A Swithin Spin: A Princely Passion (6 page)

Common sense kept him in hiding. That and the decision that he needed to analyze his own feelings before he provoked Antal to…whatever he wanted to provoke him into doing, even if it amounted to just sex. No one else could decide that for him. Kilan needed a little more time and somewhere more private to work out his feelings for Antal. For now he felt happy just to watch.

Antal shifted, darted to one side, in, moving so lightly that for one moment he appeared not to touch the ground. An anguished growl accompanied a vicious thrust backward. The sound made Kilan glad he’d chosen not to reveal his presence, but it couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the question of what Antal would do. What would he do if not so angry, if he was more like the Antal everyone knew and loved? What would he do if he knew Kilan stood there watching him? Would he reveal his own erect cock? Kilan just knew it would be beautiful, thick, with a purpling head, shiny with his initial secretions. Would Antal further lubricate his cock by spitting into his hand and then stand there masturbating as if it was the only natural choice in the world? Kilan imagined watching him and had to slap his free hand over his mouth to stifle his gasps even though he doubted Antal could hear any sound over his own heavy breathing and grunts.

Below, Antal spun again, then again, the increasing speed making Kilan giddy, and not entirely in a good way. His hand moved in rhythm to Antal’s spinning. He was stroking himself, hard! He felt sure he would climax any moment.
No. Not now. Not yet.

He wasn’t finished watching. Antal moved so fast that Kilan couldn’t keep up with the flow of titles for all the forms he used. Amazingly, the display exhilarated him.

Parry
. He imagined Antal stroking his long, erect penis.

Spin
. He imagined Antal moaning and had to bite his lips together to stop his own groan escaping.

Cut
. He imagined leaning over Antal, rubbing his cock against him, with Antal masturbating all the while. He would straddle him, rub their cocks together, and then work his way up that beautiful body. Would Antal open his mouth, stick out his tongue? Would he lick?

Strike
. Would he get down on all fours? Would he expose that most intimate rosette? Would he beg for…penetration?

Kilan increased his speed as Antal became a blur of motion. The prince imagined rubbing his cock against that opening even as he rubbed himself closer to climax.

Withdraw
. Would they kiss?

Kilan blinked. Up until that thought his fantasy had limited focus, although one might have felt surprised to hear him say so. The thought of kissing Antal made Kilan think of more than sex. Kissing meant emotion. The real question was, what did a kiss mean to him? What would it mean if he and Antal kissed?

Thrust
. Nothing. Just sex. Kilan bit back his frustration. It was the play. It was the fantasy. Nothing wrong with a little fantasy, but he shouldn’t let it get the better of him. His imagined scenario was about sharing frustrations, not feelings. Watching the dance of motion that was Antal, Kilan imagined his fingers prizing apart that twitching, eager orifice, plunging deep. He could even feel the pulsing, but then realized it was his own dick he could feel throbbing in his hand. He chose fantasy. Fingers buried, he reached around, and his dick became Antal’s cock, hot, pulsing. Stroking, fondling, rubbing… Bliss!

The pleasure built, shooting through him and flooding out over his hand. It felt as if more than his cock and balls spasmed. In the throes of orgasm, his whole body zinged. The sensation forced his eyes closed until the sweet pulsing ebbed.

Blinking, making a slow return to reality, a wild giggling threatened as he cleaned up and tucked himself back in his breeches. He was the best… What? The best secret masturbator? He searched for a suitable word to describe what he had just done and failed. A growing awareness of the reality of his actions soured the joy he’d experienced. Kilan had always accepted that no one could call him the best student or the best swordsman, but being good with his hand in other ways was hardly something to boast of. In truth, he had his position, and one day he’d have use of the comet. Without those things…what was he?

Swallowing, Kilan almost stepped back. An ache began in his nose, spreading out to his eyes, speaking of anguish even if he was far from crying. He could accept his limitations, even if Markis told him most of them were self-imposed, but watching Antal and realizing how he had progressed in physical skill, seeing him as a true guard worthy of serving as both Sonndre and Semari, made Kilan feel insignificant. The emotion felt entirely new to him, and for a split second he hated Antal for making him feel that way. He hated him for his beauty, with that auburn hair and amber eyes. What Swithin had amber eyes? He asked himself the question as if it was Antal’s fault that he had such unusual and devastating eyes. What he had just done made Kilan feel shame. Although he regarded all matters pertaining to sex without shame, spying on someone and…doing what he had just done without their knowledge was degrading. Kilan didn’t think he could face the ignominy.

Then he shook the emotion off. He’d indulged in some harmless fun. He
refused
to give it more credit than that. He stared down, once more focusing on Antal, who at last gave in, letting go of the sword, falling to his knees, heaving, gasping for breath. Sitting back on his heels, Antal lifted his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. His chest lifted and fell with the harsh rhythm of his breathing. His skin glistened with sweat. His tongue flicked out, and he licked his top lip, no doubt tasting the salt of his own sweat. Kilan copied the movement. Since coming of age, he’d had sex with other young men, but the same way he’d had sex with women. In a light moment, laughing, sharing pleasure as entertainment. Never before had he wanted to linger over another person as he did in that moment. He wanted to go down, lay Antal back against the sandy ground, and lick every inch of him. He’d lick Antal clean of his sweat, of the sand that undoubtedly stuck to his skin, of whatever ailed him.

Stepping back fully into the shadows before Antal opened his eyes and possibly spied him, Kilan stared at the floor of the balcony but saw nothing. His gaze was internal. He almost laughed. So, he had a hard-on for Antal suddenly. So what? It was hardly unusual for someone of his age to feel horny. Why make a fuss over nothing? Whatever was getting up Antal’s arse right now made the possibility of some fun more than unlikely.

Shrugging, Kilan even accepted the possibility that right now he found Antal undeniably attractive because at any other time the young guard might have entertained the idea of sharing pleasure. Maybe Kilan wanted Antal
right now
because
right now
was the one moment when Antal felt out of sorts and Kilan couldn’t have him. He would have grimaced if he were not so busy laughing at his penchant for irony, particularly when self-inflicted.

Kilan remained in hiding until he heard Antal leave.

Chapter Four

Throwing the book down on the desk in front of Ryanac, Antal said, “This is beautiful and horrible.” The big man had his head down, plowing through a stack of parchments. His gaze flicked toward the book and then down to the forms. All the while, he occupied himself with making marks in appropriate places and eventually signing them at the bottom, ignoring the anxious and irritated vibe Antal just knew he emitted. Only his training as a guard enabled him to refrain from pacing. Finally Ryanac looked up.

“Yes. It is.”

Antal stared into those dark eyes, frowning. Then he turned, running his fingers through his hair, searching for the right words, a way to express just how the book made him feel. Lewi, a man born from an arranged marriage -- which was little better than force in Antal’s eyes -- taken and raised by the queen’s brother. Antal shook his head. Even Swithin royalty married out of duty; you only had to look at Markis and his wife, Tressa, to see the truth of that, but at least in their case the two of them admired one another. The story in that book was of a bygone age. Lewi, prince of a neighboring nation, possessed a delicate form. Lewi wanted to love rather than fight. After the death of his father, Lewi’s own mother turned against him and convinced the then Swithin king that her son was a threat. Ailing from the ill effects of the comet and therefore reacting in an exaggerated fashion to every possible threat owing to an overdose of paranoia, the Swithin king had frozen Lewi. His form reportedly lay in the clearing where the ritual of liminality took place -- or so the story said.

Flinging himself into a chair, Antal stared across at Ryanac. He shouldn’t have sat in the presence of someone of superior rank without permission, but this wasn’t a question of duty. He hadn’t come here as a guard to a superior, but with something rather more personal to discuss. Antal no more believed the figure in the glade a frozen man than anyone else did. The figure was a statue, nothing more…and yet all accounts spoke of a presence, of sensing
something
there in the clearing. Something had happened there, certainly. The question was what and when. How did one separate truth from lies? Antal asked Ryanac that very question now.

“So the story has caught your interest?”

Rather than waste time arguing, Antal confessed. “Why wouldn’t it? I knew the story, of course, but only vaguely. This is the first time I’ve read the full history. It’s…fascinating.”

It was certainly that. The idea of a Swithin king turning against the monarch of another nation simply to kill him at the request of the man’s own mother… Antal couldn’t see anyone fooling Markis like that, but the legend spoke of a time so long ago that there were no witnesses to question its veracity. After a time, history dissolved into legend. If not for the existence of the statue, one might have taken the tale as some kind of fable only.

“The Swithin weren’t always as they are now,” Ryanac murmured, staring down at the book on the desk. Antal couldn’t tell if Ryanac had spoken to him or to himself. Then Ryanac looked up. An expression of…not pain, but something like it, tightened the skin around his eyes. “The Swithin were once rather barbaric if you delve too deeply into our past.” Ryanac waved the concern away. “No reason you should know these things. We all have our interests, our specialties.”

What could Antal say to that? History hadn’t been one of his preferred subjects, and Ryanac knew that.

“For Semari, though, history is a good thing to know. I’ll suggest a few books that will serve you well and advise you against those who will waste your time.”

Before Antal could question why, Ryanac explained. “You’ve trained well. You know strategy as taught by the academy. You’ve a quick mind and learn well from experience and from seeking the advice of more experienced men. I know. I’ve watched you.”

He had? He quickly realized he shouldn’t feel surprised. He doubted Markis would have asked him to be Sonndre to Uly without discussing it with Ryanac first. Neither man would have supported his necessary rise to Semari if they doubted his capability. You couldn’t serve as Sonndre if you didn’t also hold the rank of Semari.

“Now I suggest you complete your training by learning from those who lived through the dirtiest battles in Swithin history.”

Antal nodded, seeing Ryanac’s point.

“The truth is the Swithin were like any other nation,” Ryanac continued. “Full of superstition and aggression when scared.”

Antal couldn’t imagine scared applying to the Swithin. Of course, people had fears and sad times -- when facing the death of a loved one, for instance -- but as a nation they were brave and some might have even said heroic, certainly tenacious. Yet if Ryanac said a time existed when they reacted without reason, Antal believed him.

“So the Swithin king of the time tried to kill Lewi, believing him a threat?”

Ryanac nodded.

“Our king’s health was failing; his son was still young.” He could see how a king in that position, believing his power the only protection his people had… Yes, he could see how such a man might have reacted. From what Antal could remember of his history lessons, at that particular time the Swithin hardly formed a nation. They had no royal guard, only foresworn farmers poorly equipped or trained for battle. Antal had dismissed much of these lessons from his mind, simply because he struggled to equate the details of
then
with the facts of
now
. He couldn’t imagine the wide-reaching and productive nation that he would die to protect starting out as one man who walked from the place where a comet fell. That man had married, then had sons who bore the power. They in turn had children. Although sick and often weak from the ill effects of the power, they wielded it to perform miracles. People for miles around came to see the man blessed with mystical powers who some said could make your crops grow or fail, even if doing so made him take to his bed for several days afterward.

As time passed, the generations grew stronger and they overcame the debilitating effects of the power. Not even Markis knew the truth of those legends, but Antal was one of the few individuals who knew that the comet possessed the power to heal, so perhaps it was possible for one man to dictate if people had a good harvest or starved that winter. If so, the original Swithin nation possibly founded their rise on fear. He said so aloud, unable to keep the horrid thought to himself. Ryanac stared at him.

“You find the idea abhorrent?”

“Don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ryanac made a little flicking gesture with his fingers, silencing Antal’s protest. “What’s past is past. What’s done is done. Did you really think all our leaders throughout history have been as good and kind as Markis is? Look at his father. The man made errors. He used poor judgment. Even worse, he allowed his emotions to rule his decisions, and a man with a volatile temper and self-serving temperament has no business being a ruler.”

Antal smirked. “If the old king was alive, one could say that remark amounts to treason.”

“One could, if one were not Swithin.” Ryanac stood and came out from behind the desk. In truth, Ryanac looked odd sitting behind a desk, and from the way he glanced at the piece of furniture, he appeared to know it. Ryanac belonged outdoors, hiking in the woods, overseeing training, fighting, or lying on a bed, frolicking in a haystack, anywhere but behind a desk administering formalities. He sat on the desk, tapping the book Antal had brought with him. “The Swithin way is freedom. Freedom to live as one wishes so long as it doesn’t hurt others. Freedom to love as one wishes so long as it doesn’t hurt others. Freedom to think and to say what one wishes, and sometimes that does hurt another person’s feelings. Sometimes it’s unavoidable. Not everyone agreed with Markis’s father. They didn’t support all his decisions. But for too long even the Swithin have been guilty of believing they have no right to question a man who controls such a power. It’s as if they believed he must know better than they do. Markis isn’t his father, I’m pleased to say.”