The Book of the Blessed

The imminent death of a king reawakens the strife between his children, but royal feuds encompass not only the welfare of a house, but an entire kingdom. From out of obscurity, the sorcerer Ash returns not only to aid the dying King Anthal, but to revive his bond to Prince Anson, while the elder son and daughter of Anthal, Cedd and Morgellyn, make alliance to seize power when their father is dead. Meanwhile, Myrne Herreboro, a lady of the North schooled in the magic of the South, sets out on her own journey, soon met by the roguish Wolf, and a young hustler called Pol finds affection with a crossdressing noble. The political matters of a kingdom begin to touch the legends of an ancient land and magic long forgotten.

Book One

How
a Dragon
Can Be
In Trouble

One

Westrial- the political entity roughly contiguous with what was once Locrys, made of the west-central and dominant part of what was, in ancient times, the Royan land of Ankar. Most historians date its beginnings from the time when the white skinned Ayl not only arrived, but when their chief, Eoga, married the Princess Syarr of the, by then, diminished House of Locrys, thus making them the first King and Queen of Westrial…

- A Youth’s Guide to Sussany, by Andi Lincoln

The Red District

“I should be going,” Austin said.

“When you go,” Anson turned around and planted his chin on his fist, “do make sure you close that curtain. The morning light is coming in, and I’m not really ready to see it just yet.”

This Austin was a strange boy, from a Zahem family, but partially Itzumi with their almond, catlike eyes and high cheekbones. Austin was intentionally girlish, bright eyes rimmed with black kohl, and now he slipped striped stockings over his calves before pulling on his bell bottomed and patterned dungarees. He had said he liked the odd piece of women’s apparel, and Anson had never experienced such a man before. As Anson watched, he felt the shifting in the bed that meant Pol was waking up. Anson did not need to know his old friend was lying on his side, the same expression as he, chin on fist, watching the boy dress with small amusement.

“If you should come back you know we’ll be here,” Pol said.

Anson turned around. Both he and Pol were, like many of the men of Westrial, golden brown, though Pol, being half Itzum, had the same almond eyes and high cheekbones, spiky dark hair as Austin.

“I’m sure we will be several places,” Anson said, looking at Pol. “But by tonight I certainly plan to be back here.”

Anson thought, and made sure to frequently tell, his friend and sometimes lover was gorgeous. Lean, bronze skinned, bronze haired with a diamond winking in each ear, Pol said, sitting up, “It really all depends on the time.”

“And other things,’ Anson intoned.

“Well, yes,” Pol said, climbing out of bed. “There are always other things.’

Pol was a man who, even naked, seemed clothed in confidence, muscle and swagger. He departed to the restroom not even bothering to close the door, and as he began to piss, Austin confessed, his green eyes on Anson, “Up until now I’ve only thought about doing things.”

“Thinking has its place.”

Anson sat up. He was broad chested, long and tall, his hair bronze colored and his eyes slate blue, almost grey. Squinting, he took a small wooden box out, and from it he pulled a cigarette. He offered it to Austin.

“I shouldn’t.”

“There are many things you shouldn’t do,” Anson said to the boy who stood before him white chest like a marble sculpture. Pol was coming out of the pissroom and now Austin took the cigarette and Anson lit it for him.

“So good,” Austin expelled smoke through his nose.

“My—” he stopped and said, “No one ever lets me smoke at home.”

“I was going to say,” Anson said, punching up pillows and lying on his back, smoking, “that thinking has its place. But in the end we must do.”

Pol, lay on his side. He seemed to always look perfect and proud and indestructible.

“Do you prefer the thinking or the doing?”

Anson had pulled the covers up around him and was smoking indifferently. But Pol, naked and bronze, well muscled, exuded sex and reminded Austin, so soon to go back to the drabness of his normal life, of the delights of last night.

Anson could just vaguely see Pol running his hand down his side, touching his own body erotically, and Austin’s eyes went a little vague, his mouth opening as he looked on Pol.

“I like the doing,” Austin said, his voice almost a ghost.

Pol reached over Anson and slipped his hands inside of the soft trousers Austin wore. Deftly he pulled them down.

“Then stop standing there talking about having to go home to whatever drab shit you’re going home to. Do.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see our little elf friend again?”

“You know elves don’t look anything like that.”

“You’ve got to stop saying things like that,” Pol said, “At least here.”

A wench came to their booth and she said, “A big breakfast for the big soldier, and an unnatural one for the man who never wakes up until nighttime.”

Pol saluted her wryly and murmured, “What is so unnatural about this?”

“Egg white omelet. Whey juice,” Anson murmured as he sprinkled salt and pepper over fried eggs, “perfectly normal.”

“You eat like that everyday,” Pol pointed to Anson’s trencher, “and you’ll…”

Anson looked at him.

“You’ll be fat as a house.”

“Not likely,” Anson noted as he poured a large load of cream into his coffee.

“And it isn’t like we will see our friend Austin again unless he comes tonight, to both of us. For coming to you alone he can’t afford it and coming to me alone… I don’t think I have the time.”

“Who was the last boy we took on?”

“That tailor. Odd kid.”

Anson stuck half an egg in his mouth, then rinsed it down with coffee.

“He kept ferrets,” Pol remembered. “Ah, but what nice thighs! Really. And such a well turned…”

“He had a face like a ferret,” Anson remembered, “and little tiny spectacles But when he was naked he was a god, and if we can’t talk about such things here, then we cannot talk about them anywhere in this city.”

Pol sat back, half singing his favorite song.

First was the mage
Who moved from age to age
And second was his hero strong

Third was the starry maid,
who lived in trees,
whose wood would never die

Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down!

On his side of the booth Pol said, “Do you go into the palace today?”

“Aye,” Anson said. “To wait on a dying father and put up with siblings. Someone has to keep order.”

“And not just any one.”

“No,” Anson shook his head. He looked very serious and then he said, “Whatever you end up doing… or whomever—”

“You are a funny man.”

“I am a realistic man. You must make your living my friend. But when you are done, come to me and meet an old friend?”

“A friend like Austin?”

Anson shook his head and laughed.

“No, no. A very different kind of a friend.”

When Pol looked at him frankly, waiting for an answer, Anson said:

“A mage.”

“A sorcerer? A true wizard or some fortuneteller?”

“No, no, A wizard.”

“How strange.”

“Not strange at all,” Anson said, “Not any stranger than our friendship, or how the two of us would help that boy.”

Pol took another bite of his omelet, and then, his tongue rolling around in his mouth, he thought before he said, “I had always…. There were some times when I was doing what I was doing when it wasn’t just money. It was fun. And then there were times when it was not just fun it was… more.”

“Like last night.”

“Exactly,” Pol said, his eyes lighting. “Or like the other times when you and I have been with someone together. Or like our first time for that matter.”

“I had just returned from the war. You were the first friend I met who wasn’t a soldier,” Anson said. “I didn’t know what you were, or rather what you did.”

“Nor I you.”

“When I realized it I didn’t know what to do… Pay wise, I mean. I thought, if I am taking you from a night of work.”

“But you knew I wanted to be with you. Surely.”

“And you said put your money away,” Anson remembered.

“And then two nights later you sent someone with money and pretended it wasn’t you, you fucker.”

Anson shrugged.

“I was so angry at first,” Pol saod. “But I knew your intentions were… knew you had class.”

“And so our friendship began.”

Pol nodded.

“And so our friendship began. And those times, those more than special times, it was… Is it blasphemous to say a sacrament?”

“It is a sacrament,” Anson insisted. “Why is it that the only time something seems real is in a long liturgy led by tiresome old priests? No, and the people who keep the old ways say that what we did last night was the greatest sacrament of them all.”