To Redeem His People

Jehanadir, The Prince

When the Men of the Boar and the companions reached the gates of the Narib citadel, a guard detail approached them. They looked competent, dressed in light chainmail coats with crimson surcoats, and carrying spears, shields and short swords. Arne, Geraint, and Bertholf Rune-Master stood before them.

The Captain questioned them. “What is your business here?”

Bertholf spoke, “We are the Men of the Boar, from the far North. This is Arne, our war leader. I am Bertholf Rune-Master. We are accompanied by the Warrior Geraint, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, a Bard, and the Guardian named Nijal Silver-Hand. We come for the Spring Ritual of Divination, and we bring one of our own Diviners to see Jehanadir the Prince or his representative.

“There are too many of you to be admitted into the Citadel. But if you pledge your peaceful intent, your men may stay at our garrison outside the walls.” The Captain studied the group before him. Then he noticed Nijal, who stood further back. “Silver-Hand! You are known to us. We have received word that you might come. But of these assembled warriors, can you swear to their peaceful intent?”

Nijal laughed, “No! It is not on me, a battle-surgeon, to pledge for the behaviour of these men. But we have travelled with them, and so far, they have behaved honourably, and I have no complaint.”

The Captain beckoned several of his men, then spoke to Arne. “If you will wait with my men, I shall send mounted soldiers out to you to lead you to the garrison. It will not be too long. The rest of you, accompany us now, and we will guide you to the tower. Lead your horses and follow me.”

Bertholf and Arne spoke private words and clasped each other’s arms in farewell. “They have seen our strength,” said Arne. “We will endeavour to behave peaceably enough. Mayhap we can win good gelt off their soldiers in our dice games. But you, Rune-Master, do not sell our slave cheap. He has proved his worth. Bring us back wealth.” With that, the men parted company.

The day was getting late when Brynnan and his friends settled into their accommodations in the tower, waiting for an audience with Kambiz, Prince Jehanadir’s Seneschal, who oversaw the running of the Citadel. Bertholf and Dronnadh lodged together, but Brynnan shared a chamber with Geraint and Nijal. The shadow-dog, Ghost, was allowed to be with them as Brynnan’s companion dog, although the servants guiding them were uneasy.

Brynnan bathed and dressed formally in his black, bardic robe, ornamented with silver at the collar and embroidered with black-on-black silk designs. His father’s golden torc hung heavy at his throat. He trimmed his beard close to his face and combed his hair that flowed to just below his shoulders but left it unbound. Lightweight boots of soft black doeskin clad his feet up to his knees, matching the silver-buckled leather wrist braces, fur-lined to keep his wrists warm when playing his harp.

When the summons came, Brynnan was instructed to bring his harp. They reached a richly appointed audience chamber that was light-filled from numerous south-facing windows. Large pots with many green and flourishing plants decorated the room. The Seneschal, Kambiz, sat on a low dais facing his guests. Servants brought wine in silver cups.

Kambiz waited politely while his audience settled themselves. Bertholf sat close to Dronnadh. The Rune-Master sported his white beard freshly braided by Dronnadh into many small braids. His black clothes, gold armbands and silver necklace gave him a barbaric gravitas.

Kambiz himself had blue-black skin, bold features, and eyes with red pupils, disclosing his race as being of Yanartaş, the Flaming Stone people. He wore a long robe of crimson with the house emblem on it: a spreading, many-branched tree with equally branching roots.

“The Prince foretold of your arrival. He believes you know hidden things that we wish to learn. Nijal, I am personally glad to see you again. We praise the Powers that you could heal my Lord’s sight and restore him to his place. I have been Seneschal for many years, but my loyalty is, and always has been, to the Prince.” 

Kambiz left unspoken the role of Jehanadir’s murdered uncle, responsible for blinding the Prince in an attempt to keep his power as ruler, but his silence was eloquent.

“But the Prince is disturbed. You told the Captain at the gate that you are here for the Divination Rite. There is a certain difficulty . . .”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, but we are aware that the Prince does not have the Water needed for the Rite,” said Nijal.

The Seneschal gripped the arms of his chair and started forward. “How do you know this?”

Nijal spread his hands and said plainly, “We encountered the trader, Hazrad, on our journey. He was on his way to the source in the Broken Hills. We persuaded him not to continue.”

“On what reason or authority, and why would the trader listen to you?”

“Lord Kambiz, the source is corrupted. Our Bard, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, was taken deep into the caves. He was at the well—the very source itself, and witnessed that it had become tainted. We cannot go into detail of the occasion.”

“These are matters beyond me. I have no jurisdiction over spiritual issues that may affect the Rite. I will arrange an audience with the Prince for you. Have a care: the Prince’s temperament can be unpredictable. I tell you this in all frankness.”

Brynnan spoke. “We appreciate your candour, Lord Kambiz. But we do not come empty-handed and indeed may have a solution to your difficulties.” He turned to Geraint, who held a package in his hands. “Geraint is my own guardian. We offer these silver salts to the Prince with wishes of good fortune from trader Hazrad.”

“So you know of its importance? This will be most welcome and might smooth some of the Prince’s turmoil. I thank you. I now bid you wait, and I personally will go to the Prince. Have patience.” Kambiz arose and, taking the package from Geraint, left.

Servants came in and refilled their cups. After they had left, Bertholf spoke.

“I feel as if we walk a knife’s edge. What do you see in all this, Diviner?”

“Master, the patterns swirl and change, even as we speak,” replied Dronnadh. “There is the possibility of alignment and harmony, but danger is also present. One factor we must not overlook is the boy, Shahin, the Prince’s lover. He has a key role to play, directly or indirectly, and I sense that Brynnan must engage with him in some way.”

* * *

Even as Dronnadh spoke his prophetic words, Jehanadir was engaged with his boy in his chamber. He lay back on the floor cushions, lost in thought but also distracted by Shahin. The youth crouched between Jehanadir’s legs, absorbed in the task of sucking the Prince’s cock. They had been lovers for three turns, and the boy knew how to soothe his Lord's troubled soul. The Prince’s hard cock was handsome, despite the faint bluish tint of his skin; a result of ingesting the ritual Water seeded with silver salts.

Shahin ran his tongue up the shaft and lingered at the glans, sucking it delicately. His lips touched the sensitive skin with butterfly kisses. Jehanadir groaned and raised his hips, wanting the boy’s mouth but willing to be teased. Then Shahin licked and sucked the head, pushing his tongue into the slit, tasting the salty-sweet pre-cum. His hand massaged the Prince’s balls then grasped the root of the cock. He fed it into his mouth, swallowing the shaft all the way. He began to move his head up and down, sucking as he went, feeling the hot shaft throb in his throat.

Jehanadir was now wholly focused on his boy. He seized the long fair hair, loose except for three beaded braids. Looking down, the Prince saw the finely sculpted face, grey, kohl-rimmed eyes and flushed lips that encircled his cock. Shahin’s skin had a pale gold hue. He was stripped to the waist, arms bound with gold bands about biceps and wrist. He had a dancer’s body, lithe and sculpted, with hidden strength.

Jehanadir was overwhelmed and felt his ejaculation near. Shahin could sense it as his rhythm steadied to a hypnotic sucking. The boy suddenly felt the cock in his mouth pulse, and cum filled his throat. He swallowed it all, then slowed to gently lick the now twitching cock.

The Prince lay back, with Shahin resting between his legs with his head on Jehanadir’s stomach having his hair idly caressed. Then Jehanadir heard the musical chiming of silver bells in the room near the doorway.

“Enter, Kambiz,” he called, sensing his Seneschal’s presence.

The Seneschal entered, and seeing Jehanadir with Shahin, murmured, “It was not my intention to disturb you, my Lord.”

Jehanadir waved a dismissive hand. “What purpose brings you here?”

“You have guests. Nijal Silver-Hand, a Ruithin bard of the name Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, an old Warrior, the Rune-Master of the Boar People and a Diviner called Dronnadh who is a slave to the Rune-Master.”

“A pretty collection, it seems. But Nijal I know of.” He unconsciously touched his eyes.

“They send you a gift from the trader, Hazrad. No, my Lord, not the Water but this package of silver salts. Nijal claims that the source for the Water is corrupted.”

“I have been informed by other means, but the silver is welcome. Tell me, Kambiz. What manner of man is the Bard?”

“His harp is called Mavrenn, and it is a living cultural artifact. Harpists are chosen to ‘serve’ her. This Brynnan is also known as the ‘Servant of Ravens.’ He is courteous and well-spoken and seems to have a quietness about him, like a powerful creature at rest.”

Jehanadir stood, straightening his robes. He wore an expression of grave concern. “I will see them immediately. Send them to my outer chamber.”

“Are you sure, my Lord? Do you require guards to attend to you? I would not have you see them alone.”

“Any threat that would come from them is not one that my guards can meet. Have them brought in, Kambiz. I have spoken.”

* * *

Thus, the companions found themselves in the presence of the Red Prince, Jehanadir. The Prince now wore a long, deep blue robe embroidered with the emblem of the tree with equal but opposite spreading branches and roots. A silver circlet rested on his brow, and his hair was red like old blood. His remarkable violet eyes gazed at his guests. Despite the strangeness of his features, he had a certain comeliness. Shahin sat near him.

The companions, the Rune-Master and Dronnadh, sat on floor cushions on a thick, beautifully patterned silk rug. Because he was known to the Prince, Nijal took the lead in their conversation. He explained how Brynnan had been taken by the Blue People of the Broken Hills and how they were discovered to be a death cult who guarded the well.

Then they discussed the Invaders from beyond the Sun with the Prince, without disclosing the details of Brynnan’s spirit journeys.

Bertholf introduced Dronnadh. “This is our hostage, Dronnadh, a Diviner. He has been with us for four moons as captive and slave. We have used him to find the path before us, leading us to our destination. He tells us where to find game to hunt. And he predicted our meeting with Nijal, Brynnan, and the Warrior, Geraint, even to naming them. He is one who sees the patterns in earth and sky. He is available to be ransomed.”

Jehanadir told Dronnadh to stand and shed his cloak. Then the Diviner was told to strip. Brynnan could sense Geraint’s anger and secretly gripped his wrist to calm him.

But Dronnadh was compliant and swiftly did as he was instructed. Jehanadir gazed at him dispassionately and told him to turn. Dronnadh did so.

“I will explain to you that our diviners must be healthy and whole in body and mind. I see a healthy body, but how do I guess a healthy mind?” asked the Prince.

Geraint answered, “If it counts, this man is an Alsar Guardian and is known to Nijal.” The old Warrior’s tone held a challenge.

Jehanadir looked momentarily startled. “Is this indeed so? Then how come he was so easily taken captive?”

“We are not magical beings, but flesh and blood like you, Prince, and therefore vulnerable to overwhelming force, which the Men of the Boar had,” replied Dronnadh simply.

“I understand. And where are your men now, Bertholf?”

“Your Captain at the gates directed my men to the garrison outside the city walls. They will not be disruptive while we are your guests.”

“I see.” Jehanadir seemed to ponder the deeper meaning of Bertholf’s words. Finally, he said, “Your slave may dress now. It is fortunate he has a fine and healthy body. I think we will acquire him from you. I will direct Kambiz to speak to you of terms and payment.”

Bertholf bowed his head but said to Dronnadh, “Will you serve the Prince willingly?”

“Yes, Master. I pledge to follow the Patterns truthfully and without reservation.”

“Very well,” said the Rune-Master. “You will spend this night apart from me if the terms are favourable. But you have been useful and faithful. I will miss certain . . . aspects of our work. ”

“You may lodge with the other Diviners who are assembling for the forthcoming Rite. Shahin will show you the way when you leave,” said the Prince. “But now I must consider our main problem; the sacred Water. Brynnan Marec Mavrenn, I wish you to attend me privately. The rest of you I will see this evening in the main hall. I will have Shahin dance for us. He is very accomplished.”

The companions understood they were dismissed, except for Brynnan. Shahin, also dismissed, took Dronnadh by the hand to lead him away to the Diviners’ quarters.

Then Brynnan and Jehanadir were alone.

“You even look like the Raven that visited me, with your black clothing and your hair like a raven’s wing,” Jehanadir said by way of an opening remark.

“I thank you for receiving us, my Prince, considering our role in the shipment of the water.”

“I am reserving my judgement at the moment. Tell me, is it painful to assume the Raven’s form? Is it difficult? You do not seem weary after your journey.’

“It is a combination of ritual and a state of mind. The ritual involves harnessing one’s sexual energy for travel and return. The Raven is only one of my aspects.”

“Sexual energy . . .” Jehanadir pondered. “Your Raven-form said that you could aid me in finding a new source for the Water. It would take months to search my lands. What do you propose, Raven Lord and Servant of Ravens?”

“Look to your own coat of arms, my Prince,” replied Brynnan. “The tree with many spreading branches is balanced by its network of roots. I propose we follow the roots.”

“When I perform the Rite of Divination, the land is open to my mind,” replied Jehanadir. “Each blade of grass, each root-hair makes its presence felt. It would not be difficult to find a source during the Rite, but at present, it cannot be done.”

“Yet there is a way. Have you ever ventured to the Shadow Realms?”

Jehanadir closed his eyes, and his expression showed pain. “After my uncle’s death, I dreamed for many nights. In one dream, there was a hunt, and a pack of fearsome hounds pursued my uncle Demir’s shade. Also, in these dreams, the fear was on me that I, too, would become prey for the pack. I killed Demir, as Nijal has probably told you, and for that, there will be a debt I must pay in this life or the next. I fear this place where the hounds run.”

Brynnan regarded the Prince levelly, “Yet that is where we must go—to the Realm of Annwn. There are other Shadow realms, but you would like them even less. Besides, the King of this Realm may help us.”

“And why would this Dread King that leads the Hunt aid us?”

“He is my father.”

The Prince was taken aback, and he paled. “You are full of surprises, Brynnan Marec Mavrenn. Are you sent to lead me into death?”

“No, my Prince. I do lead some into that Realm where there is a desert of silver sand. Each must find his path there, but your time is not yet. If you want assurance, seek out Dronnadh. He perceives the patterns in all things very strongly, as you do when listening to your land.”

“I will seek him. When shall we embark on this search?” said the Prince.

“I think tomorrow night. This night you can make any dispositions you need and perhaps talk to Dronnadh. Besides, we must bathe totally and prepare our bodies and minds before the ritual.” said Brynnan.

“Who else is involved in our journey? Does the ritual demand sexual union?”

“I’m afraid that it does. We must cum together simultaneously, spilling our seed on, or in, one another. Can you do this?”

The Prince frowned in thought, but he said, “I will do just about anything to regain the Water. The Rite of Divination for the land must be performed at the right time! As a people and culture, we have patterned our lives on it. The Realm would be thrown into chaos should it not come to pass.”

“You ask of others. When we return from that Shadow Realm, they must bring us back. You must choose someone you trust implicitly, and I will choose Dronnadh, who will supervise our union. Understand that they will fuck us—your pick must fuck me, and Dronnadh will fuck you to unwind our connection. If you choose Shahin, can you bear to share him?”

“Again, I must do what is necessary. If my Seneschal were more magically sensitive, I would choose Kambiz. But I will share Shahin if I have to,” sighed the Prince.

Then Jehanadir leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, placing his head in his hands. Moved, Brynnan came forward and knelt beside the Prince. He remained still until the Prince raised his head and looked directly at him, his strange violet eyes deep and troubled.

“At least you are a comely man and still youthful.” The Prince leaned in and softly kissed Brynnan on the mouth. Brynnan returned the kiss, carefully feeling his way with his probing tongue. Their kiss deepened until Jehanadir sighed and drew back reluctantly.

“See, I am aroused,” Jehanadir said with a half-smile. “Perhaps it will go well with us tomorrow night, after all.”

“In the meantime, let me soothe your mind. I can play my harp for you.”

Jehanadir nodded his head.

Brynnan arose and fetched his harp. “This is Mavrenn,” he said as he uncased it. “And I am called her Servant.”

Jehanadir reached out to the harp, with her satiny purple wood and carved pillar in the likeness of a woman. The figure’s ruby eyes shimmered.

“You may touch her if you wish. I sense acceptance in her,” said Brynnan.

Jehanadir stroked the wood lightly with his fingertips. “You talk as if she were alive! Her voice must be as lovely as she looks.”

Brynnan smiled. He seated himself on a low bench and pulled the harp into his shoulder. Then he played. The notes sounded light and sweet. He started with a beautiful, wordless tune that was both haunting and hopeful. Then he switched into sounds of the sea and wind, Bringing the music inshore, as it were, he evoked a land of woodlands, meadows, hills and rainfall—the land of Narib.

The Prince was already deeply attentive when Brynnan began to sing in the Shadow-style, a song of healing and rest. He drew Jehanadir into his weaving until the Prince was caught, and he sensed peace inside the man. Then he ceased, gently placing his hands on the harp strings to still the sounds.

After what seemed a long time, Jehanadir raised his head and looked full at the Bard. “What was that tune, the first part of your playing? It touched me deeply.”

“It is your theme, my Prince. My gift to you.”

“Thank you, Brynnan,” he said softly. “Your magic is potent. I heard the weave in your song. Tomorrow night, before we engage with one another’s bodies, let us engage one another’s minds through this harp.”

Brynnan bowed in acquiescence. “Until tomorrow night,” he replied.

* * *