is always here for such things. Zai, hold your heart.”

“I have had lustful thoughts about a man. And dreams. I woke this morning from a dream where he took me.”

There is a short pause before the Immurite says, “Have you acted upon these desires?”

Jemel shakes his head as he says, “No. Unless my dreams count as actions.”

He hears the Immurite laugh softly. A strange sound. “I do not believe so. These desires are a sin, but a sin that can be washed away. Do not fear, Jemel. Dreams are not actions in the eyes of Zai.”

It is sweet to hear it. The idea that he can indulge in these thoughts, confess them and have the sin of it washed from him has always been a comfort. Easier somehow than the idea that there is no Zai, that there are no rules.

Jemel bows his head to feel the blessing. “Thank you, holy Immurite of Zai,” he says.

“Is there anything further?” The Immurite says after a short silence.

“I have been spending my time on Doroth Zain’s work. I mean Doroth’s work. The translations he charged me to complete.”

Apart from Doroth, the Immurite is the only person Jemel can speak to about this. He can tell the Immurite anything. Nothing spoken in this chamber is ever told to another soul. He bares every truth to her and he is glad to do so.

“We have spoken of this before. If Doroth has given this work to you it is right you should complete it.”

“Doroth Zain is far away and he will not be returning to Attar now he has been made High Priest of the North. He has not contacted me at all since he left. And now, the weather such as it is, I doubt I will hear any more from him for some time.”

“Then continue with the duties he left in your care,” The Immurite says smoothly.