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Jemel sits back and lets Gelen move his robes aside, pushing them up so all of the fabric is now bunched at his waist and little of his skin is left uncovered.

This part he has never grown used to as he has grown used to the strap. He tries to will his cock to resist, but he cannot. He always fails this part.

As Gelen strokes him, fingers cool and dry, he thinks of Xan holding his chin.

“State your sin to me,” Gelen says, moving his hand on Jemel’s cock.

“Lust,” Jemel says brokenly. “Lust for a man. The Plumian envoy.”

Gelen nods. His movements continue. Jemel feels sick to the deepest part of his belly as Gelen works a spend from him, making him gasp in shame as it splatters up onto his shaking belly.

Gelen wipes his hand on Jemel’s robes and walks over to a corner where a gold bowl of water sits atop a carved cabinet. He washes his hands as Jemel collects himself.

When Gelen turns around, Jemel is standing, fully robed, waiting for dismissal with his head bowed.

Gelen crosses the room to face Jemel. He extends a hand and lifts Jemel’s chin so Jemel’s eyes meet Gelen’s own through the gauze of the veil.

“Do not disappoint me, Jemel, you know I love you as a father does.” Gelen’s hand shifts. He lifts Jemel’s veil with cool fingers and kisses Jemel on the forehead. “You are lucky to have me watching over you. Zai, hold your heart.”

“Zai hold your heart,” Jemel replies.

15

XAN

Two nights have passed since Xan visited Jemel in his chambers. He is impatient. But he knows he can do no more to help Trysta until Jemel takes him to the secret passageways.

Atticul has sent him no more whores, although he did take him to watch a display by the Imperial Army, or some part of it, marching in grand formation across a wide square on the banks of the Gleam. Xan was unsure if this was simple pageantry or a quiet threat.

Afterwards they retired to one of the Rose Palace’s seemingly endless number of gilded halls to eat over-rich, under-spiced food. Jemel had appeared then, not sitting at the table but standing behind his chair, moving a little stiffly as he murmured the Plumian words while Atticul gave a long speech about the glories of the empire and its mighty army, readying to march on the Amber Forest after the coming ascension. Atticul was no longer in his mourning blacks, wearing a fine tailored jacket in dark red, embroidered all over with golden stars.

Xan finds the whole thing tedious. Atticul does not engage with him one to one. Perhaps his intention is to leave him to his agonies while he ponders Atticul’s offer of Trysta’s and Pluma’s freedom for Jemel’s ruin.

As the speech ends, Jemel lays a light hand on Xan’s bare shoulder, right on the bare skin where his sleeveless jerkin ends, and whispers, “Tonight.”

Xan makes his way to Jemel’s room as soon as the long drawn out feasting is done. It had been dull, and far duller after the priest had left when the speeches were over. He had found himself thinking of that touch on his bare shoulder. Almost as if he could still feel the light press of Jemel’s fingers. He can feel it there all evening. Had that been deliberate? Had the priest purposely chosen to touch him there? On his skin and not his clothing? As he eats sweet cakes and drinks spicewine he finds himself thinking of the moment he had touched his priest, alone in his chambers. Of his chin, though his veil, fabric light as air.

When he enters the chamber, Xan notices the scent of healing salve in the air. He remembers something else from the feast. The way the priest had stood and moved stiffly.

“You are hurt,” he says, as he enters Jemel’s mean chamber, in lieu of any greeting.

Jemel stands from his desk. Even with the veil, something in the angle of his head betrays a tiredness. He is preoccupied with something. No doubt this mission to discover the killer of his foster mother. “No, it’s nothing.”

But Xan is unsatisfied with this. He approaches the desk and the anger in his voice surprises even him, when he says, “Who hurt you, priest?”

Jemel pauses, Xan thinks he hears him swallow softly. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

Xan makes a scoffing noise. He had spent the feast thinking sweet thoughts about this priest. He had forgotten quite how infuriating he was in reality. “You promised to tell me your truth in return for my reading of your letter.”

“Yes. And I did as you asked.”

“You told me nothing.”

“You claimed yourself satisfied.”

“Still,” Xan says, stepping a little closer to the desk the priest stands behind. “Do you think the bargain I struck was only for that one piece of truth?”

The priest lifts his chin. “Yes I do.”